A strong branch was broken from our family tree when my brother, John, passed away recently.
I was fortunate that he was one of my trio of brothers, John, Bill, and Bob, to guide, protect, and tease me—never allowing me to take myself too seriously.
But shortly after I left babyhood their repertoire shifted to include harsher means, physically and emotionally.
When I was about 8 years old, John, the eldest, played his part when he meant only to scare me by aiming his slingshot loaded with a small rock at me. His aim was off a little and the rock slammed into my shoulder, sending me crying to my mother.
In one of the last times we met together we recounted that spring day, each arguing agreeably about the details.
His personality was a quixotic combination of practicality and creativity, modesty and resolve.
He worked hard and was extremely competitive whether at his job or at play.
I remember one evening when, as adults, after he‘d won game after game of double solitaire, I, who hadn’t played the game for years, asked for leniency. His reply was, “No way!”
I vowed I wouldn’t stop until I’d won at least one hand. Did he lighten up just a little? Eighteen hands later, it was long after midnight when I gave up.
On the other hand, John was generous with his time, offering wise counsel to not only me, his kid sister, but to subsequent generations, including my sons, Steve and Peter. Peter is now imparting what he learned from John to my 11-year-old grandson, Theo.
One of his favorite aphorisms was: “The only way to finish a project is to begin!”
Another was by Dr. Suess:
“Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!”
I tried to encapsulate John’s characteristics when I wrote the following chapter in Lost Without The River:
All of us seem to have packed a bit of the earth from our father's farm, which had been his father's farm, into our souls before we scattered away from that small, none-too-prosperous homestead, across the United States, around the world, into our financially and emotionally varied states of success.
John, I think, probably packed a chunk of dirt twined through with roots from the bank of the river. He laid his trap lines there each winter, fished from its banks each summer, and, generous with his time as a high school senior, took his kid brother and sister ice skating, guiding Bob and me down the twisting, treacherous river by a full moon's light. That night was as close to perfection as a few hours can be.