First, your opening paragraph made me stop reading for a moment. What a deeply moving way to connect with someone during their grief. I am eternally grateful to have read that and thank you immensely for sharing this story here.
Beautiful story-telling. Strikes me there’s often one thing connecting siblings and the trick is to keep that alive and nurture it. Sorry you had to say goodbye-bye too soon to your brother. I love what you’re doing here. Thank you! Tatyana
Your at once sad and vital story of your brother, who is not with you anymore, gives us, your readers an wonderful gift of your storytelling, help us to remember with love, as you do, our losses of loved ones. I morn my brother with you as you morn your brother. Thank you.
I wrote a long comment to you in the sign of appreciation of our understanding of some common sense in our so different lives. But lost comment. About my different life I write in my memoir Wrong Country, and you are very welcome to read it. Thank you. Larisa
I think I missed this post, but I will remember it always. Such a beautiful memory -- a kind of unwinding. Sending you love as you continue to mourn and remember your brother.
Betsy you ask a question and with it you capture a truth I have never thought about before. I simply have had very few deep conversations with family. My half sister and a dead second cousin being the exceptions. I have listened to a first cousin talk at length of his love for motorbikes, fly fishing and being a paramedic, all three contributing to a string of relationships. A very different life to my own.
The parting of the ways beginning at our shared grandmother’s funeral in 1960, after which I moved north and he went south, only two weddings (not even our own) and three funerals bringing us together to catch up on our lives during the course of the next sixty-four years, one as recent as two months ago. In him I saw his father, my uncle, and our shared grandfather who died in 1976. His was one the funerals my cousin didn’t make. The Howards are a dysfunctional lot. Still. Not that it seemed that way as children. My cousin and his sister (who my cousin hasn’t spoken to in 60 years, except their mother’s funeral about ten years ago), my aunt and uncle lived in a post-war prefab with all mod-cons, intended as temporary housing and built by local councils, a few estates still exist and are loved by their tenants, such was the quality of their construction. Growing up with my grandparents I was bussed to them on my own from the age of four and have that three mile journey on a London Transport 83 bus to thank for my love of buses and urban exploration.
I might not have seen much of my cousin or shared ideas with him, but I remember him fondly and on the too few occasions we have met over the last sixty-four years they always melt away. He has lived a life of service and, given his occupation, fly-fishing seems the perfect antidote to all the injuries he has treated and deaths he has witnessed, and his motorbike the quickest means of escape. He talks about them all with a relish I envy.
Close to my last words to him at our cousin’s funeral, her younger than both of us, were ‘You write about your life’ to which he replied ‘Who would be interested. No. I don’t think so.’ We shook hands and embraced then when our separate ways. Which ever one of us goes first, I doubt if the other will make his funeral. 🐰
I love that the years between visits with your cousin melt away when you see each other. That's special because it means you have a connection that has nothing to do with superficial things.
What a wonderful way to begin this rainy Saturday, reading this post-- discovering Frank Mosher, being reminded of Strangers in a Strange Land, being inspired , and finding out more about Spark. Thank you Betsy!
My best friend Jimmy and I were both actors, so I asked him to join me at a Bastille Day brunch gig on Balboa Island playing (fully costumed) Marie Antoinette and Voltaire. I spent the day saying " let them eat cake" and he spent the day asking "What happens when you throw a bomb in the kitchen? Linoleum Blown-apart!" It was fun but not very lucrative after subtracting gas $ and the costume rentals but I treasure the memory, I especially recall our drive home and the endless laughter.
My mother kept encouraging me to make contact with my second cousin, Tony, & I kept dodging her constant, irritating encouragement. Tony was finishing up a musical theatre degree in Texas while I was working towards a degree (in anything) in San Diego. Mom kept saying, "you have something in common." I thought the commonality she was talking about was theater, not a lifestyle called gay.
Since I was going to spend the holidays with an old friend, Kathy, who I met in Germany when we were both involved the The Gallery Players (theatre group), I thought I'd ring up Tony and get my mother off my back. Well, we met and we became the BEST of friends. Finally I had an individual I could talk to...about anything and everything (theatre, boyfriends, sexual positions, et al).
We continued our relationship and I visited him in New York where he had gotten a few roles in Off Off Broadway shows, along with some leads in a few traveling shows. As far as I was concerned, he had made it in the Big Apple.
Our communication was less about books and more about theatre: plays and musicals. Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Eugene O'Neill, & Stephen Sondheim spoke to us; we loved to talk about these dramas & musicals and Tony would recite, or sing the lyrics for me.
Tony got AIDS and educated our extended families about this dreaded disease & we talked less about plays and musicals, and more about death. I remember visiting him for the last time in Bethlehem, PA; we wished one another joy and comfort & drama.
Every once in a while, when I listen to a musical or read a play, I can hear cousin Tony playing that part, and I smile.
Thanks, Mom, for pushing me into this short-lived friendship.
Sometimes mothers know what they're doing! I loved learning a bit about your cousin and what you both shared. How important for each of you to have each other during those years. Even better that his memory comes complete with music. Thanks for sharing this.
I loved reading this and learning about your brother, as well as the closeness of your relationship. It's so rare for siblings to be best friends like this. You made me think about the deep importance and value of sharing an interest in stories, which I probably knew on a surface level but didn't appreciate the way I do now, thanks to you.
I've been finding/learning/remembering my dad, who died in '18, through books he liked (Hawaii was his favorite as a teenager) and through writers who remind me of him. Well, one writer. I unexpectedly cried through most of the Kurt Vonnegut documentary because, although my dad had liked and introduced me to his books, I hadn't expected to discover, as I listened to Vonnegut share his thoughts - and the way he shared them, the *way* he thought - how similar their sensibilities (and even their broader personality, in some ways). I still have books of my dad's to read that I took from his shelves when we were cleaning out his place, and they're like little treasures just waiting.
This was wonderful to read, Kris. It was like catching a glimpse of your dad. Now I'll wonder about him when I watch the Vonnegut doc and reread Slaughterhouse Five. I have a shelf of books that came to be there entirely because of my dad. All the Patrick O'Brian books, various Kenneth Roberts historical novels, a few others. After my father died, I read all of the O'Brian books again in order. With every turn of the page, I could hear my dad enthusiastically reading over my shoulder. You are right, there is a lot of value and deep connection that comes from sharing an interest in stories. Even after the person is gone, the stories remain and keep them nearer.
First, your opening paragraph made me stop reading for a moment. What a deeply moving way to connect with someone during their grief. I am eternally grateful to have read that and thank you immensely for sharing this story here.
Beautiful story-telling. Strikes me there’s often one thing connecting siblings and the trick is to keep that alive and nurture it. Sorry you had to say goodbye-bye too soon to your brother. I love what you’re doing here. Thank you! Tatyana
Your at once sad and vital story of your brother, who is not with you anymore, gives us, your readers an wonderful gift of your storytelling, help us to remember with love, as you do, our losses of loved ones. I morn my brother with you as you morn your brother. Thank you.
Thank you for your kind comments, Larisa. A sibling relationship is special. My sympathies to you as you think of your own brother.
I wrote a long comment to you in the sign of appreciation of our understanding of some common sense in our so different lives. But lost comment. About my different life I write in my memoir Wrong Country, and you are very welcome to read it. Thank you. Larisa
I think I missed this post, but I will remember it always. Such a beautiful memory -- a kind of unwinding. Sending you love as you continue to mourn and remember your brother.
what wonderful memories, it shows us who he was, many things will trigger them as time goes on, and they will often take you by surprise.
You're right. I've found that to be the case. Sometimes the surprises are sad but often they are wonderful.
Simply beautiful ❤️
Thank you, Janice.
Betsy you ask a question and with it you capture a truth I have never thought about before. I simply have had very few deep conversations with family. My half sister and a dead second cousin being the exceptions. I have listened to a first cousin talk at length of his love for motorbikes, fly fishing and being a paramedic, all three contributing to a string of relationships. A very different life to my own.
The parting of the ways beginning at our shared grandmother’s funeral in 1960, after which I moved north and he went south, only two weddings (not even our own) and three funerals bringing us together to catch up on our lives during the course of the next sixty-four years, one as recent as two months ago. In him I saw his father, my uncle, and our shared grandfather who died in 1976. His was one the funerals my cousin didn’t make. The Howards are a dysfunctional lot. Still. Not that it seemed that way as children. My cousin and his sister (who my cousin hasn’t spoken to in 60 years, except their mother’s funeral about ten years ago), my aunt and uncle lived in a post-war prefab with all mod-cons, intended as temporary housing and built by local councils, a few estates still exist and are loved by their tenants, such was the quality of their construction. Growing up with my grandparents I was bussed to them on my own from the age of four and have that three mile journey on a London Transport 83 bus to thank for my love of buses and urban exploration.
I might not have seen much of my cousin or shared ideas with him, but I remember him fondly and on the too few occasions we have met over the last sixty-four years they always melt away. He has lived a life of service and, given his occupation, fly-fishing seems the perfect antidote to all the injuries he has treated and deaths he has witnessed, and his motorbike the quickest means of escape. He talks about them all with a relish I envy.
Close to my last words to him at our cousin’s funeral, her younger than both of us, were ‘You write about your life’ to which he replied ‘Who would be interested. No. I don’t think so.’ We shook hands and embraced then when our separate ways. Which ever one of us goes first, I doubt if the other will make his funeral. 🐰
I love that the years between visits with your cousin melt away when you see each other. That's special because it means you have a connection that has nothing to do with superficial things.
What a wonderful way to begin this rainy Saturday, reading this post-- discovering Frank Mosher, being reminded of Strangers in a Strange Land, being inspired , and finding out more about Spark. Thank you Betsy!
Thank you, Karen.
My best friend Jimmy and I were both actors, so I asked him to join me at a Bastille Day brunch gig on Balboa Island playing (fully costumed) Marie Antoinette and Voltaire. I spent the day saying " let them eat cake" and he spent the day asking "What happens when you throw a bomb in the kitchen? Linoleum Blown-apart!" It was fun but not very lucrative after subtracting gas $ and the costume rentals but I treasure the memory, I especially recall our drive home and the endless laughter.
I love that memory. Laughter that rings clearly down the years is the best thing ever.
My mother kept encouraging me to make contact with my second cousin, Tony, & I kept dodging her constant, irritating encouragement. Tony was finishing up a musical theatre degree in Texas while I was working towards a degree (in anything) in San Diego. Mom kept saying, "you have something in common." I thought the commonality she was talking about was theater, not a lifestyle called gay.
Since I was going to spend the holidays with an old friend, Kathy, who I met in Germany when we were both involved the The Gallery Players (theatre group), I thought I'd ring up Tony and get my mother off my back. Well, we met and we became the BEST of friends. Finally I had an individual I could talk to...about anything and everything (theatre, boyfriends, sexual positions, et al).
We continued our relationship and I visited him in New York where he had gotten a few roles in Off Off Broadway shows, along with some leads in a few traveling shows. As far as I was concerned, he had made it in the Big Apple.
Our communication was less about books and more about theatre: plays and musicals. Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Eugene O'Neill, & Stephen Sondheim spoke to us; we loved to talk about these dramas & musicals and Tony would recite, or sing the lyrics for me.
Tony got AIDS and educated our extended families about this dreaded disease & we talked less about plays and musicals, and more about death. I remember visiting him for the last time in Bethlehem, PA; we wished one another joy and comfort & drama.
Every once in a while, when I listen to a musical or read a play, I can hear cousin Tony playing that part, and I smile.
Thanks, Mom, for pushing me into this short-lived friendship.
Sometimes mothers know what they're doing! I loved learning a bit about your cousin and what you both shared. How important for each of you to have each other during those years. Even better that his memory comes complete with music. Thanks for sharing this.
I loved reading this and learning about your brother, as well as the closeness of your relationship. It's so rare for siblings to be best friends like this. You made me think about the deep importance and value of sharing an interest in stories, which I probably knew on a surface level but didn't appreciate the way I do now, thanks to you.
I've been finding/learning/remembering my dad, who died in '18, through books he liked (Hawaii was his favorite as a teenager) and through writers who remind me of him. Well, one writer. I unexpectedly cried through most of the Kurt Vonnegut documentary because, although my dad had liked and introduced me to his books, I hadn't expected to discover, as I listened to Vonnegut share his thoughts - and the way he shared them, the *way* he thought - how similar their sensibilities (and even their broader personality, in some ways). I still have books of my dad's to read that I took from his shelves when we were cleaning out his place, and they're like little treasures just waiting.
This was wonderful to read, Kris. It was like catching a glimpse of your dad. Now I'll wonder about him when I watch the Vonnegut doc and reread Slaughterhouse Five. I have a shelf of books that came to be there entirely because of my dad. All the Patrick O'Brian books, various Kenneth Roberts historical novels, a few others. After my father died, I read all of the O'Brian books again in order. With every turn of the page, I could hear my dad enthusiastically reading over my shoulder. You are right, there is a lot of value and deep connection that comes from sharing an interest in stories. Even after the person is gone, the stories remain and keep them nearer.