Another of Fred’s friends told me a story about the last time he saw my brother. “We had lunch, three of us. We’d been back in touch. We lost touch for about twenty years and then recently started getting together once in a while. Well, Fred wouldn’t let us pay our way. He said because me and our other friend were the only ones who befriended him when he first came here to school from Italy, when no one else did.”
It continues to rain today. I hear him tell me that it’s a good day to get back to work. Ergo, get back to living.
I see a bright red cardinal outside my window. He has made that tree his home since early spring. Now, properly disguised by extra full branches, he can sing, be alone, as he wants to be, unencumbered by peering eyes like mine, jarring atrocities like loud boat sounds, and eerie long lenses attempting photos.
“I’m taking a mental picture,” he would say, his disdain of being photographed only rivaled that of some reclusive stars.
I hold back my nervous and fidgety attempt to fish out my camera.
He stays alone, singing, looking around then flies away.
(He ain’t heavy; he’s my brother.)
-END-
Monday, September 26, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Run for Your Life
One of my early memories of my brother involves sports. I rooted for the Mets just to annoy him; he liked the Yankees. I told him I knew they were in different “leagoos” (leagues). He would steal all my Spauldings to play baseball.
I interviewed some of the New York Yankees in college for a report, one of my most proud moments. Fred read my paper and told me he did not realize I knew so much about baseball. I learned so much from him.
I mentioned in the eulogy that I dislike football because Fred used to tackle me. To this day I wonder why he could not find anything better to do. Every time I heard him shout, “Tackle!” I would cringe. And down I would go.
And the irony is that he is the one who fell. Tackled by MS.
He ran 10 miles a day prior to his burden. He inspired me to love jogging. The day he told me about the M.S., I went out to run, not jog.
Had M.S. affected a less active man, the misery would not have been as profound. One of the final visits to his apartment, we witnessed wall paintings he had created, perhaps in an effort to express creativity, perhaps pain. Losing something of great value like one's independence certainly can take its toll.
But now my sister and I dream of him walking, even running. And the sisters and nurses by his side upon his moment of death say he passed away with a smile.
He ran into my parents’ arms. He runs again.
I interviewed some of the New York Yankees in college for a report, one of my most proud moments. Fred read my paper and told me he did not realize I knew so much about baseball. I learned so much from him.
I mentioned in the eulogy that I dislike football because Fred used to tackle me. To this day I wonder why he could not find anything better to do. Every time I heard him shout, “Tackle!” I would cringe. And down I would go.
And the irony is that he is the one who fell. Tackled by MS.
He ran 10 miles a day prior to his burden. He inspired me to love jogging. The day he told me about the M.S., I went out to run, not jog.
Had M.S. affected a less active man, the misery would not have been as profound. One of the final visits to his apartment, we witnessed wall paintings he had created, perhaps in an effort to express creativity, perhaps pain. Losing something of great value like one's independence certainly can take its toll.
But now my sister and I dream of him walking, even running. And the sisters and nurses by his side upon his moment of death say he passed away with a smile.
He ran into my parents’ arms. He runs again.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Something
So I stood in the Papavero Funeral calling hours hall, watching people I did not recognize file in, then realizing I recalled them from photos in the slide show my brother-in-law Rocco prepared. Friends. Rocco’s friends, my sister’s friends, and Fred’s friends.
Waves of memories from the early seventies invaded my mind. Yes, I did recall some of these men. It’s funny how the placement of a hand, the tilt of one’s head, are habits that never change. I recognized some of the past. “I remember you,” one of them said to me. “And you,” he pointed to my little sister, who has been 5' 8" for 30years, “You were this big.” He gestured to indicate that she was just larger than a doll. I suddenly remembered the way one of them looked at me when I was a kid. I think my brother told him to lay off. I remember my mother telling me I’d probably grow up and get together with one of his friends. She was right: I got together with him, as well as his other friends..I shook their hands as we said goodbye to Fred.
“His nicknames were ‘Bird’ and ‘The Boss’,” Rocco told me. “I guess ‘cause he was bossy,” he added. Process of elimination, since Fred was not a Bruce Springsteen fan, and Springsteen was the same age as Fred and not yet famous in 1968.
You know, he was a good leader, I am sure.
I knew about the ‘Bird’, having once seen it in magic marker on a cap Fred had. I thought it said ‘Beard’. Maybe I didn’t see it correctly, or perhaps someone could not spell.
My sister and Rocco went through Fred’s belongings shortly after his passing. They did not find much. They did not find the metal container with what was supposedly his book. They did find a small notebook with notes.
He kept a lot hidden. Perhaps he did not want us to know what exactly was in his book, though I would have loved to edit it and get it published posthumously. The last time I saw him, he said he had “something” to tell me and Fran. But he stopped short. Was it about his life insurance policy wherein he named his nephews? Or was it something more important, more person?
I may … nay, I WILL never know.
Waves of memories from the early seventies invaded my mind. Yes, I did recall some of these men. It’s funny how the placement of a hand, the tilt of one’s head, are habits that never change. I recognized some of the past. “I remember you,” one of them said to me. “And you,” he pointed to my little sister, who has been 5' 8" for 30years, “You were this big.” He gestured to indicate that she was just larger than a doll. I suddenly remembered the way one of them looked at me when I was a kid. I think my brother told him to lay off. I remember my mother telling me I’d probably grow up and get together with one of his friends. She was right: I got together with him, as well as his other friends..I shook their hands as we said goodbye to Fred.
“His nicknames were ‘Bird’ and ‘The Boss’,” Rocco told me. “I guess ‘cause he was bossy,” he added. Process of elimination, since Fred was not a Bruce Springsteen fan, and Springsteen was the same age as Fred and not yet famous in 1968.
You know, he was a good leader, I am sure.
I knew about the ‘Bird’, having once seen it in magic marker on a cap Fred had. I thought it said ‘Beard’. Maybe I didn’t see it correctly, or perhaps someone could not spell.
My sister and Rocco went through Fred’s belongings shortly after his passing. They did not find much. They did not find the metal container with what was supposedly his book. They did find a small notebook with notes.
He kept a lot hidden. Perhaps he did not want us to know what exactly was in his book, though I would have loved to edit it and get it published posthumously. The last time I saw him, he said he had “something” to tell me and Fran. But he stopped short. Was it about his life insurance policy wherein he named his nephews? Or was it something more important, more person?
I may … nay, I WILL never know.
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