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.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
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.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Rain…Spaldings
It poured on and off the days of the calling hours and services. My sister said Fred loved rain and considered moving to Seattle. He considered Albany, San Diego, and wanted to visit Alaska. He never ventured out of the City.
“Okay, that’s enough, Fred,” Fran joked in the limo on the way back from the funeral. “Did you notice it didn’t rain when we were outside though?” she added.
I remember once, we had a driving rain, and he hadn’t come home from playing ball with friends. The only time I remember my father angry enough to strike, he did so when Fred finally came home. Fred cried. I couldn’t bear to watch.
Fred and I were talking once, after my father’s death. Probably about how he wanted to "borrow" more of my balls to go out and play. Then he suddenly was in his room. “Where did you go?” I wondered.
He was crying in front of his statue of St. Anthony. In pain, probably due to the realization that the pain of death knows no resolution.
I prayed in front of that statue once, too, after pissing off my father when he asked me to stop petting my cat, Katy, because she was getting upset. And I didn’t like that, and I ran and shoved my hands through a window. His glare caused me to seek out that statue of St. Anthony.
I prayed again, every night, probably for two years straight, when I was afraid Fred would die because of the sixties and seventies drug epidemic. In school, they scared us to death about the dangers of drugs. I recall a pamphlet featuring the Grim Reaper and a boy, in a drug-induced stated, attempting to jump off a roof.
He did live. Did my prayers help? He lived many more years, poured his efforts into education, pursuing a Master's degree in Education, and had a successful, drug-free, drink-free and smoke-free life in which he positively influenced many.
It rained heavily a few nights ago. The thunder seemed never to end. Hurricane Irene is socking us. I wonder if Fred would have evacuated his apartment if it were necessary? Probably not. He seemed not to want to ever leave NYC.
It's funny how rain, something Fred loved so, can conjure up so many feelings and memories for me, both good ... and bad. Even thinking of Fred, a good thing, can turn sour when I remember I can't call him to tell him about the thunderstorm and the hurricane, and to share another long conversation with him about the reasons we get emotional during rain.
“Okay, that’s enough, Fred,” Fran joked in the limo on the way back from the funeral. “Did you notice it didn’t rain when we were outside though?” she added.
I remember once, we had a driving rain, and he hadn’t come home from playing ball with friends. The only time I remember my father angry enough to strike, he did so when Fred finally came home. Fred cried. I couldn’t bear to watch.
Fred and I were talking once, after my father’s death. Probably about how he wanted to "borrow" more of my balls to go out and play. Then he suddenly was in his room. “Where did you go?” I wondered.
He was crying in front of his statue of St. Anthony. In pain, probably due to the realization that the pain of death knows no resolution.
I prayed in front of that statue once, too, after pissing off my father when he asked me to stop petting my cat, Katy, because she was getting upset. And I didn’t like that, and I ran and shoved my hands through a window. His glare caused me to seek out that statue of St. Anthony.
I prayed again, every night, probably for two years straight, when I was afraid Fred would die because of the sixties and seventies drug epidemic. In school, they scared us to death about the dangers of drugs. I recall a pamphlet featuring the Grim Reaper and a boy, in a drug-induced stated, attempting to jump off a roof.
He did live. Did my prayers help? He lived many more years, poured his efforts into education, pursuing a Master's degree in Education, and had a successful, drug-free, drink-free and smoke-free life in which he positively influenced many.
It rained heavily a few nights ago. The thunder seemed never to end. Hurricane Irene is socking us. I wonder if Fred would have evacuated his apartment if it were necessary? Probably not. He seemed not to want to ever leave NYC.
It's funny how rain, something Fred loved so, can conjure up so many feelings and memories for me, both good ... and bad. Even thinking of Fred, a good thing, can turn sour when I remember I can't call him to tell him about the thunderstorm and the hurricane, and to share another long conversation with him about the reasons we get emotional during rain.
Monday, June 20, 2011
As We Get Close to One Year
We are nearing that point: One year to the day my dear brother Fred fell, June 25, 2010. And one year to the day he passed away: July 9.
The following are some random thoughts from my dedication to him. I will post 4-5 more prior to or by July 9.
Sun King of Queens
“Look there, Logan,” I said to my son on the way back from the funeral. “You know the beginning of ‘King of Queens’? That’s the scene.”
“He always talked about the sixty-four World’s Fair,” said my sister.
And I longed to run home to write about this.
Fred worked for UPS, was a cab driver, worked in a grocery store, and then went on to teach. He visited Albany and other cities, with hopes that he would leave New York City at some point. But, 20 years later, Queens remained his home.
When I think of the silly laughter...
The dryness and rudeness of the sense of humor I inherited could, I swear, only be understood by Fred. I consider it intellectual humor, and I’m sure he did too.
Love (All You Need)
“I should have married Marta,” he recalled to my sister and our dear second cousin Kristie. Had he done so, would things have been different?
Marta, my age, was a woman Fred met while in his first few years of teaching. She taught music and has beautiful green eyes and brown skin. He wrote her a note in order to ask her out. She said yes.
She wrote me an email this week, indicating she would always have a special place in her heart for Fred. She only married recently, perhaps never forgetting the outstanding love they must have shared, by outstanding I mean as in a debt. It was never paid.
I feel lucky to have only lost a brother; Marta lost a love, and a long time ago.
The following are some random thoughts from my dedication to him. I will post 4-5 more prior to or by July 9.
Sun King of Queens
“Look there, Logan,” I said to my son on the way back from the funeral. “You know the beginning of ‘King of Queens’? That’s the scene.”
“He always talked about the sixty-four World’s Fair,” said my sister.
And I longed to run home to write about this.
Fred worked for UPS, was a cab driver, worked in a grocery store, and then went on to teach. He visited Albany and other cities, with hopes that he would leave New York City at some point. But, 20 years later, Queens remained his home.
When I think of the silly laughter...
The dryness and rudeness of the sense of humor I inherited could, I swear, only be understood by Fred. I consider it intellectual humor, and I’m sure he did too.
Love (All You Need)
“I should have married Marta,” he recalled to my sister and our dear second cousin Kristie. Had he done so, would things have been different?
Marta, my age, was a woman Fred met while in his first few years of teaching. She taught music and has beautiful green eyes and brown skin. He wrote her a note in order to ask her out. She said yes.
She wrote me an email this week, indicating she would always have a special place in her heart for Fred. She only married recently, perhaps never forgetting the outstanding love they must have shared, by outstanding I mean as in a debt. It was never paid.
I feel lucky to have only lost a brother; Marta lost a love, and a long time ago.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Mother Nature’s Son
I had the blessing of spending an extra few minutes with my son, Logan, this morning when the bus was late. On my way to work I thought about how lucky I was, and how much I value even a few extra minutes with him. We talked about boundaries, and fiction versus non-fiction. I can almost hear the sponge that is his brain soaking up the knowledge.
Fred wanted to be a gym teacher. Watching Logan in wrestling last night I could feel Fred coaching him, as he did better and better. Fred tried to practice teaching gym on my sister when she was little.
He became a 5th and 7th grade teacher and loved bestowing knowledge on kids; perhaps my sister was a muse. He told me that every school year, if he could reach out to just one kid, it would make him happy. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, and he told Fred he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
A parent of one of his former students contacted Fred for help with her son, just before he passed away. I hope she knows Fred did not ignore her. Because he most certainly would not have. And I truly hope he can assist that young man as he has been helping Logan, from the spirit world.
Fred valued reading and learning. Fran might have hated the gym tests and I, being tackled, but we both would give the world to hear him shout, "Jump!" again, even if we could hear his voice just one more time.
Fred wanted to be a gym teacher. Watching Logan in wrestling last night I could feel Fred coaching him, as he did better and better. Fred tried to practice teaching gym on my sister when she was little.
He became a 5th and 7th grade teacher and loved bestowing knowledge on kids; perhaps my sister was a muse. He told me that every school year, if he could reach out to just one kid, it would make him happy. I recall when Fred told me he saw one of his students as an adult, and he told Fred he never forgot “Mr. D”, his favorite teacher, who taught him so much.
A parent of one of his former students contacted Fred for help with her son, just before he passed away. I hope she knows Fred did not ignore her. Because he most certainly would not have. And I truly hope he can assist that young man as he has been helping Logan, from the spirit world.
Fred valued reading and learning. Fran might have hated the gym tests and I, being tackled, but we both would give the world to hear him shout, "Jump!" again, even if we could hear his voice just one more time.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Help
I have been under a lot of stress lately, between work and a family illness. It seems the pain never goes away. And it only serves to remind me that my brother is not there anymore for me to call. He certainly would have had a solution to my problems or issues. He would have cared about my father-in-law.
I learned from Fred's passing that all three of us kids don’t like to ask for help. I think we just don’t want to seem helpless, as we grew up in a home where many felt for whatever reason, having lost our head of household and father, that we needed help. So we might have instead chosen to be stoic so as not to appear helpless.
My son has some of that in him. I have a better chance of seeing the unemployment rate suddenly drop than to get him to open up. He won't ask for help; he instead will act out in a fit of anger or frustration.
Like me.
So I walked into and out of Elmhust Hospital Center on July 3 and 4, 2010, two of last year’s hottest days. It is difficult to imagine that weather now that it is endlessly snowy and cold.
July 4, the day my new puppy Gracie was born, was the last time I saw my brother (sort of) alive. I talked with him for the last time, only this time, the extreme conversationlist did not respond. I told him about getting back in touch with Greg, and my other friends, and work. I prayed. And I scurried down the hall into my husband’s arms, crying uncontrollably.
Because it’s an intelligent person who knows to ask for help. I know that now.
I learned from Fred's passing that all three of us kids don’t like to ask for help. I think we just don’t want to seem helpless, as we grew up in a home where many felt for whatever reason, having lost our head of household and father, that we needed help. So we might have instead chosen to be stoic so as not to appear helpless.
My son has some of that in him. I have a better chance of seeing the unemployment rate suddenly drop than to get him to open up. He won't ask for help; he instead will act out in a fit of anger or frustration.
Like me.
So I walked into and out of Elmhust Hospital Center on July 3 and 4, 2010, two of last year’s hottest days. It is difficult to imagine that weather now that it is endlessly snowy and cold.
July 4, the day my new puppy Gracie was born, was the last time I saw my brother (sort of) alive. I talked with him for the last time, only this time, the extreme conversationlist did not respond. I told him about getting back in touch with Greg, and my other friends, and work. I prayed. And I scurried down the hall into my husband’s arms, crying uncontrollably.
Because it’s an intelligent person who knows to ask for help. I know that now.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Pioneer Dreams
I remember finding out Fred used to play drums when he hung out with his friends at the Bedford Street Club in the sixties and seventies. I picked up drums in 1999 and performed for a while, including at my own wedding.
Music was his friend. Fred loved the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Doors, and later, Steely Dan and even Frank Sinatra. I learned about music and even how to speak from early Beatles songs. I still know the words to most of the songs he played. He told me to “listen to the words”, which inspired me to love music and write lyrics. I love those very same artists.
Unbelievably, another thing we had in common is that we both constantly dreamt about Pioneer Supermarket, which has been a Banana Republic since 1985. We spent many a day in Pioneer as youngsters. I dream about the oil section, the cold cuts, dairy, produce, and the unique Italian products including that bitter liqueur-like flavoring whose name I cannot recall. I remember where everything was in that store. Where we received our nutrition, love, as Freud might say, in our formidable years. I dream of crossing the street near there, going back home. I remember when I couldn’t wait to shop for groceries independently, a chore I now disdain.
We both dreamt about Pioneer. I would visit it again, as a Banana Republic. But I cannot fathom sweaters in the place where the canned tomatoes that made Mamma’s wonderful spaghetti sauce used to live.
Music was his friend. Fred loved the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Doors, and later, Steely Dan and even Frank Sinatra. I learned about music and even how to speak from early Beatles songs. I still know the words to most of the songs he played. He told me to “listen to the words”, which inspired me to love music and write lyrics. I love those very same artists.
Unbelievably, another thing we had in common is that we both constantly dreamt about Pioneer Supermarket, which has been a Banana Republic since 1985. We spent many a day in Pioneer as youngsters. I dream about the oil section, the cold cuts, dairy, produce, and the unique Italian products including that bitter liqueur-like flavoring whose name I cannot recall. I remember where everything was in that store. Where we received our nutrition, love, as Freud might say, in our formidable years. I dream of crossing the street near there, going back home. I remember when I couldn’t wait to shop for groceries independently, a chore I now disdain.
We both dreamt about Pioneer. I would visit it again, as a Banana Republic. But I cannot fathom sweaters in the place where the canned tomatoes that made Mamma’s wonderful spaghetti sauce used to live.
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