My brother, our brother, is a good man, affable, secretive,
kind, devious, generous, given to occasional excess. He’s worked hard at
everything, his job, his motorcycle, his garden, his car. Kittens curl up and
sleep between his feet, cats seek his lap. He answers children’s questions,
shows them how to swing a hammer or handle a shovel. He helps where he sees a
need. He accepts little.
Walt is my oldest brother. I left home at my earliest
opportunity; he returned home at his earliest opportunity. My sister was seven
when I left. Walt was Jan’s big brother; he watched out for her, helped her,
protected her. When Walt came home from the service he bought Mr. Lymon’s
house, on the street behind our parents. Everyone knew Mr. Lymon would not sell
that house to anyone but Walt. That’s just how it was.
Walt met Hazel when he was in the service in England; they
married and came home. Our Hazel; she figures in several old stories of mine.
Three sons came along, Roy, John and Mark. I don’t know what ended their
marriage, but it did. Hazel eventually had to return to England; she did not
become a citizen and could not be sponsored without a spouse. Walt took custody
of his sons.
My brother had a romantic concept of women, and an
unshakable visual ideal. His wives, three in total, were small women with
black hair. He married the last two, I’m sure, to take care of them and their
children. Walt’s job relocated him for years to southern Ohio and Mark, his
youngest son, had trouble holding his own in the blended families; eventually
Mom brought him back home.
Walt had one daughter with his last wife, and there is
another young woman who came by his wood shop to talk to “Dad”. He took care of
all his children who have scattered to the parts of the county that were their
childhood homes. Mark is here, ten minutes away.
When Walt retired fifteen years ago he moved to Mark’s house
and they began renovating it together. Walt is a fine craftsman; Mark keeps
things tidy. For several years Walt ran a small woodworking business out of our
barn. He was so cavalier about sawdust that Tom eventually put a dust collector
on the ShopSmith and carted sawdust out in wheelie bins.
About ten years ago Walt had a stroke. Like me, he was a
smoker, and like me suffered the consequential bone loss. We compared creaky
knees back in our sixties. But nicotine is a tougher taskmaster, and one day
Mark called the house, asking Janice to intercede. He thought his dad had a
stroke the day before, but was refusing all help. Walt’s little sister arrived
in ten minutes and took him to the hospital, where he stayed several days while
doctors regulated his blood pressure (yes, he’d had several old heart attacks
and small strokes) and started therapy for a semi paralyzed right side.
A day or so after Walt was released he pulled his Jeep into
the yard. He came over for someone to tie his shoes. The hardest part had been
shifting with his left hand. Yes, he was our same brother.
And so we have gone on these last five years or so. Same old
Walt, putting together the family picnic every summer. Sometimes smoking,
sometimes not. Regaining drafting skill with his right hand.Quitting the doctor when he disagreed with her. Stocking my
daughter’s pantry for several years; underwriting braces for Emily and for his
granddaughter, Caitie. Becoming so right of right in his views that we sat on
the porch in comfortable silence, having little in common to talk about except
family.
Walt organized yesterday’s picnic. He brought all the food
over Friday afternoon and stowed it in the fridge. He slipped in early yesterday, and laid down
on a bed for a nap. Not unusual; he’s a night owl and we often see the Jeep in
front of the barn in the wee hours. But when he appeared for hot dogs and
hamburgers, we knew he was in trouble. No, he was fine. “Have you had another
stroke?” his little sister asked bluntly. No, he was fine, as he carefully
assembled his picnic plate and slowly made his way out to the table.
After lunch he joined everyone on the porch, and everyone watched
him like a hawk. He was not well, spoke little and soon excused himself in
carefully slurred words. We watched him across the yard, his left side
considerably drooped, steps painfully slow. The driver’s side of the Jeep did
not face us, and we watched him go around to it. He was at the door, opened the
door, and disappeared. “He’s down!”
Help assembled, lifted him upright. “It’s the trick knee” he
announced, as animated as the old days. No help necessary, don’t call an
ambulance, he was fine, right up on the seat and off. Adrenaline is pretty
powerful stuff. Mark and Caitie discretely left a minute later, to tail him
home.
Mark called this afternoon. He woke his dad to assess his
state of being and found Walt ready to go to the hospital, but later on, not
now. Janice said to tell him she said so. Mark was grateful for the advice and
said he would get the old man to the hospital, and that’s where he is now. Jan
took charge last time, Mark was able to take charge this time. The baton has
passed.
Only the diagnosis is left. We wonder if the old curmudgeon
will take his medicine.
Walt and his oldest boy, Roy, about 1968