Editor's Pick
MARCH 4, 2009 12:09PM
Rate: 25
Eric was a veteran. Although his time in the armed forces was in between world conflicts, he spent much of his time stationed in far away Korea. He barely made it through basic training. I imagine that Korea was not the most desirable station and he probably earned it with his relentless ability to annoy every superior officer. His entrance into the Army was merely the ideal choice between that and a little jail time for a juvenile offense. At 17 with a parental signature he was off to learn to be a better human being. You remember, be all you can be? I am sure that was the hope.
It didn't work out that way though. Our mom died while he was hurrying home from that far away continent on compassionate leave, and he missed seeing her by about an hour. I do believe that his last tether to any ability to turn his life around died with that moment. She was his only champion, the one who thought he could do anything, be anything. Without her, it was up to our dad to finish the job. And the only finishing my dad could accomplish was to become his biggest enabler. Guilt can do that.
Not long after he was discharged from the Army, dishonorably. I still don't know the exact reasons except that it was bigger than Eric annoying his superior officers. It took two Rabbis and the invocation of a dead mother to soften the information about dishonorable discharge, or perhaps to avoid jail. Again.
My brother spent his short life almost like a small kid who jumps up on the counter to get into the cookie jar, but knocks it over, breaking it when caught red handed, says he didn't do it. The perpetual, I didn't do it, kid.
He was a babysitter and then was banned from sitting again. He did lawn work and then was banned from touching anyone's lawn mower. He mistakenly was allowed to collect mail for a neighbor who was traveling and somehow got it in his head that collecting the mail meant moving their car out of the driveway and into a tree at 30MPH. The car was totaled, but Eric only got 3000 stitches in his forehead which when healed with a jagged scar, lent credence to his bad boy persona.
He was learning to become a master thief, but just didn't have it in him to not bumble the caper. Our dad had a bad habit of dubbing us all throwbacks to ancestors that he felt we best favored at the time. An uncle was a famous jewel thief in the 40's. Abe finally got caught, spending the remainder of his days in Alcatraz. Eric and Abe looked alike, blond, blue-eyed. The rest of us were dark curly haired kids with brown eyes. In family photos he always looks a bit like a visitor.
He got sick. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Fully treatable. After his last jail stint, he alienated family and friends, so no one knew for a long time. I found out through the slow moving gossip mill and called him. At first he actually denied being sick. Then he revealed that he wasn’t going to seek treatment. He agreed to see me.
I flew back home to see him and for the entire time I was in the city, he avoided me until an hour or so before I had to fly home. I visited with him and he smelled like my cat right before he died from kidney disease. I held back tears realizing that I was even later than I had imagined. It might actually be too late for treatment.
His little apartment said volumes about who he had become. Through those ensuing years he had married twice, fathered numerous children, spent much time in jail for various reasons. His life alone became consumed by the flea market world. Long after my father's death, his enabler gone, he had to find a livelihood and the only one he could get was become a seller and reseller. Everything in his small walk up apartment still had original price tags attached to each item, including all the furniture he used daily, the kitchen items, even some of the clothes. Apparently he bought stuff, used it, and sold it, probably as new. Ever the shyster.
When I left, I was more depressed than ever, but I was sure he was going to start treatment, or at least, that is how we parted. That and a big bear hug. But I was wrong. Somehow, in his mind I had offended him because I had a plane to catch. He wouldn't take my calls. He sent back my letters. A few months later he was hospitalized, and since he was dishonorably discharged, he was only able enter a public hospital as an indigent person rather than the VA hospital. He spent the next 60 days dying.
The only person who was allowed to visit was our mom's best friend who was in her 80's by then. When he died she received a note from him and forwarded a copy to me. Two lines, written in the style and penmanship that a 10 year old might use, he thanked her for caring and said he would say hi to our dead parents for her. Those two lines were the salutation of his end at age 40.
Today I am emptying out my old Pottery Barn file desk because I sold it on Ebay. It won't fit in the new apartment. When I got to the bottom of the stack of files, there hanging on with the plastic ring, was the price tag. I had never removed it and it was hidden under the stacks of files all these years. I don't remember ever leaving tags on anything with the exception of clothes that I knew I shouldn't have bought in the first place.
My first thought was how impressed the Ebay buyer would be to see that the tags are still attached to the item. My second thought was more a feeling. A wisp of laughter moved through the room from behind. Eric?
Not long after he was discharged from the Army, dishonorably. I still don't know the exact reasons except that it was bigger than Eric annoying his superior officers. It took two Rabbis and the invocation of a dead mother to soften the information about dishonorable discharge, or perhaps to avoid jail. Again.
My brother spent his short life almost like a small kid who jumps up on the counter to get into the cookie jar, but knocks it over, breaking it when caught red handed, says he didn't do it. The perpetual, I didn't do it, kid.
He was a babysitter and then was banned from sitting again. He did lawn work and then was banned from touching anyone's lawn mower. He mistakenly was allowed to collect mail for a neighbor who was traveling and somehow got it in his head that collecting the mail meant moving their car out of the driveway and into a tree at 30MPH. The car was totaled, but Eric only got 3000 stitches in his forehead which when healed with a jagged scar, lent credence to his bad boy persona.
He was learning to become a master thief, but just didn't have it in him to not bumble the caper. Our dad had a bad habit of dubbing us all throwbacks to ancestors that he felt we best favored at the time. An uncle was a famous jewel thief in the 40's. Abe finally got caught, spending the remainder of his days in Alcatraz. Eric and Abe looked alike, blond, blue-eyed. The rest of us were dark curly haired kids with brown eyes. In family photos he always looks a bit like a visitor.
He got sick. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Fully treatable. After his last jail stint, he alienated family and friends, so no one knew for a long time. I found out through the slow moving gossip mill and called him. At first he actually denied being sick. Then he revealed that he wasn’t going to seek treatment. He agreed to see me.
I flew back home to see him and for the entire time I was in the city, he avoided me until an hour or so before I had to fly home. I visited with him and he smelled like my cat right before he died from kidney disease. I held back tears realizing that I was even later than I had imagined. It might actually be too late for treatment.
His little apartment said volumes about who he had become. Through those ensuing years he had married twice, fathered numerous children, spent much time in jail for various reasons. His life alone became consumed by the flea market world. Long after my father's death, his enabler gone, he had to find a livelihood and the only one he could get was become a seller and reseller. Everything in his small walk up apartment still had original price tags attached to each item, including all the furniture he used daily, the kitchen items, even some of the clothes. Apparently he bought stuff, used it, and sold it, probably as new. Ever the shyster.
When I left, I was more depressed than ever, but I was sure he was going to start treatment, or at least, that is how we parted. That and a big bear hug. But I was wrong. Somehow, in his mind I had offended him because I had a plane to catch. He wouldn't take my calls. He sent back my letters. A few months later he was hospitalized, and since he was dishonorably discharged, he was only able enter a public hospital as an indigent person rather than the VA hospital. He spent the next 60 days dying.
The only person who was allowed to visit was our mom's best friend who was in her 80's by then. When he died she received a note from him and forwarded a copy to me. Two lines, written in the style and penmanship that a 10 year old might use, he thanked her for caring and said he would say hi to our dead parents for her. Those two lines were the salutation of his end at age 40.
Today I am emptying out my old Pottery Barn file desk because I sold it on Ebay. It won't fit in the new apartment. When I got to the bottom of the stack of files, there hanging on with the plastic ring, was the price tag. I had never removed it and it was hidden under the stacks of files all these years. I don't remember ever leaving tags on anything with the exception of clothes that I knew I shouldn't have bought in the first place.
My first thought was how impressed the Ebay buyer would be to see that the tags are still attached to the item. My second thought was more a feeling. A wisp of laughter moved through the room from behind. Eric?
Comments
oh Wow ... where to start ...
Parts of this could have been about my own brother (that's somehow not surprising to me, but for another time). You are such a remarkable person. I'm sorry for how this turned out but happy for how you handled it and can find that wisp of laughter ... a lot of folks aren't that strong ... you are.
xoxo
Parts of this could have been about my own brother (that's somehow not surprising to me, but for another time). You are such a remarkable person. I'm sorry for how this turned out but happy for how you handled it and can find that wisp of laughter ... a lot of folks aren't that strong ... you are.
xoxo
OK ~ I have rated this post 3 times now ... and it won't stick ... so consider yourself rated ... even if it doesn't show!!!
powerful writing. rated
Absolutely honest and beautiful...Truly moving tribute to a flawed although loved person. Aren't we all?
Rated
Rated
This is sad and beautiful and wistful and brought tears. Thank you for sharing this with us.
I clicked here totally thinking it was going to be about puppies, or torn doggy sweaters ;)
You are full of surprises Ms. LuluandPhoebe...what a heartbreaking story, masterfully told. Nothing quite so painful as a sibling you cannot save from themselves. The love in this piece rings through like a bell. I love the ending and I do think it was him, too. Well done, and thank you.
You are full of surprises Ms. LuluandPhoebe...what a heartbreaking story, masterfully told. Nothing quite so painful as a sibling you cannot save from themselves. The love in this piece rings through like a bell. I love the ending and I do think it was him, too. Well done, and thank you.
i am no good at knowing what to say in the face of things that make me cry, so i will copy what mother said.
Especially the damaged ones need love. Sad story, but it needed telling.
Ann, thanks. You always know the right words.
JRDOG - much appreciation.
Blue - always true.
Lea - thank you.
Donna - thanks. your comments made me smile!
jane - thanks for that!
emma- they do, don't they?
JRDOG - much appreciation.
Blue - always true.
Lea - thank you.
Donna - thanks. your comments made me smile!
jane - thanks for that!
emma- they do, don't they?
Sometimes I can't just find the right words to express my sorrow and sympathy. This is one of those times.
How your brother must have loved your mother, and how sad that he could never recover, and that he found a reason to stop trusting even you. Your last line is so wistful, makes me want to wake up before it's too late.
L&P,
This is a remarkable essay. I don't have the time to comment more right now, but it is a moving piece---know that.
This is a remarkable essay. I don't have the time to comment more right now, but it is a moving piece---know that.
Rated. There is a universal truth here. I think we all have a piece of these characters in us. Not just the hero(ine) but the anti-hero as well. What fitting symbolism, the price tag, for someone who never seemed to find his own worth. Poignant and touching but not overly sentimental. Thanks
Thank you so much everyone. I cannot even begin to tell you how much your comments and thoughts mean to me.
OEsheep - just being here reading it says volumes. I really appreciate it.
latethink - so right. I try to always say stuff in the present rather than wait. you just never know.
Thanks M.
Tijo - your comment was stunningly accurate. I never thought about it summed up that way, but you are so right. Thank you for that.
OEsheep - just being here reading it says volumes. I really appreciate it.
latethink - so right. I try to always say stuff in the present rather than wait. you just never know.
Thanks M.
Tijo - your comment was stunningly accurate. I never thought about it summed up that way, but you are so right. Thank you for that.
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