Being the oldest in a family of eight kids, there is a
luxury you receive that the others don’t get. You get to watch them all grow
up. Today, many people in our society place great emphasis on making money or
gaining power or notoriety. Our father placed that same emphasis on raising
kids. He used to say “He wouldn’t sell any of us for a million dollars” but in
the same breath, he would mutter, “I wouldn’t give a nickel for another one.”
In the first part of that statement he was being truthful, as he always was. In
the last part he was being the entertainer he also was. Truth be told—Dad loved
his family.
Somewhere in the middle of that family was Ken. I was only
six when he came home from the hospital, after he was born, but I remember it
to this day. I remember that little white-haired baby who grew up to be my
brother, Ken. I’m not sure “misfit” would be the right word, but from the start
it was evident that Ken was marching to his own drummer. He was this little
sandy-haired boy who refused to run with the pack, even though he loved all of
us very much. This became even more evident in Ken as the years went by. Don’t
get me wrong, he was a good kid, he just wanted to chart his own course in
life.
Growing up, Ken seemed to always be on the outside looking
in. Four of us boys shared a bedroom on the upper floor of that old house on
114 3rd Ave N. It was a cold unheated room. Three of us shared a big bed for
warmth, but Ken always slept by himself in a little cot in the corner of the
room. He never complained—it was almost like he wanted it that way. Whenever we
played in the yard, he would be off doing his own thing. Later in life he got a
job at a local gas station. He would be conspicuously absent at
mealtime—preferring to go to a café and be by himself.
Then came graduation and Vietnam. Ken was afraid of being
drafted because he wanted no part of that war, so he enlisted. The army
promised him he wouldn’t be sent there, but they lied, and he was. I will
always be proud he served his country but will hate what happened to him. He
came home a far different person than when he left. I tried to talk with him
about what went on over there, but he never would, preferring to hide his
demons with alcohol until it ruled and ruined his life. It overshadowed a lot
of the good in him, and believe me, there was a lot of good.
Ken was a talented carpenter and built many beautiful
things, both at home and at work. He would come and help you any time, any
place. He loved his daughters so much, and even though his family split up, he
remained in their lives as much as he could. At our house we would always
include him in holiday dinners, but you could see the hurt in those dark blue
eyes that was there from being away from his family. He knew and understood why
he couldn’t be with them, and blamed no one for it but himself, but it did hurt
him deeply. Even though it was so difficult to talk about it. As time went on,
we often did.
In the middle seventies we started having family reunions
every summer. No one loved those get-together’s more than Ken— especially after
the folks died. It was the one time of the year when he was surrounded by the
people he loved, and who loved him. For a few short days he could come out of
his lonely existence and be one of us, and he loved it. He was always the first
one there and the last to leave. That’s one of the memories of Ken I will
always cherish. I will forget about the dark times we went through together,
and instead, remember the love we shared.
We were brought up in a Christian environment. Our parents
were God-fearing people who wanted their children to be believers, too. I know
Ken wasn’t good at expressing his feelings about being a believer, but last
year especially, I heard him mention prayer and the need for it. I knew then he
was still a believer.
We have this circle of life that we are all a part of, and
right now that chain has been broken, and there is a hole in our circle. It’s
up to us to step forward, close that circle up, and clasp hands once more. It
takes a lot to heal a broken heart, and I have been there and done that, so I
know. Now I need to do it again, as do all of us. It’s a never-ending circle,
you see, because once someone leaves, new family members come to join the
circle, and those who left us step into the middle. It’s there in that middle
where there is all of that love and wonderful memories, from those who left us,
and that continues on for as long as we live—until it’s our time to go.
Rest in Peace my little brother. I loved you.………..Mike
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