In Memory of my brother
David liked to laugh. He laughed his whole life through, although in later years it was more of an attempt to hold back the pain, to not cry.
When we were boys, we would gather at Christmas at my paternal grandmother's house after midnight mass. She would have a rabbit stew. It was the only time I remember eating rabbit. We'd gather afterward in the parlour where my uncles and aunts indulged in a libation or two. Or three. It was a merry time. There was laughter.
Old Pius, my step-grandfather, had his little nip with the rest of them. It "made the glad come", as my father used to say. (He got that from some old rustic with limited English.) Jokes were told and after an especially funny one, Pius would laugh until he was out of breath, when he would pause with a loud extended intake of breath, Eeeeeeey, then start in again. That was too much for David, who would break up. Now David had a very infectious laugh; people would laugh just to hear him. That included Pius. The two of them pumped each other up, which got every one laughing. What sent the whole thing out of control was when my uncle Clifford joined in; his laugh was as hilarious as David's, a HEE HEE HEE, not a little hee hee hee, but a loud one which morphed into a gut wrenching HAAAR HAAAR HAAAR. We were all bent over holding our sides. Those who fell off their chairs were rolling on the floor, literally. My aunts were begging for mercy. We couldn't look at each other, so we looked at the ceiling or examined pictures on the wall, trying to think of other things. But all for naught, for just as things were starting to quiet down, someone could not suppress a guffaw and we were back at it worse than before. It was pandemonium; people were actually in pain.
David was also a bit of a jokester. One night, as I was preparing for bed, I left the bathroom and turned to enter my room when this ungodly blare sounded behind me. It was like the air horn of an eighteen-wheeler. I came about a foot off the floor, my feet were pumping like Sylvester Pussycat. I hit the floor running and just managed to avoid crashing into the dresser at the far end of the room. I turned and saw David looking for an escape route. He had one of those balloons with a horn which sounded when the air was allowed to escape. To my credit I was able to see the humour.
He would play tricks to embarrass our mother. She was socially conscious and liked to associate with the better class. There were such peope in her bridge club.
When she would invite new people, she would show them the house, which had been made spotless and orderly. David would do things like stick a dagger in the wall of his room and hang his ties on it just before the guests arrived. Then there was the closet where the pots and pans were kept. He managed to sneak in and pile them all so that when the door was opened, they would all come crashing down with a clatter that could be heard across the street. How he managed to close the door on them is a mystery. Mother was not amused, to put it mildly. He remained at a safe distance, busting a gut.
He was a colicky baby. Looking back, I think he had a milk intolerance. Breast feeding was beyond the pale in those days; the modern woman thought it was for peasants, and there was no baby formula that I can remember. He developed a bad case of exzema, which required much care. When Dad went off to war, my aunt, a nurse, came to live with us. Her help was badly needed. She was very religious and one day an idea struck her - she would get holy water fron a nearby shrine to the Virgin. She got the water and bathed David in it. Lo and behold, David's exzema left him! Don't ask me why - we had been bathing him all along in good clean water along with ointments and what-not. Mother and I were incredulous, but my aunt saw nothing strange about it. She was so devoted to the Virgin that she wore blue and white, Mary's colours, until the day she died. I've heard it said, however, that if God relieves you of one misery, He visits another upon you. He develpod asthma immediately after and we often wished for the exzema instead. During the ensuing years, his face would puff out from his breathing exertions and he had to go to the hospital a number of times. It was the bane of his existence, well into adulthood. And he was ashamed of it!! He always wanted to show a macho image and he bristled when mother said he moved west to cure his asthma. I often wonder if all this contributed to his sometimes violent temper. Once when he was maybe eight or nine I angered him and he threw a hammer at me. I ducked and it hit the wall over my head. Years later while living in Winnipeg, a driver cut him off or did some stupid thing causing David to blow his horn. The driver gave him the finger. Oh, boy!! David got out of his car and headed for the offender. Seeing this bulky man approaching in a rage, he quickly locked his door and tried to drive away. David would have picked up the car and turned it over if he could - there are times when a person has super-human strength. The guy got away, lucky for them both.
His dream was to join the Mounties and following high school, he did just that. But it turned out badly. He partied hard and was often in no shape to train in the morning. He told me he fell off his horse a few times. He may have been exagerating, but the horse did walk on his ankle causing him to be laid up for a while. In the end he was discharged as being unsuitable. He came home depressed, a condition to which he would be subjected, on and off, in the years to come. Trying to get him out of his funk, he was asked what he would like to do. Fly, he said, he would like to fly, so my parents paid for flying lessons. He earned his private licence. Once on a return flight from PEI to Moncton, he encountered strong headwinds and he swore to me that the passenger ferry was passing him and he just made it back on fumes because he neglected to gas up before leaving. Some exageration there, of course, but all these sort of things were a joke to him, like falling off his horse. On a flight to Fredericton he ended up over Saint John. His flying instructor spoke to our parents, telling them that he would kill himself or someone else if he continued, advising them to not finance any more flying. I also think he was drinking quite a bit. Party, party! I don't recall the sequence of his adventures (or misadventures) after that, but he was all over Canada. He was in the navy for awhile, he was a hard rock miner, he washed skyscraper windows, he was a hospital orderly. At this job he was given the task of training a new intern. He was supposed to take the pulse of a certain patient. Arriving in the ward with the trainee in tow, he noted that the curtains were drawn around the bed so he assumed the doctor was with him. After some time and no apparent motion around the patient, David peeked and saw no one there, so he and the trainee went in and David proceeded to check the pulse, but he couldn't detect any in either wrist. The patient was dead, which is why the curtains had been drawn. The intern quit on the spot. At least, that's the way it was told to me, but knowing Dave, I have little doubt about it. He worked at a variety of jobs across the country, too numerous to mention.
During those years he often visited us and it was great to see him, but was he ever sloppy! When he showered he'd leave the curtain outside the tub so that the floor was covered with water. When he helped with the dishes he would drip water all over the kitchen. Once, after his departure we found a pile of chicken bones under his bed. All of this sort of thing he considered a joke.
His drinking got to be a problem and he ended up in rehab. I spoke to him by phone at that time. He joked that one of his brothers was a radio executive and the other was branch manager for a large international company and "here I am, building bird houses". He wasn't really joking. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous.
He always loved children and had none of his own. He married a woman with a daughter and son, whom he adopted and gave them his name. It didn't work out and she left him.
He was fighting his demons and I don't wish to get into that. There was a period when he was so depressed that he wouldn't get out of bed, wouldn't answer the phone, wouldn't eat. My brother drove a long distance to see what was going on.
To make a long story short, a reluctant doctor was convinced to do something and he was prescibed lithium which brought him out of it. He had to take it for the rest of his life. His condition was described as bi-polar.
He got a job at Winnipeg airport where he obtained his papers in HVAC. (Heating, ventilation, air conditioning.) He made many friends and was well liked. His demons, however, were still with him. My phone rang one night to tell me David was dead, apparently fron an overdose of his medication. (He never touched "recreational" drugs after a bad experience with pot years earlier.) He had had a heart condition for some time and believed that he needed exercise, so he would drive to the gym, but often he didn't have the energy to get out of the car, or so I've been told; he would drive home discouraged. For years he had swum and run. His stepchildren abandoned him. The girl who inherited the bulk of his estate didn't bother coming to his memorial although she lived a short distance away. He left some money to the Salvation Army. He died broken-hearted.
David was kind. He was generous. He was loving. There was no meanness in him. He had a heart as big as all outdoors. Although he's been gone for ten years, I don't think it would be inappropriate at this time to quote Horatio's farewell to Hamlet: "Now cracks a noble heart. Good night , sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"
posted by puzzled @ 8:52 AM
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