I know my time back home in Iowa will be a mix of sorrow and joy as we gather to mourn my brother, Tim. I know so many of the old stories will be told again. I’d love to hear your favorite family lore. Feel free to share!
When my daughter was four years old, my father explained to her all about Groundhog's Day--how if the groundhog saw his shadow it meant six more weeks of winter, if not we'd have an early spring. She followed him around mercilessly that morning asking him every five minutes whether the DJ on the radio we were listening to had reported whether the groundhog saw his shadow yet--like our very existence hinged on the news...LOL. A few years later, our family was on a Florida vacation on Groundhog's Day and, unbeknownst to us, my daughter called my dad in Wisconsin to ask if the groundhog saw his shadow; however, she forgot the time difference and woke up my father. Once my father groggily answered, my daughter froze and quickly handed the phone over to my husband and since then it's become a family tradition for her (and all of us) to call my dad as early as possible to wish him a Happy Groundhog's Day. (Now days he tries to beat us to it.) Over the years, the celebration has grown bigger and bigger--we've made a Groundhog's Day cakes (a Bundt cake w/ a construction paper groundhog popping out from the center). One year my sister who now lives in Ohio sent us all socks with tiny groundhogs on them. My daughter's college roommate still teases her about sneaking out into the hallway outside their dorm room to call my dad on their special day. It's always those small, weird things that connect us as a family and I love it.
Sending you & your family peace and love, Kathy. <3
Hi, Kathy! I'm so sorry to hear about your loss! One particular family story we tell revolves around the billy goat our family had as children. It was a really stubborn animal, chased multiple people and used to break the pen for the other goats...my own brother had to outrun it from the school bus every day! Sometimes, my sister and I would hold open the door or cheer for our brother.
I'm very sorry, Kathy. May time with your family be a balm for your loss.
My father, Mark, is the second oldest of five boys. He and his best friend, Neil, went to the recruiter's office to join the army during the war in Vietnam. My dad was only 17 and was told he needed his father's approval to join. When he returned home with the forms he found his father and explained the situation. Just then, Dad's oldest brother, John, burst in from the kitchen waving around an envelope saying he'd just be drafted. John went to war and my father stayed to work the farm. Years later, John admitted that he had not been drafted after all. The envelope had been empty. That was how fiercely he wanted to get off the farm.
My mom loves to tell how our family came to America. Her father was 16 no hs or college degree, no money, just courage. He escaped his village in Romania with WW2 coming soon.
I got to tell our story to my older son’s 4th grade class. I told them it took 4 countries and 30 years for my family to get to the US.
Not too long ago I heard my son tell his girlfriend, “my grandfather was my age when he got here…”
He remembered. He told our story. My grandparents are not forgotten.
May Tim be remembered through your stories. May his memory be a blessing
Kathy, I’m grieved to learn about the loss of your beloved brother, Tim. My heat hurts for you all.
My family communicates mostly by stories, and one I enjoyed as a teen was an account of my maternal grandfather and his brothers sneaking out at night to disassemble and reassemble the general store owner’s Model T on the store’s roof. This was in the 1930s in the very small community of Ridgetop, Tennessee. Another was that one of my great-uncles emptied all the school’s WWII rationed powered soup into the school’s well, because he was sick of it. His punishment was to help dig the new well his dowser father found. That’s how I first learned my great-grandfather was a dowser—a successful one too—who didn’t bother exploring the gift in any of his numerous children (who does that?)
Kathy - hope you saw my condolences by email. And I hope you're getting through it. I relate and wish you strength and support.
My story is recent: My sister-in-law (my husband's sister) and her husband were going through a rough time and my husband, Dan, and I wanted to do something for them. They live way outside Chicago and one nearby place they enjoy is a deli. Dan called to order a meal to be delivered to the family. We don't take credit cards, the guy told him. There ensued a brittle back and forth: Venmo? Nope. Wire the money? Nope. Send a check and give you a guarantee? No. The deli guy wound up shouting to someone, Hey, I got a guy on the line who doesn't understand No. Very funny. We wound up "skunked." There just didn't seem to be a way to do this, which is pretty wild in this technological time. Dan and I then got in the car and a few minutes later, Dan's brother, Jerry, called. Jerry filled us in: You wouldn't believe it, he said. Ann and I were just at the deli near Libertyville and there was this guy on the phone who just wouldn't take No for an answer. We had to wait and wait for this guy to just get off the phone so that we could order! (And, they were doing the same thing we wanted to do -- bringing a meal to Dan and Jerry's sister.) What are the odds?? Hope this one brings a little laugh to you all.
Kathy, I have been thinking about you and sending love to your family. The Finns in my family were/are quiet people. Lots of stories kept private. And I'm sure our differing geographies have made storytelling a challenge. However I do remember fondly the story of my grandmother and her factory job working for Henry Ford. The lore is that one day she was walking home, and Henry Ford himself drove by in one of his Model T's and offered her a ride. I also treasure her written account of a childhood voyage across the Atlantic during WWI, one that required fortitude and Finnish sisu. Wishing you the retelling and cherishing of many family stories this coming weekend. xx
Most of my mother’s life is like a myth to me. She told us so many stories. the very bizarre behaviour of her older brother who used to do wonderful things like put fireworks in her doll’s head so they exploded. The crazy aunt who tried to do a seance with her and predicted her little sister’s death (don’t worry it did not come to pass).
My father on the other hand seemed almost determined not to talk about his family / life before being a father.
In the end I’m not sure which one I know better, the one who’s life I had to fill in with my own idea of things or the one who told me a narrative that seemed too magical to question?
I think stories tell us something about the people who tell them though not necessarily what they intend them to mean.
To an extent, I think painful experiences of our past become the most mythic almost as a way to distance ourselves from it, to mark it as over.
I’m not sure whether this is helpful! But I think if it helps listen to the stories your brother lives in, because stories are a way to live on even if we can’t. Xx
Hi Kathy, I am sorry to hear about your loss. One of the stories my father loves to tell (and it has since become a bit of legend), is the reason behind his fear of birds. My father was born and raised in a little village in Eritrea, Africa. Most days, the village children were left to pretty much entertain themselves (there was occasional school and always morning work... but in the afternoons, when it was too hot for even the cows to graze, children were on their own). My father said there were about 30 children aged 6 to 11 who played together in the afternoons. One of the games they loved to play was (for lack of a better name) "Tease the Vultures". Now, White-Backed Vultures, typical to the area, are huge birds with wingspans of up to 7.5 ft. The children (being children with no real understanding of good idea vs. bad idea) would hold scraps of meat above their heads and run from the Vultures. The ones who made it across the field with their scraps of meat, won. I guess the idea was that if a Vulture got close, you were supposed to let your scrap of meat go and the Vulture wins. Apparently, my dad's eight-year-old brain didn't get that memo and when a Vulture came straight at him, my father forgot about the game, froze solid like he'd just looked upon Medusa and proceeded to lose a chunk of his hair, the scrap of meat and a good size hunk of flesh from his palm (he still has the scars). To this day, my father is scared to death of flying birds be they the size of swallows or eagles. I've always thought this was such a strange little story that it would make a perfectly weird flash fiction piece :D, who knows... I may even have to write it now! Thanks for inspiring me to pause and think about family stories today!
I remember when my grandfather last told this story, it was one of the final times we were all together before he passed:
When my dad was growing up, the family had a dog named Duchess. Duchess was a bad dog, no bones about it. She barked at night, terrorized the mail man, growled at the children, would never listen. One day a stray came into the yard and Duchess chased the mangy mongrel under the deck; duchess was too bug to fit under where the little stray went. Eventually my grandpa pulled Duchess away, but the stray was too scared to leave. So the kids (my dad among them) threw the poor stray some scraps.
Sure enough, the stray started coming back, always hiding under the deck where Duchess couldn’t reach, and sure enough the kids would feed her. And back she’d come again.
This went on for some time, until one morning, while the kids were out at school, Duchess intercepted the stray and a bloody dog fight ensued. It was bad. Chunks of fur, bits of carnage strewn about the yard, Duchess even lost her collar in the struggle. The stray retreated under the deck as usual. But this could not go on. My grandmother was forced to call animal control to put an end to it, because this stray was going to keep coming back—she didn’t want the kids to come home one day and find the stray dead in the yard.
When the animal control man showed up Duchess did her usual thing: barking and growling and snapping at the stranger in the driveway. My grandmother came out to see the officer, holding the long pole with the big loop on the end, with his eyes locked on the snarling Duchess, fresh from her battle:
“Is this the stray, then?” The man asked.
My grandmother opened her mouth, then shut it. She thought for a moment, then:
“Yup! That’s her!”
And that was the end of Duchess.
The kids came home to find the stray dog inside the house, lounging on Duchess’s bed. They nursed her back to health, named her Ginger, and she was the best dog the family ever owned.
Sorry for your loss of your brother! I, too, am in Iowa mourning the loss of my 92 year old mother on March 13. She lived a wonderful life which she thought wasn't much but watching the small town community mourn one of their own is amazingly heart warming. She would be overwhelmed with the amount of people who came to the visitation and funeral all talking about the light she was in the community. The only way my sisters and I have been able to get through this mourning time is to tell the stories of growing up on the farm and with one particular story how mom taught us how to kill a chicken, clean it and cut it up for supper. We were traumatized as children but looking at the memory with adult eyes, we were amazed how our mother was able to feed five children with meager means. However, we each remember the story differently and it made a hilarious story! We laughed loudly and the tears went away, for a bit anyway.
Hi Kathy, sorry you’ve lost a dear brother and glad you have family with whom to celebrate his life.
At the start of WWII my father trained with a tank crew preparing for deployment to North Africa. At the last minute his eyesight was deemed too poor so he sat the war out. He always felt bad about that but my three siblings I would never have been born if he’d gone with the crew who all died when their tank was blown up within weeks of arriving. Later we learned he’d been blessed in his cradle by the Māori prophet and land rights activist Rua Kenana who said, ‘No harm will come to this child’. It was true. Dad led a rackety life for many years but lived to ninety!
Oh, Kathy. I'm so sorry to read your news. To me, losing a sibling can feel like losing a dear friend, just as losing a dear friend can feel like losing a sister or brother. My heart sends your heart a gentle squeeze. A family story that comes to mind is about my middle brother, Marty...born brilliant and also out of sync with his surroundings...one of those people who is constantly muttering to themselves about one thought or another, and in the process can do things like pack the groceries into the trunk and drive away, but leave the toddler behind in the grocery cart. When we were little, my oldest brother Joel's pet parakeet escaped from its cage, flying up and away into some secret corner of the house, remaining on the lam for two days. On the third day, as the story is remembered, Marty, in his absent-mindedness, sat on the bird without noticing the bird's presence beforehand or ever feeling the bird's body lodged underneath his butt. When he eventually got up from the couch, there was the bird, flattened to a feathered pancake on the seat cushion. Joel, now 82 years old, remains convinced this was an intentional act on the part of Marty, perpetrated against him with malice and forethought. They are both lawyers, and still to this day, arguing about the "facts" of this case whenever we are together as a family.
Dear Kathy, I am so sorry for the loss of your brother. May his memory be for a blessing. The family story that comes to mind is... When my father was deep in denial over dying, he wanted to see his girlfriend for the weekend. She and I were the same age (34). I was his primary caregiver dispensing meds and managing meals, but my father wanted to be alone with her. I'd sublet my own place to care for him, so he put me up in a Motel 6 down the road where I had to sneak my dog in. I tried to go over the rules with Elizabeth, what he was allowed to have, what not, but he shoo'd me out and sent me packing. At 2am my phone rang. He was in terrible pain and had called for an ambulance. This is it! Come quick! I packed up my dog and rushed home, alerting my aunt and uncle. But when I got there and saw the EMTs checking his vitals, all of which were fine, I knew immediately what the problem was. I called my aunt and uncle who were in the car driving toward us in their pajamas. I said, you can go back to bed. It's just gas! They laughed, relieved he wasn't dying. I got him some Mylanta and sent the EMTs away. Elizabeth stared at me, how did you know? I said, there's a can of Coke on the nightstand. Coke makes him terribly gassy. After that they let me stay with them to look after him for the rest of the weekend. At the funeral a few weeks later, my aunt and I cheered each other up each time we caught each other's eye saying, it's just gas!
Kathy, I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your brother. I’ve been behind in my substack reading.. I send you strength to get through these trying times and enhanced memories of the times you spent with your brother.
I have just returned from a trip with my sister - we were visiting our maternal uncle for a long weekend. Every afternoon we sat together and he told us family stories. Our parents have both passed away and this visit was healing for all three of us.
I hope time will also help you through the pain of your loss…
Thank you, Kathy! I'd just been visiting my sister so your sad news was especially poignant. I'm wishing you well. Yes, the story was so funny and almost eerie in its coincidence. I've written other life experiences into my fiction, and they WERE workshopped, and people DID say - hey, that's not believable. But in fact, these things were true! Ah, life's little moments. :) Take care and thank you for everything you do.
When my daughter was four years old, my father explained to her all about Groundhog's Day--how if the groundhog saw his shadow it meant six more weeks of winter, if not we'd have an early spring. She followed him around mercilessly that morning asking him every five minutes whether the DJ on the radio we were listening to had reported whether the groundhog saw his shadow yet--like our very existence hinged on the news...LOL. A few years later, our family was on a Florida vacation on Groundhog's Day and, unbeknownst to us, my daughter called my dad in Wisconsin to ask if the groundhog saw his shadow; however, she forgot the time difference and woke up my father. Once my father groggily answered, my daughter froze and quickly handed the phone over to my husband and since then it's become a family tradition for her (and all of us) to call my dad as early as possible to wish him a Happy Groundhog's Day. (Now days he tries to beat us to it.) Over the years, the celebration has grown bigger and bigger--we've made a Groundhog's Day cakes (a Bundt cake w/ a construction paper groundhog popping out from the center). One year my sister who now lives in Ohio sent us all socks with tiny groundhogs on them. My daughter's college roommate still teases her about sneaking out into the hallway outside their dorm room to call my dad on their special day. It's always those small, weird things that connect us as a family and I love it.
Sending you & your family peace and love, Kathy. <3
Hi, Kathy! I'm so sorry to hear about your loss! One particular family story we tell revolves around the billy goat our family had as children. It was a really stubborn animal, chased multiple people and used to break the pen for the other goats...my own brother had to outrun it from the school bus every day! Sometimes, my sister and I would hold open the door or cheer for our brother.
God, that seems like another lifetime ago!
Best wishes, Chris
I'm very sorry, Kathy. May time with your family be a balm for your loss.
My father, Mark, is the second oldest of five boys. He and his best friend, Neil, went to the recruiter's office to join the army during the war in Vietnam. My dad was only 17 and was told he needed his father's approval to join. When he returned home with the forms he found his father and explained the situation. Just then, Dad's oldest brother, John, burst in from the kitchen waving around an envelope saying he'd just be drafted. John went to war and my father stayed to work the farm. Years later, John admitted that he had not been drafted after all. The envelope had been empty. That was how fiercely he wanted to get off the farm.
Warmly,
Stef
My mom loves to tell how our family came to America. Her father was 16 no hs or college degree, no money, just courage. He escaped his village in Romania with WW2 coming soon.
I got to tell our story to my older son’s 4th grade class. I told them it took 4 countries and 30 years for my family to get to the US.
Not too long ago I heard my son tell his girlfriend, “my grandfather was my age when he got here…”
He remembered. He told our story. My grandparents are not forgotten.
May Tim be remembered through your stories. May his memory be a blessing
Blee Shor
I’m so sorry for your loss, Kathy. It must be heartbreaking to lose a brother!
Here’s a family story, only 33 years old though, but every word true and recently published https://www.killernashville.com/creative-nonfiction/doctors-do-not-believe-in-ghosts
Kathy, I’m grieved to learn about the loss of your beloved brother, Tim. My heat hurts for you all.
My family communicates mostly by stories, and one I enjoyed as a teen was an account of my maternal grandfather and his brothers sneaking out at night to disassemble and reassemble the general store owner’s Model T on the store’s roof. This was in the 1930s in the very small community of Ridgetop, Tennessee. Another was that one of my great-uncles emptied all the school’s WWII rationed powered soup into the school’s well, because he was sick of it. His punishment was to help dig the new well his dowser father found. That’s how I first learned my great-grandfather was a dowser—a successful one too—who didn’t bother exploring the gift in any of his numerous children (who does that?)
Kathy - hope you saw my condolences by email. And I hope you're getting through it. I relate and wish you strength and support.
My story is recent: My sister-in-law (my husband's sister) and her husband were going through a rough time and my husband, Dan, and I wanted to do something for them. They live way outside Chicago and one nearby place they enjoy is a deli. Dan called to order a meal to be delivered to the family. We don't take credit cards, the guy told him. There ensued a brittle back and forth: Venmo? Nope. Wire the money? Nope. Send a check and give you a guarantee? No. The deli guy wound up shouting to someone, Hey, I got a guy on the line who doesn't understand No. Very funny. We wound up "skunked." There just didn't seem to be a way to do this, which is pretty wild in this technological time. Dan and I then got in the car and a few minutes later, Dan's brother, Jerry, called. Jerry filled us in: You wouldn't believe it, he said. Ann and I were just at the deli near Libertyville and there was this guy on the phone who just wouldn't take No for an answer. We had to wait and wait for this guy to just get off the phone so that we could order! (And, they were doing the same thing we wanted to do -- bringing a meal to Dan and Jerry's sister.) What are the odds?? Hope this one brings a little laugh to you all.
Kathy, I have been thinking about you and sending love to your family. The Finns in my family were/are quiet people. Lots of stories kept private. And I'm sure our differing geographies have made storytelling a challenge. However I do remember fondly the story of my grandmother and her factory job working for Henry Ford. The lore is that one day she was walking home, and Henry Ford himself drove by in one of his Model T's and offered her a ride. I also treasure her written account of a childhood voyage across the Atlantic during WWI, one that required fortitude and Finnish sisu. Wishing you the retelling and cherishing of many family stories this coming weekend. xx
Most of my mother’s life is like a myth to me. She told us so many stories. the very bizarre behaviour of her older brother who used to do wonderful things like put fireworks in her doll’s head so they exploded. The crazy aunt who tried to do a seance with her and predicted her little sister’s death (don’t worry it did not come to pass).
My father on the other hand seemed almost determined not to talk about his family / life before being a father.
In the end I’m not sure which one I know better, the one who’s life I had to fill in with my own idea of things or the one who told me a narrative that seemed too magical to question?
I think stories tell us something about the people who tell them though not necessarily what they intend them to mean.
To an extent, I think painful experiences of our past become the most mythic almost as a way to distance ourselves from it, to mark it as over.
I’m not sure whether this is helpful! But I think if it helps listen to the stories your brother lives in, because stories are a way to live on even if we can’t. Xx
Hi Kathy, I am sorry to hear about your loss. One of the stories my father loves to tell (and it has since become a bit of legend), is the reason behind his fear of birds. My father was born and raised in a little village in Eritrea, Africa. Most days, the village children were left to pretty much entertain themselves (there was occasional school and always morning work... but in the afternoons, when it was too hot for even the cows to graze, children were on their own). My father said there were about 30 children aged 6 to 11 who played together in the afternoons. One of the games they loved to play was (for lack of a better name) "Tease the Vultures". Now, White-Backed Vultures, typical to the area, are huge birds with wingspans of up to 7.5 ft. The children (being children with no real understanding of good idea vs. bad idea) would hold scraps of meat above their heads and run from the Vultures. The ones who made it across the field with their scraps of meat, won. I guess the idea was that if a Vulture got close, you were supposed to let your scrap of meat go and the Vulture wins. Apparently, my dad's eight-year-old brain didn't get that memo and when a Vulture came straight at him, my father forgot about the game, froze solid like he'd just looked upon Medusa and proceeded to lose a chunk of his hair, the scrap of meat and a good size hunk of flesh from his palm (he still has the scars). To this day, my father is scared to death of flying birds be they the size of swallows or eagles. I've always thought this was such a strange little story that it would make a perfectly weird flash fiction piece :D, who knows... I may even have to write it now! Thanks for inspiring me to pause and think about family stories today!
I remember when my grandfather last told this story, it was one of the final times we were all together before he passed:
When my dad was growing up, the family had a dog named Duchess. Duchess was a bad dog, no bones about it. She barked at night, terrorized the mail man, growled at the children, would never listen. One day a stray came into the yard and Duchess chased the mangy mongrel under the deck; duchess was too bug to fit under where the little stray went. Eventually my grandpa pulled Duchess away, but the stray was too scared to leave. So the kids (my dad among them) threw the poor stray some scraps.
Sure enough, the stray started coming back, always hiding under the deck where Duchess couldn’t reach, and sure enough the kids would feed her. And back she’d come again.
This went on for some time, until one morning, while the kids were out at school, Duchess intercepted the stray and a bloody dog fight ensued. It was bad. Chunks of fur, bits of carnage strewn about the yard, Duchess even lost her collar in the struggle. The stray retreated under the deck as usual. But this could not go on. My grandmother was forced to call animal control to put an end to it, because this stray was going to keep coming back—she didn’t want the kids to come home one day and find the stray dead in the yard.
When the animal control man showed up Duchess did her usual thing: barking and growling and snapping at the stranger in the driveway. My grandmother came out to see the officer, holding the long pole with the big loop on the end, with his eyes locked on the snarling Duchess, fresh from her battle:
“Is this the stray, then?” The man asked.
My grandmother opened her mouth, then shut it. She thought for a moment, then:
“Yup! That’s her!”
And that was the end of Duchess.
The kids came home to find the stray dog inside the house, lounging on Duchess’s bed. They nursed her back to health, named her Ginger, and she was the best dog the family ever owned.
Hi Kathy,
Sorry for your loss of your brother! I, too, am in Iowa mourning the loss of my 92 year old mother on March 13. She lived a wonderful life which she thought wasn't much but watching the small town community mourn one of their own is amazingly heart warming. She would be overwhelmed with the amount of people who came to the visitation and funeral all talking about the light she was in the community. The only way my sisters and I have been able to get through this mourning time is to tell the stories of growing up on the farm and with one particular story how mom taught us how to kill a chicken, clean it and cut it up for supper. We were traumatized as children but looking at the memory with adult eyes, we were amazed how our mother was able to feed five children with meager means. However, we each remember the story differently and it made a hilarious story! We laughed loudly and the tears went away, for a bit anyway.
Hi Kathy, sorry you’ve lost a dear brother and glad you have family with whom to celebrate his life.
At the start of WWII my father trained with a tank crew preparing for deployment to North Africa. At the last minute his eyesight was deemed too poor so he sat the war out. He always felt bad about that but my three siblings I would never have been born if he’d gone with the crew who all died when their tank was blown up within weeks of arriving. Later we learned he’d been blessed in his cradle by the Māori prophet and land rights activist Rua Kenana who said, ‘No harm will come to this child’. It was true. Dad led a rackety life for many years but lived to ninety!
Oh, Kathy. I'm so sorry to read your news. To me, losing a sibling can feel like losing a dear friend, just as losing a dear friend can feel like losing a sister or brother. My heart sends your heart a gentle squeeze. A family story that comes to mind is about my middle brother, Marty...born brilliant and also out of sync with his surroundings...one of those people who is constantly muttering to themselves about one thought or another, and in the process can do things like pack the groceries into the trunk and drive away, but leave the toddler behind in the grocery cart. When we were little, my oldest brother Joel's pet parakeet escaped from its cage, flying up and away into some secret corner of the house, remaining on the lam for two days. On the third day, as the story is remembered, Marty, in his absent-mindedness, sat on the bird without noticing the bird's presence beforehand or ever feeling the bird's body lodged underneath his butt. When he eventually got up from the couch, there was the bird, flattened to a feathered pancake on the seat cushion. Joel, now 82 years old, remains convinced this was an intentional act on the part of Marty, perpetrated against him with malice and forethought. They are both lawyers, and still to this day, arguing about the "facts" of this case whenever we are together as a family.
Dear Kathy, I am so sorry for the loss of your brother. May his memory be for a blessing. The family story that comes to mind is... When my father was deep in denial over dying, he wanted to see his girlfriend for the weekend. She and I were the same age (34). I was his primary caregiver dispensing meds and managing meals, but my father wanted to be alone with her. I'd sublet my own place to care for him, so he put me up in a Motel 6 down the road where I had to sneak my dog in. I tried to go over the rules with Elizabeth, what he was allowed to have, what not, but he shoo'd me out and sent me packing. At 2am my phone rang. He was in terrible pain and had called for an ambulance. This is it! Come quick! I packed up my dog and rushed home, alerting my aunt and uncle. But when I got there and saw the EMTs checking his vitals, all of which were fine, I knew immediately what the problem was. I called my aunt and uncle who were in the car driving toward us in their pajamas. I said, you can go back to bed. It's just gas! They laughed, relieved he wasn't dying. I got him some Mylanta and sent the EMTs away. Elizabeth stared at me, how did you know? I said, there's a can of Coke on the nightstand. Coke makes him terribly gassy. After that they let me stay with them to look after him for the rest of the weekend. At the funeral a few weeks later, my aunt and I cheered each other up each time we caught each other's eye saying, it's just gas!
Kathy, I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your brother. I’ve been behind in my substack reading.. I send you strength to get through these trying times and enhanced memories of the times you spent with your brother.
I have just returned from a trip with my sister - we were visiting our maternal uncle for a long weekend. Every afternoon we sat together and he told us family stories. Our parents have both passed away and this visit was healing for all three of us.
I hope time will also help you through the pain of your loss…
Wonderful photograph and an even better story prompt! Look at everyone go!
May your memories bring you lasting joy.
Thank you, Kathy! I'd just been visiting my sister so your sad news was especially poignant. I'm wishing you well. Yes, the story was so funny and almost eerie in its coincidence. I've written other life experiences into my fiction, and they WERE workshopped, and people DID say - hey, that's not believable. But in fact, these things were true! Ah, life's little moments. :) Take care and thank you for everything you do.
No family story to share, but I did want to add my condolences for the loss of your brother. I'm very sorry.
Kathy ❤️ I'm sorry to see that you lost your brother recently. I hope you're bearing up.
Every story exists within a family.
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Sorry for your loss, holding you in thought and heart. xo