Fog City

Today is June 2nd, 2019. My brother Steve’s birthday. And tomorrow is my sister’s birthday. Susan will be 69 and Steve would have been 68. Unfortunately he died at 21. Sad. So today he’s been dead 47 years. And I wonder. I named my first born son Steve. And today I  think about them both. My son is cause for consternation. He has a big and giving heart. That there is no doubt. He is 42 years old and has lived an erratic and adventurous life. His goodness, his joy, the things that make him happy, seem always shrouded in delusion and silence. He always is uncomfortable communicating. His expectations never align with his reality, or our reality. Consequently he exists in a dream world of his own making. And when that dream gets shattered, which it inevitably does, he lashes out. Why is the question. Why can’t he abide by the rules, protocol, and processes which are required to get through this maze of life. I think he just doesn’t care. He knows what’s needed and asked for, but procrastinates or simply doesn’t complete the task. Normal things like housing, laundry, food, identification, bills, finance, all seem to escape his ability to cope. Hence his life is in a constant state of flux. He’s not stupid, although I question that over and over, because of his repeated problems. This flux, his flux, only seems to bother him after another breach in the process. He glides along, slides along as if the broken pieces will magically emerge whole, like a movie run backwards. And the people he’s entwined with suffer. They suffer his anger and frustration. Especially his mother, who only wants him to be happy. With all of his snafus she’s there with her worry and her support. She prays incessantly and worries incessantly, to the point of exhaustion. The burden she carries as his mother, and the cloud of doubt and gloom is affecting her profoundly. I’m affected. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is he. He changes for the better, with good intentions, but it only lasts so long. Sometimes months. Then his demons kick in and his one step forward is two steps backward. And on it goes. The trouble is, he’s wearing down his mother. She’s old and I’m old. We don’t need his shortcomings to be our anxiety. But they are. Parents!

My brother Steve. Frankly I barely knew him. I was three years older. Our young worlds really didn’t overlap. And once our family disintegrated the separation between individuals became more obvious. He was a good boy and funny with a mischievous streak. I remember when he was very young he had asthma. My mom would set up a steam tent over his bed so he could sleep easily. He grew out of it though. One Christmas I won’t forget. The family still pretended to be in tact. Toys were scattered about in the living room and under the tree. We four kids were playing with new stuff and lounging in our pajamas. Steve was looking around and assessing and comparing Santa’s gifts. When out of the blue he yells, “this is the worst Christmas ever!” I guess he didn’t get what he ordered and my mom was chagrined. As we got older and our childhood became adolescence and teen, things really changed.  I had become relatively delinquent and with my dad out of the picture Steve somewhat followed suit. He experimented with nonconforming styles, like Beatle boots and longer hair. He started to get in trouble. My mom, poor thing, was a basket case. She had no coping mechanism for out of control teens. Some how she decided, and I’ll never know how and who with, to allow Sue and Steve to become wards of the state. Both were shipped off to the state reform schools for boys and girls. So much for the post World War ll, 1950’s American family, it was over and radically altered forever. A shame. Steve survived his stint and actually thrived. He came home to finish high school. He developed a group of great friends and even was a star on the swimming team as the lead diver. So today I think of him and a time long ago, fading from memory more each day. Memory is all we really have and when that’s gone, well it’s time to go. For Ramsey my troubled son, I hope he finds his bliss, just a wee bit, before I shuffle off this mortal coil.