An article I wrote more than three years ago, and never finished, and never posted.
(UPDATE 10-6-2012 - It seems that every year I dig this out, make a couple of changes, write a new intro, change the formatting and then don't publish it. I've played with it long enough; here it is. Unfinished. Which is appropriate, since my brother's life was ended way the hell too early. I'm never going to get over that loss, and working on this article occasionally has helped some, but it's time to call it done. At least for now.)
I wrote this about three years ago. I am not sure why. I think I just needed to say a few things about my late brother Mark, but not necessarily to have them heard since I never bothered to publish it. Or finish it; apparently I intended to write much more but I never did. I think that while I may not have said all I wanted to say, I said all I needed to. I think that was enough.
I began by promising a long post in five parts, but I only finished the first one. Then I said, "But I need to talk about my brother Mark, gone three years now..." (Five or six years, now.) And I needed to talk about myself along the way, apparently, so I did. And here it is.
If any of this seems like overly sentimental whining, bite me.
Time passes and memory fades. My earliest memories go back to 1960, the year Mark was born, and as I write this fifty years have passed. My youth is starting to be a very long time ago, and with each passing year my memory gets more unreliable.
Those strokes I’ve had don’t help, either.
In writing this, all I that I can do is be true to what I do remember, whether what I remember is entirely accurate or not. And in the end, I think that how I feel about what I remember is more important that the actual details, so I’m giving it to you as it now just as it appears in my memory and if errors are there then errors are there. So there.
Mark William Rosecrans 1960-2008
I’m going to do something that I’ve been putting off for too long. I’m going to start off by talking about my brother Mark. Believe me, this ain’t easy.
Mark died suddenly and unexpectedly three years ago. His death certificate lists the cause as “undetermined” but I can’t help but feel that someone at the morgue was just a lazy-assed bastard. Mark had had heart problems and blood pressure problems and he was prone to self-medicate with whatever he had at hand, legal or not. I knew his health was on the edge, or at least I should have known, but I wouldn’t let myself think about it. Literally, I wouldn’t let myself even consider the possibility that he might die, not for a moment. I certainly never thought that he would go before me. When his death came, it was a horrible shock that I don’t expect I’ll ever get over. I miss him more than I can possibly relate.
Mark and I were very different people. As the years went by we reached a tacit understanding of our individual roles, with me cast as the brother that stayed with our mother as Alzheimer’s slowly destroyed her brain and with Mark as the brother who tried to provide for the family, not just me and Mom but Mark’s own son and his son's mother. I think the stress of Mark’s lot in life was one of the things that helped to kill him, and I can’t help but find fault in myself for contributing to his end at the all-too-young age of 47.
For the last few years I have taken care of our mother, right up until her death this last May (10-6-2012 - that was a few years ago now), and I keep hearing from people how wonderful a son I was, that I’m to be praised for everything I did for her in her last few years. Frankly, I’m not comfortable with that sort of talk. Let’s not forget that most of what I did for Mom was made possible by Mark doing what he did for us, giving us a place to live and support in so many other ways. Mark doesn’t get nearly enough praise for this.
My brother Mark was a year and a half younger than I was. He’s been gone now for three years, and I miss him terribly. Scarcely a day goes by without my saying, “Mark, I miss you” and “Mark, I love you”, usually to his picture but sometimes just to the house, this house, his house, the house I’m living in but cannot keep; I expect I’ll be out of here fairly soon. But more on that later.
Mark was born in Jackson, Michigan, in a hospital that isn’t there any more. Though I was only a year and a half old, I do have some memories of that time. I remember when Mom went off to the hospital to have Mark, and I remember (or was I told?) that I was inconsolable because of her absence, a new thing for me which I didn’t like one bit. In an effort to try and console me, my family took me to the hospital parking lot (apparently I wasn’t allowed to go up and see her, for whatever reason) and I was told which window she was going to be looking out of. Whether this did any good or not I don’t recall, nor do I recall if I ever actually saw her. I do recall that I waved to her, even if I didn’t really see her, and I’m told she waved back along with half the people in the hospital who just happened to be looking out at the strange little kid in the parking lot, waving idiotically. This is my first recollection of looking like an idiot.
I also remember going up to Mark while he was sleeping at home, long before he could speak, and trying to wrap my head around the idea that this was my brother (at least my parents had told me that he was, so it must have been true), and trying to figure out just what that meant. Fifty years later, with Mark gone and me feeling his loss more deeply than I can stand, I’m still not sure what it meant.
At that time, we lived in my paternal grandparents’ basement in East Jackson, in a neighborhood so under-developed that a few of the houses still lacked indoor plumbing (outhouses weren’t exactly common then, but they weren’t unheard-of in 1960 even in what passed for Jackson’s suburbs). I remember that Mark and I used to climb the stairs to Grandma’s kitchen every morning to have breakfast with her. I even remember what we usually had; Kellogg’s Special K. I remember bits and pieces about life with Grandma and Grandpa, and I wish I could remember more, but we didn’t stay there terribly long and it has been half a century. (I wish I remembered Grandpa better; he died of a bad heart about this time.)
I remember our first house, which wasn’t more than an unfinished basement for its first few years. I remember that by the time I was in school it at least had an upstairs, even if its unfinished interior kept us living in the basement until I was in fourth or fifth grade. (Or maybe third, but I don't think so…I do remember that I was reading Jules Verne about then.)
I remember family outings, vacations, meals, all the normal things one does with the family. I remember bike rides (I remember a lot of bike rides). I remember tricycles and I remember first bikes for me and my brother. I remember ice skates and sleds and snow so deep that if it fell today I’d probably have another heart attack. I remember BB guns and slingshots and Tonka toys and Erector Sets and Legos and Lincoln Logs and GI Joes and all that went with being a boy in the 1960’s.
I remember older boys’ toys. I remember the rowboats that Mark and I had and all of the boats Dad bought over the years, motors and life jackets and water skis and ropes and all that goes with boating. And fishing gear; there were rods and reels and hooks and bobbers and sinkers and nets and stringers. (Does anyone still use stringers?) I remember snowmobiles and I remember motorcycles, trail bikes mostly, nothing bigger than 150 cc. And my dad being the man he was, I remember shotguns and rifles and pistols and all the various ammunition and cleaning supplies that went along with them. I remember that I shared all of this with my brother.
I remember that there were some things we didn’t share, though. Friends, for one. Mark was always more outgoing than I was, and always made friends easier. Mark had a lot of friends; I didn’t. I was always the kid whose mother had to bribe the neighborhood kids to play with him, and even then they wouldn’t play with him. (Oh how I wish I were making that up.) I was old enough to realize the nature of the transaction, but I never resented Mom for it. After all, she’d tried to do something nice for me even if it was rather pathetic. It was the rest of the neighborhood I resented.
I don’t remember ever resenting Mark for his popularity, though. The truth is that no matter how well he got along with the other kids and I didn’t, Mark was the only friend I had in the neighborhood. He may not have found an incredible amount of time to spend with me, but when you live in the same house and sleep in the same room it’s hard not to socialize a bit.
(A certain amount of editing is necessary here, since I just typed, rewrote, corrected, and ultimately deleted a section regarding some of the nonsense that pre-adolescent boys get up to. Not because I’m trying to disguise the truth; if my main purpose in writing this is to exorcise some of my own demons then I do that by writing about it, but no useful purpose is served by making any of that public so it’s gone now. So sue me.)
(And I should point out that in spite of how friendless I may make myself sound, that wasn’t entirely the case. I did have friends, maybe not all that many but enough, but not really any of the kids from our neighborhood. But the neighborhood kids were all Mark’s friends.)
Did we always get along? Hell no. We had our share of fights over the years. All I can really say about that is that he could throw a punch much better than I could but I could take one much better than him. I’d have to say that throughout our boyhood years and on into high school we were closely matched, and we never had cause to fight as adults (if, in fact, we ever really had cause as kids). I guess that the only thing important about that aspect of out lives is that he didn’t fear me and I didn’t fear him, but that we always respected each other, always loved each other; we were brothers.
Mark was more athletic than I was. He excelled at baseball and football and basketball. I was a different story. I played football but not nearly as well as Mark; I sucked at basketball and was rubbish at baseball.
Mark loved to fish but in spite of growing up on a lake and doing a fair bit of fishing when I was a boy, I never really took to it. Mark, on the other hand, took to fishing like…well, like a fish takes to water. Especially ice fishing. Mark actually became nationally known as an ice fisherman, wrote articles for ice fishing magazines and taught a few classes in it at the Lansing Bass Pro Shop. He often went to various elementary school classes and taught the kids ice fishing; this was his way of giving back to a sport he loved.
Mark was a skilled hunter and this is another pastime that I never took to, in spite of the fact that I had a good shooting eye up until my eyes started going bad a few years back (diabetes does that). Mark never lacked for meat, and I still have a bit of the venison he left us in the freezer. He also bagged the occasional feral cow. At least I hope it was feral; in any case, I ate the last of it last summer.
Mark had a fine assortment of “big boy toys” as well. Boats, for example. He had a rowboat, a fishing boat, a pedal boat and a pontoon raft; he did so love the water. He loved it just as much when it was frozen; he had three or four snowmobiles not to mention a miniature one he’d bought for his son.
Motorcycles were another passion. Mark always had several, mostly trail bikes but a few notable street bike exceptions. Mark’s “pride and joy” (other than his son, of course) used to be his 1947 Indian Chief, all original and in great condition. Near museum quality, in fact, but Mark used it as his daily ride. I know it broke his heart when he had to sell it due to his worsening financial condition, about a year or two before he died. He loved his quad bike as well, and like he did with that miniature snowmobile I mentioned he bought a miniature quad for his son to ride.
(I’ve heard that Mark’s old Indian is now a permanent display in a bar out on US-127, fully restored and repainted. I’ve never been able to bring myself to go have a look.)
Golf should also be mentioned. Mark played golf but I didn’t. My father took us to the golf course once when I was twelve or so, soon after we’d moved literally next door to one. I didn’t much enjoy golf and never played again. But Mark enjoyed the game and played as often as he could while we lived in that neighborhood. When he died he was planning to put in a four-hole golf course on this property; he’d even started clearing land for it. Like so many things he left behind, it was unfinished.
Unfinished. That’s a word that describes Mark’s life in more ways than one, not just the golf course. I can look out the window behind me and see the basement he poured for the house he never built. There are still some of the windows and sliding doors about this place that he horded for that project. There’s an old derelict rowboat out back that he intended to convert into a shelving unit, but never did. When Mark died, the property was full of vehicles he intended to restore, furniture he intended to refinish, hundreds of things he intended to use or fix or clean or restore or just to have because he thought they were neat.
Mark was something of a hoarder.
But more important than that, Mark was generous. He was always helping someone out, with a job or a car or a place to stay or a handout or whatever. (This includes me and our mother, obviously.) Mark had the biggest heart and most generous spirit of anyone I have ever met.
Mark loved kids, none more so than his own boy of course, but there wasn’t a kid in any neighborhood he ever lived in for whom he wouldn’t gladly put himself out. He often took the neighborhood kids fishing or snowmobiling or any other outdoor activity that their parents would condone.
I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that Mark was some kind of saint; he wasn’t. Far from it. When it came to the law, he sailed as close to the wind as he could and he crossed over the line more than once and that mixed metaphor is about all I’m going to say about that. No details (for which read: “I just filled this page with details, corrected them, reread them and deleted them”).
Mark used to run a big ice fishing tournament every January. I didn’t see him for the week before his last tournament but I intended to go see him a few days after to see if he had any good stories from the event. I had no idea that I would never see him again; the day after his tournament he died.
Like I said, this was intended to be much longer. If the ending seems abrupt I can only ad this: Mark was a larger-than-life figure in my life, and facing a life without him has proved more difficult then I could ever have imagined. Years later I am still looking for ways to deal.
And if this comes out sounding like Mark was some kind of saint, believe me he wasn't. But if you want details about that side of his life, look elsewhere.
I planned to later go into my mother's life, but I think that nerve was a bit raw then. I think it still is...but I may still continue this someday.
(10-6-2012 - He's been gone nearly six years now. If you think I should have moved on by now, you may be right; but most of what I have of Mark is the loss that I feel, and I'm just not ready to give that up. So what if this is unfinished. So was Mark's life. For that matter, so is mine. If I were looking for a hopeful note to end this on, that may be it...my life may be crap, but I ain't done with it yet.)
The Blues Viking
The opinions here expressed are mine and if you don’t like them you can get your own damn blog.