random thoughts – Day 1,212 – (Wednesday) – dear brother

My brother John.

My brother John. Today is the anniversary of his birth, and it is still painful knowing I can’t call him for our annual birthday chat. Or anything else. 

The last time we spoke was two years ago today when I called him to say happy birthday. He was driving home after being out fishing on his friend’s boat all day and sounded really happy. Because he was driving, we kept it quick and I told him we could catch up later when he wasn’t driving.

Dad was into cars and not sports, and it was Mummu who introduced my brother to Little League Baseball, watching football on TV, and fishing. She used to take us to “Cousin Johnny’s farm,” a 100-acre spread on Sheldon Road in Fitchburg. “Cousin” Johnny was actually Mummu’s nephew, and because her sister/Johnny’s mother was 20 years older than Mummu, Johnny was 13 months older than Mummu. She delighted in telling people how her nephew Johnny was 13 months older than she was.

Johnny would drive us down the farm’s dirt road through the trees to the pond, and under his tutelage, we would fish for hornpout from the dock. Note to friends beyond New England, “hornpout” are catfish. Cousin Johnny would bait the hooks, and we would tend the lines and shriek with glee when we caught a fish.

Later, Mummu would fry the sliced hornpout for our supper in her small fry pan on her big stove. It was always fun going fishing, especially the year that John got a new fishing pole and gave me his old one, and I caught more fish than he did. Not that we were competitive about it or anything. Much.

We were young once.

The trips to Cousin Johnny’s farm planted the seeds for my brother John’s later love of fishing. When he moved to the Cape, fishing became a regular part of the fabric of his life. He loved ocean fishing, whether it was surf casting from shore or from a boat with his friends.

I’m glad the last time I spoke with my brother he was happy and had been spent the day doing something he loved. He said he couldn’t believe he was 60 and never thought he’d be that old. I hate that it was the last time we spoke. I hate that underneath it all, maybe he wasn’t really that happy and I had just caught him on a good day. It was several weeks later that he took his own life.