Skiing - Fast

Today I went skiing with my father at Mary Jane - one of my brother's favorite places to ski (the other and more favored being Copper). My father and I hadn't skied together in a long time. For sure, it had been at least three years (as skiing is prohibited while prego and difficult when breastfeeding and cranking out babies) and it definitely hadn't been just the two of us in many, many years.

It was relaxing to be able to talk with him alone - not worrying what my children were sticking in their orifices - the younger one in his mouth - the older one in his nose or ear. It was wonderful to be outside, free and skiing fast - no matter how cold it was.

Wes loved to ski fast. The concept of turning was alien to him. What he lacked in grace and style he made up for in confidence, aggression and common adolescent boy stupidity. The only goals being speed and air.

I'm trying to remember the last time I skied with Weston. He must've still been in high school. Unfortunately, if the last time was the day I remember, it was a day that ended with a tift between us. Wes, for the first time in our lives, threatened to hit me. I remember he was upset about something and I felt he was overreacting. I'm sure I said something snotty and provoking.


We were passing one another - one going up the garage stairs into the house, one standing on the landing, going out of the house. He put his face in my face - nose to nose and drew back his fist. He was shaking he was so irate. I had seen my brother angry - but not with me - well, not this angry anyway. But somehow I wasn't scared - it never occurred to me that he would actually hit me.

I don't know if that was based on faith or ignorance. The result of weighing Wes' sweet, sensitive side against his emotional, out of control side and knowing my brother could never hit me or of not being around enough (I was visiting from Rhode Island at the time) to know the extent of Wes' anger and actions or just being naive enough to think I was immune from his explosions.

I don't remember how it ended - what if anything was said - only that I didn't get hit. He controlled himself, dropped his fist and walked off, probably punching something inanimate along the way.

For no particular reason that I can think of, I've been thinking about my brother a great deal lately - the good and the bad and the missing of our relationship. Trying desperately to remember and learn anything I can about him. But usually the memories come back at odd times. I hear a song, stumble upon a family picture, smell a hair product, see someone I think looks like him.

Today was a day for remembering. It was 4 degrees at the base of Mary Jane - so at the top of the hill, with the wind chill factor, it was probably 20 below. Brrrrr!

On our last run we decided to go down Sleeper. There had been enough snow during the day that it would not be the usual crusty icefest. As we started out on the trail, I was following a good, confident skier dressed in a coat from the early 90's with stripes of neon pinks, yellows and greens waking up the blackness of it. It was similar to a coat my brother used to ski in.

As I followed this anonymous skier through the woods, I thought to myself "I miss Wes, I miss skiing with Wes. When will Wes be back?" At that moment, it just felt like Wes had moved away and that one of these days he would be back to ski with me again - fast and free.

Halah

Music has long been used as a means of expression- feelings, memories, relationships....I am often reminded of Wes because of his love of music. I hear a song or see a band and think of him. The title of this is Halah, that is the name of a song by Mazzy Star. When Wes was living in Santa Rosa he bought me her album, She Hangs Brightly. He thought I would like it. I did and still have the CD. The song Halah not only reminds me of Wes because it was a gift from him but something about the song, her lyrics or the way she sings it reminds me of him. Recently, I saw a student at the school I work at with a Danzig tshirt on. Immediately, I thought of Wes. He loved Danzig, even had a tattoo on the back of his leg of the skeleton horned face ( I don't know how else to describe this) from their albums. Wes had made me a few mix tapes and throughout there were Danzig songs, they were pretty hard core. I don't have the mix tapes any more but I do have one song by Danzig- How the Gods Kill. This song is not as hard as most of their songs but it still has the anger and sorrow that are throughout Danzig's music.
The song Free Bird by Lynrd Skynrd reminds me of Wes as well. In high school I remember driving with him and that song was blaring as we drove and sang along. In Susan's writing of Hawk Eye I thought of that song- "Fly high free bird" . Pink Floyd makes me think of Wes. We were at his dad's house one day and he had just bought Pink Floyd's new CD. His dad had a very elaborate sound system that was wired throughout the house and he played that CD about as loud as he could, which was very loud. If you've ever heard Pink Floyd the louder the better. Blues Traveler reminds me of Wes. We went to their concert one 4th of July. We didn't know how lucky we were growing up in an area with a place like Red Rocks. Blues Traveler at Red Rocks Amphitheater. It was a great concert and a very peaceful night.
When Wes died the song Crash Into Me by Dave Mathew's Band was new. I listened to that song over and over again. I would put on my earphones and put that song on repeat- the day of his funeral I must have listened to it a hundred times as I watched the snow fall. Yes, music makes me think of Wes. The happy times, the sad times - it was an outlet for him as it is for most. On some occasions I will hear a new song and think of him- "Wes would really like this song."

Punkin Pie

My favorite holiday memory of Wes is pumpkin pie. Anytime I see pumpkin pie, or order a Pumpkin Pie Latte at Starbucks (yum!), I think of Wes at age 5.

A fog of ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg permeated the house all morning as five pumpkin pies sat on the counter fresh from the oven. They were quietly cooling, minding their own business, until one hungry, inquisitive little blonde hair blue eyed boy innocently pulled up a chair, climbed on top of it and stuck a grimy five-year old paw into each pie. Of course he believed that each pie must be tested, each handful carefully licked clean.

These pawprints were artfully centered in the pies (ever since he had painted the walls with his poo as an infant, we'd known he had an artistic flair).

Thankfully his creative mother carefully covered these craters with copious amounts of whip cream to be served at the neighbor's Thanksgiving dinner later in the day.

May all your holidays be as tasty and memorable!

Happy Birthday

Today is Weston's birthday. I celebrated by taking son No. 1 to his first swim lesson, going to the grocery store, picking 900 toys off the floor, and cleaning 200 dishes from dinner the night before. In other words - a typical day. I'd like to find a ritual to do every year, making today special and in his memory, but I'm not quite sure what that would be.

We used to clean the highway in memory of Weston - a one-mile section on Hwy 93 - close to my brother's friend Wade's family's property. Weston was big into the environment and people littering would send him into a rage. He would've appreciated our efforts and thought it was pretty funny that we were out there busting our behinds rain, snow or shine in his memory.

But after a few years of cleaning, the county said they were hiring professionals to take over high-impact roads (this road leads to the dump, so there was a lot of debris and our quarterly cleanings were apparently not enough). However, several years later, the sign in his memory still remains.

My father usually takes a run on Green Mountain in memory of Wes and many years sees a herd of deer. This is significant because the day of my brother's funeral, he made this run and asked Weston that if he could hear him, to please send him a sign. As he said this, he crested the hill and there was a huge herd of deer. Usually deer travel in small herds of 4 or 5. This was more like 40 deer. This was definitely his sign as wildlife and the outdoors were a strong connection for my father and brother. They spent a lot of their time bonding through hunting, fishing and outdoor activities.

My mother lights a candle for the day in memoriam and looks through photo albums reminiscing. I have a few family photos I could look at, but no albums. The photo I brought out was of the two of us in matching red Izod shirts. I am 11 or 12 (I estimate this time because I don't have braces yet) and Weston is 4 or 5.

When son No. 1 saw the photo, somehow he recognized me (my hair is a Lady Diana coif although failing miserably, making me look more like an elfin boy). But more interesting is that son No. 1 thought the picture of Weston was a picture of himself.

I catch myself at least once a day calling son No. 1 'Weston'. Maybe because both their names are two syllables, maybe because both names end in the letter 'n', maybe because Wes is always in the back of my mind. Who knows.

I did briefly consider naming son No. 1 Weston before he was born, but decided against it. Although a beautiful name, that is quite a legacy to carry - knowing you are named after your uncle who committed suicide.

I like to tell my boys about their uncle Weston and show them pictures but fear the day I will have to explain why they'll never get to meet him.

Maybe it is important that today is just like every other day, because life goes on. You can keep the people you have lost in your heart, your photos and your memories. You can take time out to remember them but you also need to be present for the ones you love who have gone on living.

Hawkeye

Not all of us are lucky enough to have a superpower - something that really sets us apart from the average person. Weston's superpower was his vision. I was always proud of my "better than 20-20" but it was nothing compared to Wes. He could probably see through walls and clothes - but was smart enough not to tell us of his X-ray powers.

Really, the kid could see anything. Bird flying overhead - he could tell you what it was. If it was a duck - he'd tell you what type of duck. I was lucky if I even knew it was a duck - if I saw it at all - because who had the time to look up and figure out what was flying overhead? As long as it wasn't dropping little white bombs on me, I could care less what was up there.

Being a bird hunter, he really knew his ducks. A friend's father was also a big duck hunter and had many stuffed and mounted on his wall with engraved nameplates below. I'm guessing maybe Wes was 10 years old at the time, but he noticed one of the birds was misnamed. He and the father argued over it for awhile, got out a book on ducks, and low and behold, Weston was right. I wonder if the father had a new one engraved, took the bird down, or just never invited Wes back?

In Alaska on a sightseeing boat trip from Seward, Weston pointed out grizzlies on the shore, something none of us passengers, including the tour guide, ever would have noticed.

My friend Jen likes to recall that on a car trip to Santa Fe, she pointed out a bear to Wes, who nonchalantly took off his earphones, gazed out the window, rolled his eyes, put back on his earphones and in an exasperated tone explained to her that it was a deer.

Then, as Jen likes to remind me, the rest of the weekend the entire family pointed out every deer and bear to see if Jen knew the difference. "Weston spent the whole weekend making fun of me." Jen recalled. "We went out to a really nice dinner one night and I told Weston that he was my date and he feigned horror. I told him that I used to be a hot commodity and he was lucky to have such an attractive older woman on his arm.....I believe I got a smirk out of him."

These days, I pay attention to what's flying overhead, hanging out in the trees and splashing in my bird bath. Ever since my brother's passing, at different, significant points in my life (and just plain ol' every days) I often see a hawk or golden eagle flying overhead (close enough for me, with all my bird knowledge, to be able to tell it's not a duck, pigeon, crow or chicken).

These birds are my reminder of Wes. He was congratulating me on the births of my sons, on my marriage. Other times reminding me to slow down, take a deep breath, or be thankful.

FOLLOW UP NOTE:
The Saturday after I wrote the above blog, I was sitting in my father's living room with son No. 2, chatting with Kim. A bird landed outside about 10 feet from the door. His landing caught my eye because he was huge and stunning - it was a hawk. He stood there for a moment eyeing us and then took off.

Kim and I both held our breath because it looked like he was going to smack into the second story windows of their living room which has a vaulted ceiling - but he didn't. He soared straight up so quickly and gracefully - it was a beautiful sight to behold. I whispered to son No. 2, who sat on my lap, to wave hello to his uncle Wes.

Morning Run

I have quite a few memories of Wes. I wanted to share this one first.
In highschool, on a whim I wanted to start running every morning before school. On the first morning I decided to do this I got up early, before the sun and put on my running shoes. Wes was waiting outside. He had driven to my house so he could run with me- not that he wanted to start running- it was that he didn’t want me running alone.
I can’t express how special that mad me feel and at the time probably didn’t realize how wonderful of an act it actually was. This was our only early morning run together. I guess the whim for me was rather fleeting- but I do know that if I wanted to get up and run that next morning, Wes would have been there waiting. Wes was very caring and kind.
In the movie American Me, there is a part when the women is speaking about the main character and she says- "you are like two people". This described Wes. He was like two people. He was the boy that would run with me in the early hours of the morning so I didn’t run alone- but he was also the boy who would smash his fist through a window if something angered him. I believe he never actually knew how to be one or the other, although he tried. This was a constant inner battle and this battle created more of the anger and frustration that hindered the boy that ran with me that morning from shining.
And now the tears begin to flow.
And I wish I could have done more- even when I am told over and over that it wouldn’t have mattered it is a feeling, a thought I can not shake. Even after all these years.

Burning Down the House

My parents had gone to the grocery store together and I was home with Wes - probably because I'm grounded - that was pretty much my life ages 12 - 18. On the other hand, I don't think Weston was EVER grounded. And, this was not because he was an angel. He was either a faster talker than me or it was an ineffective punishment for him, or who knows? Not that I'm bitter... No, really I'm not. Just because I'm still complaining about it 22 years later... Anyway, I'm really not sure how old we are - but would guess 15 and 8.

I'm sitting in my room playing "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears, and knowing that in fact I did rule... hanging out, reading a book, curling my hair, drawing hearts around boy-of-the-month's name, whatever it was I used to do (certainly not homework...) and then I spy the faintest hint of smoke curling up through the vent. Hmmm... bummer... like, that can't be good.

I sashay down to the kitchen - nothing. Grab a drink and a snack, turn on the TV and amble downstairs to the basement - nothing. But then I venture to the "unfinished" portion of the basement where the water heater and my dad's workshop is located. The door is closed. I open the door to dancing yellow flames and billows of charcoal smoke.

This awakens me from "I don't care" teenage land, I close the door and sprint up the stairs bumping into Wes who has just dashed in through the front door with the neighbor, both armed with fire extinguishers. The neighbor scampers downstairs to the fire and I call 911 and the grocery store to alert my parents to what Weston did - this time. Oh, my, gawd, can you believe this kid? Ruining my perfect afternoon. Yea, but what a great excuse for not getting my homeword done! Score.

After answering the page at the store, my father proceeds to leave my mother at the grocery store and drive home. Accident? I think not. In the meantime, the local fire engine, ambulance, police and water rescue have arrived on our doorstep. (Water rescue?? I know, I too was confused.)

It turns out Wes had been prepping decoys for hunting and was melting something with matches and somehow hunting clothes and gear caught fire. After receiving no response to his hollers (apparently I was rocking out) he wisely went to the neighbor for help.

Thankfully we all survived - mostly smoke damage to the basement and the neighbor's lungs, another grounding for me and an atta-boy for Wes for his quick thinking which mitigated the fire damage. Yes, I know, bitter, bitter.

Welcome

I am finding it difficult to start this blog. Where to begin? What to say? Frankly, I'm a little nervous as I know when the memories start flowing, so will the tears. But it was my idea and unfair to expect others to contribute if I'm not brave enough to do it myself.

So here we go...Weston would be 31 this year. It's been almost 11 years since his passing. Every time I reminisce with family, friends, or alone, I realize how little I knew my brother. We had seven years between us. We didn't share friends or activities. Mostly we just shared parents, a house, most dinners and the occasional fight for 11 years. Then I was gone to South Africa, Durango, Alaska and Rhode Island for the next nine years and our communication lessened even more. Mostly my parents would update us on the whereabouts and activities of the other.

Now I realize how I took for granted that my family would always be there. I was very self-absorbed and caught up in my adventures and life. I figured they'd be waiting for me when I got home and chose again to spend time with them. If only that were the case.

When Weston went to college in Santa Rosa, we began to write a bit more. If only e-mail had been as mainstream then as it is today, I think we would've been able to bring our lives back together.

I would send Wes things at school that I thought would interest him - magazines, books, CDs, etc., but I fear I didn't know him well enough to get him the right things. Although I do know the steaks I sent him were a slam dunk - he was always a big meat eater. Hopefully the gestures were enough for him to know I was thinking of him.