My earliest memory of Philip is when he was very young - perhaps three years old - and he had pneumonia. I was 6 - and every afternoon I would sit with him and wipe his forehead. I was so afraid he was going to die. A year later, when he was healthy and full of energy, I remember that he would run inside - while we were outside playing - wash his hands to get rid of the germs and then run back out to resume the game. I thought he was insane.
There were times as a child when I wanted to kill him. Once he broke my favorite toy rifle - I was a big cowboy fan in my youth and still prefer cowboy boots to any other type of shoes - and when I told him how angry it made me he just shrugged and gave me his sweet smile. He got a lot of grace with that smile. So I punched him - punched him right in his sweet smile - and he was shocked. Me, too. Another time, many years later when he was in 8th grade, he snuck out of the house wearing one of my favorite "hippie" shirts. I'd forbidden him to wear it but... so what, right? So when I saw him slinking across the front lawn (I just happened to step out onto the front porch before school) I shouted at him - and when he started to run away I chased him and chased him until I finally tackled him on our enormous front lawn and stripped him of the shirt shouting, "Can't I ever trust you, man?" Ah, the joys of brotherhood, yes? (Let's just say the line between physical violence and love was blurred in the good ole days, ok?)
He used to accompany me and my high school rock band sometimes - and I loved his company. And later, when I was in college, I used to hang with him and came to see him as very creative and loving. We would go to wildass movies together - midnight shows - and just be totally wild and crazy tooling around listening to the Stones at 3 in the morning. I came to love him more and more and more.
For a time we grew apart: I was an earnest young radical and he was a stoner. He once turned my mother on to pot (and she swore him to NEVER tell my father!) Then we grew close again and lived and worked together in Cesar Chavez's United Farm Workers union in St. Louis - and shared a common vision. And when I moved to San Francisco and started a young family, he came to visit often. Eventually he went to New College - a place I thought was a modern Sodom and Gomorrah - and we drifted apart again. I went to his first wedding but thought it was so decadent that I barely got out with my life.
Then his marriage fell apart - and he wound up on my doorstep in Cleveland. He went through his own shit and we grew closer and closer. He was one of the few people who wasn't judgmental when my own marriage gave up the ghost. He embraced me and wanted to know how I was really doing. He listened - he is a an excellent listener. And since that time we've grown closer and closer.
When our mom died about seven years ago, he told a story at her funeral that stunned me. He had never told anyone else and it blew me away. Sometimes, when he was about 8 he would wake up and not be able to get back to sleep. So he and my mom would make french fries together and sit up and watch late night TV. Then, he would give her a kiss and go back to a deep sleep. His relationship with my mom was very different from mine and when he told this story it not only opened my eyes to his deep affection for this very wounded woman, but also gave me some insight into her love, too.
We've sung rock and roll together in our St. Louis apartment at all hours of the morning - danced to "Fiddler on the Roof" - gotten stone cold drunk at the Saloon in North Beach (and I mean Dylan Thomas drunk) - been on the picket line in the bitter cold - celebrated his marriage to Julie on a sweet August day in San Francisco - wept over our sins and mistakes - taken him to a Mothers of Invention concert in Central Park - learned about poetry from him (he is a genius) - and tried to understand how to be brothers in a wonderful albeit totally fucked up family together. He has changed my life and opened my heart and forgiven my failings time and again.
And I have been blessed by being a part of his life so I pray joy and happiness to him on this birthday. Who knows how many more we will be able to share, right? When I turned 40 - and began a process that ended my marriage - he called me and asked, "What did you do today, oh my brother?" And I smiled and said, "Bought a CD of 'Disraeli Gears,' man - and listened to Wilson Picket." He laughed so hard we both cried.
I love you, man. Happy birthday.
2 comments:
Blessings on you both, man.
That's a powerful bond that you have described between you two.
Band of two brothers - through the highs and lows you have stuck it out - pretty amazing treasure.
Blessings to you both.
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