On attending my brother's memorial service
This wasn't supposed to happen this soon. Yes, my brother Steve had health problems for years. Nothing indicated that he was so close to the time of his passing. There were no messages or warnings. We were caught off-guard.
I have spent considerable time weighing the impact. There is so much information and emotional baggage to weigh. I have found few answers, only more questions. I won't detail those here. The only certainty I have reached is this: Steve's death affects me most because he was of my generation, the first family member of the younger set to pass away. That brings the reality of mortality that much closer.
I wrote in one of my novels of a man explaining why he made death such a major factor in his writing. (There is nothing autobiographical in this, by the way.) His point was that most death doesn't affect us much. We read or hear about deaths of many people by many means, but those deaths don't hurt us because we don't know.these people. The stakes are raised and we are torn up inside when someone close to us dies. Death takes a prominent position when that happens. Most people shy away from that fact because death isn't a welcome subject.
How do I celebrate Steve's life? Steve would love to be remembered by one photograph. He is a trim, young pilot standing next to his F-4 Phantom fighter jet during the early days of his military career. That is the image he wants frozen in time. I have what I refer to as a quintessential image for everyone close to me. It is a moment in time which I connect to that person. I can't reach that point with Steve. Yes, he's the young pilot, but he's a man of 10,000 emotional pieces, and I can't isolate one as that quintessential image. That is the root of my problem in coming to grips with this reality of death. What part of this complex brother do I embrace as memory?
The military realizes that men such as Steve savor their time of service. The memorial service on May 18 at Fort Logan National Cemetery was dignified and touching. The honor guard of the U.S. Air Force was pinpoint perfect in saluting Steve's service. They never uttered a word, but they didn't have to. They made their feelings known with a flag ceremony, the firing of a salute and the playing of Taps. They rang a bell to mark the passing of another warrior who served his nation with distinction. It was the best sendoff I could imagine for Steve. He was once again that young pilot hailed as the elite.
Steve and I didn't talk much in those latter days of his life. The last message I received from him, months before his passing, said simply, "Bol Bol quacks!" Deb and I stopped to see him in Denver in early October. I never received a phone call or text from him after that. I didn't feel excluded because all his family members were excluded. He didn't allow anyone to see that he was nearing the end, and the pilot was ready to go home.
I honor my brother's service. I honor his achievements. I honor his ability to set a goal and strive for it with steely resolve. I keep those memories fresh. I wish we had more time together, more messages traded, more Oregon sports stories swapped. It didn't happen, and that's life.
Steve, rest in peace. I will try to do the same.
I have spent considerable time weighing the impact. There is so much information and emotional baggage to weigh. I have found few answers, only more questions. I won't detail those here. The only certainty I have reached is this: Steve's death affects me most because he was of my generation, the first family member of the younger set to pass away. That brings the reality of mortality that much closer.
I wrote in one of my novels of a man explaining why he made death such a major factor in his writing. (There is nothing autobiographical in this, by the way.) His point was that most death doesn't affect us much. We read or hear about deaths of many people by many means, but those deaths don't hurt us because we don't know.these people. The stakes are raised and we are torn up inside when someone close to us dies. Death takes a prominent position when that happens. Most people shy away from that fact because death isn't a welcome subject.
How do I celebrate Steve's life? Steve would love to be remembered by one photograph. He is a trim, young pilot standing next to his F-4 Phantom fighter jet during the early days of his military career. That is the image he wants frozen in time. I have what I refer to as a quintessential image for everyone close to me. It is a moment in time which I connect to that person. I can't reach that point with Steve. Yes, he's the young pilot, but he's a man of 10,000 emotional pieces, and I can't isolate one as that quintessential image. That is the root of my problem in coming to grips with this reality of death. What part of this complex brother do I embrace as memory?
The military realizes that men such as Steve savor their time of service. The memorial service on May 18 at Fort Logan National Cemetery was dignified and touching. The honor guard of the U.S. Air Force was pinpoint perfect in saluting Steve's service. They never uttered a word, but they didn't have to. They made their feelings known with a flag ceremony, the firing of a salute and the playing of Taps. They rang a bell to mark the passing of another warrior who served his nation with distinction. It was the best sendoff I could imagine for Steve. He was once again that young pilot hailed as the elite.
Steve and I didn't talk much in those latter days of his life. The last message I received from him, months before his passing, said simply, "Bol Bol quacks!" Deb and I stopped to see him in Denver in early October. I never received a phone call or text from him after that. I didn't feel excluded because all his family members were excluded. He didn't allow anyone to see that he was nearing the end, and the pilot was ready to go home.
I honor my brother's service. I honor his achievements. I honor his ability to set a goal and strive for it with steely resolve. I keep those memories fresh. I wish we had more time together, more messages traded, more Oregon sports stories swapped. It didn't happen, and that's life.
Steve, rest in peace. I will try to do the same.
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