Tim

My brother Tim was an angry kid. He had good reason to be. His Leukemia was in remission at the time of this story but the memories of chemotherapy where still heavy on his thirteen year old mind.

A friend of Grandpa’s, Vergil, had a couple of acres of land down by the Cowlitz river. This was before Mt. St. Helens erupted so you could still run boats in it. Vergil allowed Grandpa to plant a garden on his property and raise cows for many years. Grandpa’s daily routine started early. He would drive over to Vergil’s, water the garden, take care of the cow, and stop by “the office”.

The Office was a little tavern on South Main. He had a drinking problem when he was younger but I had only seen him drink a beer rarely. He just liked going to have coffee with the old men.

Tim was spending a week at our house during the summer. He usually lived with my mom, and sometimes with my dad. Sometimes he lived at the boys ranch or juvenile hall.

I was about eight at the time. I was excited to have him there. I didn’t get to see my brothers very much. They usually lived in other places.

Grandpa was going to take us to the garden to help him pull weeds. We got up early and Grandma made us a big country breakfast. It was quickly devoured. She handed us packed lunches on our way out the door.

We piled into the front seat of Grandpa’s 72 Chevy pickup. It rumbled to life energizing the AM radio. The speakers crackled out some old country song and we were off to work.

We drove down the gravel road along the barbed wire fence where our steer was. Tim looked over at me and said, “You know they cut their balls off.”

Grandpa slid to a stop suddenly. “You don’t say that word,” he spoke in a deep voice.

“What word, Balls?” Tim asked.

Now Grandpa and Grandma were very conservative. You don’t drink, (at least not around Grandma) you don’t talk about sex, and you don’t use vulgar language. In fact I think that was my introduction to this use of the word. “Yes, That word,” Grandpa said in his thick North Carolina accent.

“What’s wrong with Balls?”

“That’s a bad way to talk around your little brother.”

Tim grabbed the door handle and shouted, “Balls, Balls, Balls!!” He stormed out of the truck and slammed the door. Tim had a short fuse. We eventually got him calmed down but that was him, angry.

Tim died when he was fifteen. Doesn’t seem fair. Now why would God put a child through so much and not give them the chance to really live? Maybe God doesn’t see it like we do. To God all souls are eternal so nothing really dies, it just changes. We are always with God.

One thing that has helped me understand is a belief that we have a hand in the planning of our lives. We live, die, and make a plan to come back in another form. I think normally humans become new humans. But with God you can’t rule anything out.

After Tim died Grandma thought of him a lot. It kept her up some nights. She tossed and turned late one evening until at three in the morning she gave up and went to the kitchen. She sat down on the living room couch with a fresh cup of coffee she had just made. She sat and missed Tim.

A brass music box in the shape of a wishing well sat in the window sill of the front room. Tim had given it to Grandma as a Christmas present. She sat in silence sipping her coffee when the tune of Country Roads started to play. The brass music box played the hole tune as if it had just been wound. She knew it was Tim letting her know that he was okay.

Don’t let grief rule your life. There is a time to grieve but it must end in due time. You have work to do on this Earth, and the light is with you always.