“……my brudder, Bill.”
It was a phrase I heard often from my grandfather while I was growing up. He often recounted memories of he and his brother getting into trouble together, or just your typical brotherly tryst. Thinking back now, I would like to think that perhaps the fondness my brother, Jimmy, and I had for each other somehow sparked my grandfather’s stories.
Maybe?
Then again, maybe not.
My great-uncle Bill passed away when he was only 60 years old. He left behind a wife, three adult children, and three grandchildren. So, by the time I was born and old enough to hear one of Grandpa’s “Brudder, Bill” stories, it had been more than 20 years since Bill had passed.
And my Grandpa missed him greatly.
My Grandpa and my brother share a name—Jimmy! Some of my cousins refer to Grandpa as “Grandpa Jim,” but to me, he is and will always be just Grandpa.
I only knew one of my grandfathers. My maternal grandfather, Alex, passed away before I was born. While I think of him often and treasure the many heirlooms of his that were passed down to me, my “Grandpa” will always be Jim Vinton.
During his life, Grandpa suffered a severe head injury that left him deaf in one ear and, for a short time, with blurred vision, crossed eyes, and a temporary lazy eye. Needless to say, by the time I came along in life, Grandpa mumbled a bit—something I believe was due, at least in part, to his deafness.
When he began one of those stories that you could almost tell was coming your way—perhaps a life lesson or even a funny memory—they typically began with:
“You know, my brudder, Bill and I…”
My family has an interesting dynamic, though. Think 1930s Depression, a small town, big families, and farms whose properties butted up against each other.
And this was bound to happen.
My Grandpa, Jim, married a woman—my Grandma, Martha Miles. It just so happened that his brudder, Bill, married my Grandma’s sister, Ethel Miles.
From the stories I’ve heard throughout the years, the four of them were thick as thieves. They raised their children together, vacationed together, and grew together.
In my grief, I’ve reflected a lot on my grandparents—both sets of them. We didn’t get a whole lot of time together. All of my grandparents were born in the early teens of the 1900s, and by 1983, they were all entering their Golden Ages.
One day, it hit me.
As I thought about the phrase I now love so much in remembering Grandpa—“my brudder, Bill”—I realized something:
I miss my brother as much as he missed his.
When my brother passed at the age of 39, it physically hurt my heart and my head to comprehend that I might possibly live longer without him than I had with him.
Even to type those words makes my heart crush.
As I was thinking about how I wanted to word this letter, it also struck me that my Grandma had to navigate some really tough roads when Bill passed.
Not only did her husband lose a brother, but her sister lost a husband.
I can only wonder what life might have been like for her during that time. It couldn’t have been easy. She was a pretty tough cookie, but even something as devastating as this had to have been straining.
However, what I’ve only recently realized, as my family and I approach the sixth anniversary of my brother’s passing, is that Grandpa had been showing me all along how to grieve.
Through laughter.
Through shared stories.
Through those life-lesson stories.
And through love.
He loved his brudder, Bill. He never forgot him. He never let him fade away with time. He brought Bill with him.
Both of my loving grandparents were the last of their siblings to pass. I can only imagine what that moment was like when they were all reunited again.
Grandpa being the last, in 2006.
I miss him, too.
In my darkest moments of grief, when the sadness was overwhelming and my mind couldn’t take anymore, I dreamt of my Grandpa.
In this dream, we walked past each other, only me recognizing him. As I turned to follow him, he got onto an escalator.
As we were going up together, I tried desperately to get his attention, saying things like, “Grandpa, is that really you?” and “Do you remember me?”
After what felt like minutes of me trying to get any kind of reaction, I simply relented and said,
“Well, can I at least have a hug before you go?”
He turned around.
I saw his face.
And he gave me a hug that I will never forget.
Maybe that was Grandpa’s way of reminding me that I already knew how to do this.
Maybe he had been showing me all along.
Maybe grief is not about letting someone fade away.
Maybe it’s about bringing them with you.
I’d like to dedicate this blog to my beautiful Vinton family.
