Butchblog

I’ve never completely understood my younger brother, Paul, even though I feel closer to him than anybody else in the world, excepting my wife and daughters. Paul and I shared a small bedroom for 16 years and never fought, as brothers often do, but we didn’t talk much either. We had a mostly comfortable silence all those years. We still do. Though every other week or so, one of us will call the other and we’ll chat for 20 minutes or so about mostly inconsequential things—the weather, movies, how the Phillies are doing.   

When I recently recovered from a long-term illness, knowing that I was a surfer, Paul sent me a waterproof watch with a note that said, “I thought you might like this.” No mention of the illness.

            Okay, here’s the thing. My brother, like most of our family, has learned to keep his feelings well disguised. Paul, though, has taken this family trait (failing?) to an extreme level. He’s single, always has been, and lives in a modest house in a retirement community in New Jersey. Nothing ever happens there, which is why Paul likes it. As far as I know, he’s never had a long-term relationship—or even a short one. I think he must have had opportunities. He’s a nice enough looking fellow, tall with close-cropped gray hair, and a friendly manner. Paul hasn’t travelled very far from home, and since retirement from a job of 30 years as a 4th grade teacher, has been a caretaker, first for my mother, and after her death, for my older sister. To say he is not ambitious would be an understatement, but not a criticism. He does keep a lovely flower garden at his home, which he tends to with great care, and walks 2 miles every day along the same route.

            I believe Paul simply decided many years ago (He was of this bent even when we were still kids.) that life would be easier for him if he stayed largely hidden. It seems to work for him, though I worry that his withdrawal from the world masks a much deeper pain. But we don’t speak of this.

            Another thing about Paul (and my sister also) is that he refuses to take part in any sort of new technology—doesn’t own a smart phone or computer and watches television only on broadcast channels. In a way, I envy him for this. It probably keeps life simpler, less conflicted. Of course, in other ways, being a Luddite can make interactions with the larger world more difficult. “How do you even make travel plans?” I ask him. “I don’t,” he tells me. “I’m not going anywhere.” I can only smile at these conversations, though also aware that it means there’s no way I’ll see my siblings on the other coast, unless I’m the one who does the traveling. And now it’s been 5 years since I’ve seen them in person. I’ll go again this summer. We’re all getting older, my sister approaching 85. I don’t know how many more chances we’ll have to be together. And I accept my blame in this. I’m the black-sheep family member who left the East Coast nest, and moved 3000 miles away to the left-hand side of the country. I’m glad I did, happy where I’ve ended up. But I do sorely miss my family, especially my brother Paul.