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TERRANCE ALLEN BROWN 8/27/1939 – 7/11/2005 a biographical work in progress, begun by Linda L. Anderson A WORD OF EXPLANATION: This biography is intended to be a work in progress. We, Kishore Thampy and Linda Anderson, encourage friends, family, students, colleagues and others who would like to write about their relationships with and memories of Terry to do so and send the information to lindalanderson@MSN.com or kishore@thampy.com. We will include as many as possible on the website, and hope, in time, to put together a volume of some sort in which everyone’s recollections can be shared. I have written about Terry’s life and some family memories. Please feel free to add to these or, if I do not have the story quite right, add your own version of the story. Thank you. LINDA’S STORY INTRODUCTION: Even today, I still secretly long for a phone call telling me that Terry is not gone forever, but merely on an extended trip. I hope to find one of his humorous email messages waiting for me. Sometimes I can still hear the timbre of his voice uttering a bit of poetry. I imagine feeling the soft smoothness of the palms of his hands or see him walking ahead of me as he did the last day I saw him, going to get on a plane, after a family gathering for our uncle. Terry, 17 years my senior, was a daunting and diverse role model. He introduced me to poetry, serious literature, foreign language, classical music, opera, ballet and visions of the world beyond the tiny Wyoming town where I grew up. He will be remembered and missed for many things. Terry accomplished more in one lifetime than two or three other people might, acting, dancing, medical research in physics, psychiatrist, teacher, translator, living and studying abroad, traveling, writing, composing dramaturgy for two ballets, owning a farm, creating a wildlife refuge and arboretum, and climbing mountains, to name a few. He had a stunning intellect. Terry was a Renaissance man of the 20th century, teeming with an infectious joie de vivre visible in his humor, seemingly tireless energy and the recollections of friends and family about time spent together over a glass of wine, sumptuous meal or hour of scintillating conversation. Terry had a phenomenal memory and extraordinary attention to detail that he could recall at will in executing his many interests and talents. He once remarked to brother, Tom, “I wish I could do one thing and do it well. But I can do anything and do it well.” This comment was Terry’s way of expressing his own surprise at his abilities, and frustration with so much to do and so little time. Our sister, Kay, has remarked of his warmth and charm that he had an uncanny ability to make each person feel as if he or she was the person he most especially wanted to spend time with. Kishore, Terry’s longtime friend and companion, observed that Terry was an enigma, having a multiplicity of life styles within one life. It is perhaps these two traits that so endeared Terry to the many people who knew him well. They were facets in his life that seemed to be apparent at an early age, and continued to be refined and polished with time. The following is my version of his story, and some reflections of my own. ANCESTRY AND A BRIEF FAMILY TREE Terry was my half brother, though I’ve never thought of any of my siblings as other than my brothers and sister. Terry’s parents, Mary B. Hill and Loring Brown were both from pioneer families who had migrated west to homestead. His maternal ancestors were Scotch-Irish who settled in North Carolina, fought in the American Revolutionary War, both sides of the Civil War, and included the statesman and politician, Adlai Stevenson among their family tree. William Moore Hill, our maternal grandfather, shared Terry’s professional training; having been educated as a doctor in North Carolina. He moved to Wyoming for a dryer climate, following recovery from Scarlet Fever, homesteading near Laramie Peak, and carrying mail to neighboring ranches. Our maternal grandmother’s, Ida Parker, family also ranched and ran a saw mill, called the Barn Castle, located at the base of Laramie Peak in southeastern Wyoming. They were musicians and lovers of music, as was Terry, crafting their own instruments, including several violins, which still exist as heirlooms. Our mother was the third child and daughter of seven from the union of William and Ida. She was a county beauty queen, loved reading, fishing, cooking, growing flowers, and ran the small Cora general store and post office whose motto was “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.” Terry credited her for instilling in him his love of literature and the English language. Terry’s father’s family came over on the Mayflower. They got their surname from a sea captain on the Great Lakes, who took in a young traveler, giving him home, work and his name. The youth later married La Disa, an Algonquin woman from Canada, whose name was passed down to each generation for more than a hundred years. Terry’s grandparents owned a restaurant in Fort Laramie, Wyoming and later a boarding house in Sunrise, Terry’s birthplace. Grandma Bessie raised eight of twelve children, losing four during infancy. She could make a banquet from four shriveled potatoes and a few over-ripe bananas (another of Terry’s talents), and was never idle. When she passed away, at almost ninety, she was known as the ‘galloping grandma’ due to her love of travel, a trait, which Terry also shared. His paternal grandpa, Frank, was known for his wit, charm and ability to tell stories (all abilities Terry processed) and is remembered as once having said to his wife, “Aw, hell Bessie, ya gotta make it a good story?” Terry’s father was a quiet man who worked on ranches and in the iron mines. He died tragically when Terry was eleven. His loss affected Terry deeply. Terry had a keen interest in his family history and its preservation, though he once quipped to the writer in his inimitable manner, “Linda, we’re probably all descended from horse thieves!” (insert homestead, grand parent pictures) THE EARLY YEARS Terry was born at home, in a rather shabby clapboard mining company house, on a hot dusty, tumbleweed-strewn day in August 1939, in Sunrise, Wyoming. The town itself, an iron-mining village, now abandoned and largely ploughed under, is of no particular note except for being a true melting pot of cultures, where people lived together in relative poverty. Many of the cramped houses were without indoor plumbing and the streets were paved with cinders left from the mining operations. Some years ago, as an adult, Terry traveled back there with siblings Kay and Tom. I am told that Terry remarked, tongue in cheek, “Well, if they had known I would be famous, maybe they wouldn’t have bulldozed the house where I was born!” Mom often remarked that an early hallmark of Terry’s intellect was his acquisition of language. One day, when he was a toddler, not yet two, she was helping her two small sons pick up their toys, and said to them, “It’s your responsibility.” A short while later she overheard Terry say to his brother, “It’s our responserebility.” (insert early pics, picture with parents) Tom, our older brother, is a retired coach and teacher, but in his earlier years was a rodeo cowboy and set records in the two-mile run. However, he recollects that Terry was the tough and feisty one. The story goes something like this: “Terry was a wiry kid who always went barefoot, had thick glasses and usually wore bib overalls. He was actually an excellent athlete, but hampered by his poor eyesight. The kids would tease him about his glasses as kids often do, but Terry had his own way of shutting them up. He would stand quietly, hands dug deeply into his overall pockets, his bare toe drawing a line in the dirt. Then, during the footrace with the other kids, often bigger, older and wearing shoes, he would run barefooted down the cinder paved streets and beat them.” He was also fearless when it came to horseback riding, preferring to travel bareback, even after the family could afford a saddle. “Our dad worked on Chet Hazelwood’s ranch. We boys began to go with him at about eight and nine years-old to help with the horses. Terry would ride the green broke colts first that I was afraid to get on.” Kay was born when Terry was five. The two boys began elementary school in Sunrise and neighboring Guernsey. Before Kay started school, the family moved to Wheatland, an agricultural town in east-central Wyoming some 36 miles away. (insert early school pictures) After Terry’s father died, our mother, Mary, returned to work at the Platte County Clerk’s office. She remarried just over a year later, and the family went to live on their stepfather, Keith’s, farm outside town. Keith raised sheep, mint and wheat as his major cash crops, but also sold extra vegetables from the family garden to help support them. All the kids helped with chores. One particular day Tom and Terry had been sent to gather tomatoes to go to market, but being typical teenagers, a tomato fight soon broke out. Keith decided that they should be punished and grabbed hold of Tom. Terry would have none of that, and showing another sign of his ability to speak out, shouted, “Kick the son of a bitch, Tom!” Meanwhile, Kay helped her step-grandma, Bernice, inside the house, while her mother worked in town. Now herself an accomplished cook, Kay recalls it was Terry who first helped her learn to bake. He was rewarded for his brotherly assistance and domestic skill by bouts of teasing from Tom and my dad. However, never one to let others get the best of him; he had his own brand of revenge. One especially hot, dry afternoon, the two men came in very thirsty to find a large pitcher of Kool-aid waiting in the refrigerator. When they began to gulp it down, anticipating its cool sweetness, they found it had been flavored with salt and vinegar! (insert pictures Keith, Bernice) The new family sold the farm and moved to Rawlins, a railroad town located along I-80 in the Red Desert, the summer before Terry’s junior year of High School, 1955. Keith returned to the sheet metal trade there that he had acquired in the Navy, during the war, hoping it would prove more prosperous than agriculture. Terry played trombone and was the drum major in the marching band. A year later, he was elected student body president, served on the student council, and graduated valedictorian. (insert sr. picture, cheer picture) Terry often referred to Rawlins as ‘the armpit of the world’. It is a desolate, windblown and rather run down berg that sprawls alongside the train tracks. It is there where I was born. Well, I suppose and hope, if you emerge from a pit of any sort, there’s always hope of improvement! By some accounts I was not unlike the chubby cherub in the nursery rhyme, ‘There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead…’, though Terry’s comment was, “Hmmpf, looks like Winston Churchill with black hair!” I am told, however, that Terry would come home for lunch during his senior year in high school, after my birth, and dance with me. He called me ‘baby sister or ‘bug’, terms of affection he continued to use with and for me until he died. Bug became a family diminutive, added to the names of many small children after me (i.e. Ninabug). Probably needless to say, these moments, even before I can remember, began a fundamental relationship in my life. COLLEGE YEARS Terry moved to Denver, Colorado to study acting and dance at Denver University, the fall of 1957. He lived with our Uncle John. Terry had a great fondness for Uncle John and appreciated his influence in some of Terry’s life decisions. While a drama student, Terry was immortalized on canvas by a Denver artist who saw his performance as the lead in Shakespeare’s ‘Richard III’. Terry credited James Dean as a role model and influence on his work in theatre. He was also accomplished in dance, and invited to a special summer session in Colorado Springs to study dance with Hanya Holm. During this time, our family again relocated, this time west and north to the town of Pinedale, situated at an elevation of more than 7,200 feet, nestled along the spine of the Wind River Mountains. My parents went into the tourism business, running a wilderness camp spring, summer and fall that was located at the head of Fremont Lake, and could only be reached by boat or horseback. Terry worked for them during summer breaks from college, continuing to develop his talents in the kitchen, and his love of and skills in the outdoors. His sourdough pancakes became renowned. He served as camp cook on overnight trips from the base camp. Tom said that Terry would take off hiking, carrying all the cooking gear and supplies necessary to make the first evening meal. The others would travel on horseback, yet Terry would not only beat the group to the campsite, but often had dinner ready by the time they arrived. Terry had long expressed a desire to study medicine, but despaired tolerating the long hours of study, due to his extremely poor vision. However, he took pre-med classes along with acting and dance. He met Wendy Recant at a night class in physics at D.U. during the summer of 1961. The course was a prerequisite to apply to medical school. Wendy, later Terry’s wife of 39 years, says of that time, “The professor was a real jerk! Nobody could understand anything he said. I told Terry I was applying to Washington University in St. Louis. My Aunt Lillian was on the faculty there. Terry said that he was thinking of applying there too. The following year, as first year med students, we were in the cadaver class together. Washington University has enough financial resources to have one cadaver for every two students. Neither Terry nor I had a partner. I thought he might team up with his roommate, but we decided to work together. The rest is history.” Wendy had grown up in Richmond, Virginia. Her family is Jewish, originally from New York City. Her father, a former rocket scientist with NASA, helped the United States successfully reach the moon. I have only a few flashes of memory before I was five. My clear reminiscences began after my family moved to Cora, a town of three, located ten miles west of Pinedale. The store and our attached house were log structures built in the 1880’s. We moved there just before my sixth birthday, about the time Terry entered medical school in St. Louis. He would come home during the summer or for an occasional holiday. To me, he was the family celebrity, and each visit was a festival for us all. When Terry visited, he would always make time to play with me. I can still picture him, eyes bugged out, lips protruding like a duck bill, shoulders hunched to his ears, arms out stiff and fingers splayed. He would chase after me, slowly weaving side to side, making monkey-like sounds that rumbled from inside. I screamed and giggled with little girl glee. He would let me win the chase, but I always taunted him, “More! More!” One summer, he played me records of opera in German, French and Italian, quizzing me about which language the singers used, and praising me for correct guesses. He made play dates for me with the daughter of the foreman of the road crew he worked on in Big Piney and hauled me back and forth with him. On the way, he told me the story from Mozart’s ‘Don Giovanni’ or sang ‘Summertime’ from Gershwin’s ‘Porgy and Bess’. When he returned to medical school that year, he left me the records and books that began my own love of music, art and literature. Not long after, when I was a first grader, I decided that I would leave Wyoming when I grew up. The decision struck me while I was sitting on the swings facing the Pinedale Bank building during recess. I think the taste of life beyond the Green River Valley that Terry had given me, was part of my inspiration. Later, our mutual decisions to leave Wyoming were a bond we shared. The Christmas I was eight, Terry visited. That year he wrapped my gift in white butcher paper and drew a picture of a tree and little mouse on it with magic marker. I was enamored with the package and eagerly anticipated its unveiling. Inside was a blue wool suit from France. It was my first elegant, semi-grown-up outfit. I wore it with pride for several years until I outgrew it, but still have it somewhere with my treasures. The following summer, Terry brought Wendy to Wyoming. I eagerly watched the ribbon of highway that slid over the sage-covered hills for their arrival. They came in Terry’s gray VW bug. I recall two special things about that visit: 1) getting to steer Terry’s car, and 2) playing with Wendy’s long, black hair. Mine had recently been “trimmed” by a beautician. I went in with hair to my waist and ended up with a haircut over my ears. I hated it! (insert pics) The summer I was nine years old, June 1966, my family went to St. Louis to see Terry and Wendy graduate from medical school and get married. Children are not much for long car trips, and I had severe seasonal allergies. However, Terry and Wendy soon ‘doctored me’, though the antihistamines left me very drowsy. St. Louis was the first big city I have a clear memory of. Terry and Wendy showed us many things, including nearby Hannibal, Missouri, hometown of Samuel Clemons, a.k.a. Mark Twain. I still treasure both the books “Tom Sawyer” and “Huck Finn” that we purchased there, the later a hardbound copy that Terry and Wendy gave me. Terry and Wendy married in the week after their graduation, in the garden of Wendy’s Aunt Lillian’s grand southern mansion. The house had a magical fascination for me, the interior bathed in shadows, with a grand staircase ascending from the parlor to the second floor. After the ceremony, we ate at a fancy restaurant, and I wore Wendy’s tiny Grandma Recant’s mink stole for a picture. At the reception and wedding dinner, Grandma Recant commented about Terry, “Well, he looks like a nice Jewish boy!” Terry and Wendy remained in St. Louis for another year . Terry had a post-graduate research fellowship in radiation physics; Wendy completed her internship. (insert graduation, wedding photos) SEATTLE AND UNCLE SAM It was the era of the Vietnam war, and making the scene on Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. Terry was drafted. He had not begun an internship due to his research position, and told Mom that he thought he might end up serving as an enlisted man, maybe even going to Vietnam. But the Navy decided otherwise, sending him to training so that he could work at the Induction Center in Seattle, Washington, performing physicals for others draftees. Terry did his duty for two years. In the meantime, Wendy completed her residency and began her career in pathology. Terry and Wendy fit in well with the Northwest, honing their gourmet cooking skills with a variety of fresh seafood readily available at the Pike Street Market and mushrooms they hunted themselves. They subscribed to the opera, ballet and symphony. Terry later completed his internship at Swedish Medical Center, following an honorable discharge from the Navy. When our family visited them in Seattle, I decided that I wanted to move there. Their first apartment was on Capital Hill, near Volunteer Park, overlooking the University of Washington. I was twelve, the age of surging hormones and bad attitude. Wendy made lovely food, which I couldn’t fully appreciate, since much of it was fish, which I don’t like. However, she also made lasagna, grinding four types of meat for the sauce. To date, it is the best I have ever had! The following year, we visited in the spring. Terry and Wendy had moved to a place overlooking the Ballard locks. It was the ‘Age of Aquarius’ and the rock musical ‘Hair’. I think I wore out their album during our week in Seattle. Terry took Mom and me to ‘the Ave’, the main street of the business district near the University of Washington. The Ave. was a haven for hippies and intellectuals. I loved it. I bought a leather hat and wild mini-dress that I later wore in Pinedale, shocking everyone! (insert navy photo, Christmas photo) OFF TO THE WINDY CITY I don’t know exactly what Terry would say about these chapters of his life, but his relocation to Chicago, decision to enter psychiatry and the events that followed professionally and personally made significant impacts in his life. In turn, in the years that followed, Terry also left his own marks. (insert Chicago pictures) In the summer of 1970, Wendy was hired by the Pathology Department of Michael Reece Hospital in Chicago, Illinois. The couple moved into a little coach house on Chicago’s south side. Terry began his residency in psychiatry at the Illinois State Psychiatric Institute. He also taught at the institute, beginning after his first year. He accepted an Associate Dean position in 1974, and later becoming the Dean of Students, when his predecessor passed away. (insert teaching photo) Terry met his friend and companion of the next 35 years, Kishore Thampy, in September 1971. Kishore’s family is originally from India, their last name denoting royal lineage. However, his mother, a single parent and schoolteacher in Nairobi Kenya, Africa, raised Kishore and his siblings on her own. Kishore left for college and medical school in Spain at age 17. He felt lonely and overwhelmed in his new home and the psychiatry program. He’s not sure, even now, what led him to Terry’s office that day, though he noted that Terry was a year ahead of him at the Institute and already considered a bit of a celebrity by some of the other students. He remembers now Terry’s kindness, saying their long relationship began when Terry simply asked if he’d like to join him for dinner. In the years to come, they had many adventures, and had hoped to hike and climb in every continent, a goal they were unable to realize. (insert travel photos) Terry and Wendy purchased a condo on Lakeshore Drive in 1980, in the building, on the same floor, where relative, Adlai Stevenson had once lived. They began a process of remodeling and redecorating, which continued until shortly before Terry’s death. Terry did some of the work and most of the planning himself. The space is replete with hardwood and tile floors, walls of rich colors, antiques or antique replicas and stunning artwork. Some of the sculptures were created by a family friend and respected artist, Tulio Vasquez. (insert condo pictures) Terry resided in Geneva for nearly a year in 1976, on a combined fellowship, studying with the renowned child psychologist and developmental theorist, the late Jean Piaget, and his assistant, the late Barbel Inhelder. Terry became fluent in French, later translating many of Piaget’s works to English. He once said in a speech to the Piaget Society, to which he belonged, was a board member, and president 1994-95, “I only wanted my students to read a few things that were unavailable in English.” Terry also wrote many papers, traveled and lectured in such places as Taiwan, China, Mexico and Canada. (See www.jeanpiagetsociety.com for a complete listing of his works.) In 1995, the Archives de Psychologie, presented Terry with a special award for his outstanding achievements in translating and disseminating Piaget’s work worldwide. Terry taught and practiced psychiatry at the University of Chicago in the late 1980’s. It was during this time that Terry met a young student, Andrew Kozakow, who became the son Terry never had. Andy showed up at the clinic where Terry worked. Soon Terry became Andy’s mentor. Terry was presented an award in 1989 from the University, for his teaching. Terry, Wendy and Kishore purchased a farm (198 acres) in Galena, Illinois in 1989. Galena is a historic town, site of the famous debate between Lincoln and Douglas in the 1800’s, located in a picturesque farming valley along the Galena River. Terry soon acquired some horses, several dogs and cats, rescued from the pound or found abandoned. Some lived at the farm, others in Chicago, and a select group traveled back and forth. Tenant farmers operated the farm when Terry and company took ownership, primarily growing corn. Eventually, the three new owners decided to only grow the crops they needed and to turn the area into a wildlife refuge and tree arboretum. This project is still evolving. The duck and wild bird pond was finished the summer of 2005 by Kishore, after Terry’s death, and dedicated on the day that would have been his 66th birthday. Kishore is now sole owner of the farm. (insert farm shots) Terry loved to travel and took several trips with Wendy or Kishore. He told stories about his climb to the base camp of Mt. Everest with Kishore in **, using his unique humorous, dramatic manner. The high atmosphere had little oxygen so Terry claimed would drag himself twenty five feet, then throw himself on the ground and hope he would miss landing in a pile of the plentiful yak dung. He also mentioned differences in the culture and customs, saying that privacy did not exist in Nepal, even for going to the toilet, which was an outdoor affair, that one hoped to find a little tall grass, tree or other cover for. (insert Everest shots) Wendy said that her favorite trip with Terry was in 1983 or 84 when they visited Paris. In 1988, they traveled to Turkey with forty friends from Geneva over the Easter week. Another time they visited Spain and Portugal. More recently, 2003, Terry and Wendy sailed with a group on a barge up the Rhone River in France to the Mediterranean. Terry was impressed with the scenery and history of the area, once a site of violent fighting between the Catholics and Protestants. When Kishore finished his law degree 2002, he and Terry traveled to Spain and Great Britain to do some hiking, climbing, and sight seeing in areas where Kishore had gone to medical school, and currently has family living. Kishore noted, with concern, how Terry’s health had failed. He had difficulty hiking at even 3,000 feet in the Lake District of Scotland. Terry’s many travels in Europe and time living there gave him opportunity to form many other friendships. One that changed his life, bringing him back to his earlier interests in the arts, was his friendship with Giorgio Mancini, Director of the Ballet in Florence. When Terry met Giorgio, also a former dancer, Giorgio was choreographer for the ballet in Geneva. They collaborated on two ballets: “Between Dusk and Dawn,” reminiscent of Klytamnestra’s soul searching before her execution. The work was based on the true story of two Egyptian sisters, Raya and Sekina, condemned for their crimes. The dance depicts Raya’s last night of life. The ballet premiered in Cairo, Egypt in April 2000. “Words No Longer Heard” premiered in Geneva in March 2002. The theme of this ballet is a passage from ‘Plato’s Banquet’ in which the Greek philosopher alludes to the separation of ancestral man’s round form into two halves who long to be reunited. The ballets were performed in such places as Switzerland, Spain, Egypt and China to critical acclaim. Terry traveled to many of the sights for premiers and performances. Terry declined a third collaboration for ‘Romeo and Juliet’. (insert program copies) Terry had several hobbies, which he enjoyed more as his life progressed. He loved cooking, was a wine connoisseur, did home repair and redecoration, and grew asparagus, tomatoes and habanera peppers in Galena, while working on other indoor and outdoor renovations. He continued traveling and maintained a somewhat smaller private psychiatric practice at his home office in Chicago. He didn’t go out so often to the opera, ballet or symphony, but did take singing lessons for a time, and still very much enjoyed music. He was still working on another translation of Piaget when he died (‘Children’s Journey to Discovery, which will be published posthumously). When our mother died, Terry suggested and helped create a video history and memorial of her life. The project was well received by family who expressed interest in documenting more family history on both sides of Terry’s family tree. Notable among memories of Terry are his love of animals, his appreciation for good food, wine and companionship. Some of our mutual cousins recount that Terry told his own version of ‘Fractured Fairytales’ before they became cartoons. They laugh about how Little Red Riding Hood shot the wolf and told God he was dead or his version of ‘Hey Diddle, Diddle’. “Hey Diddle, Diddle, the cat took a piddle, right in the middle of the room. The little dog yelled and said that it smelled, and the dish cleaned it up with a spoon!” Many comedic tales were shared last summer (2005) of Terry’s mishaps while canoeing in the Galena River that flows through his farm. “Forget the sandwiches, save the beer!” was a noted theme of many hapless victims. Andy mentioned a typical ‘Terryism’, “There are three essential things I life: wine, Mozart and chocolate!” He was also praised his excellent meals, cooked with enthusiasm and a favorite ‘cooking wine’. In fact, Terry and Wendy prepared my wedding banquet for over a hundred people! Terry had a biting wit. He said what he thought. Among his well known blasphemes are “People, people, people!”, “Preposterous!”, and “not worth a pinch of owl shit”. He is said to have often commented to his students that he was just a poor cowboy from Wyoming, by way of making a point to them. Terry demanded much of himself, though he was not afraid to note his own talents. Tom shared at the recent Wyoming memorial a memory of a time many years ago when he and Terry were driving alone to Jackson Hole. As their conversation went along, Terry commented, “I wish I could do one thing well.” A pause. “But I can do any damn thing I want, and do it well.” One quality that attests to Terry’s observation, and never ceased to amaze was his ability to improvise. The summer I was 28, I traveled to reunions in Wyoming, one with family and another with former high school cronies. I brought a friend and her two-year-old daughter. When we hiked to ‘Struggle up Springs’, aptly named as I recall, Terry used an old milk crate and bungee cords to create a baby back pack for my friend’s toddler. (Insert Michael’s picture, Terry with Bacon) My late teen and adult years in my relationship with Terry were punctuated by visits to Chicago or rendezvous in Wyoming . During my first trip to Chicago, Terry fed us escargot. Other times we picnicked at Ravenia while listening to Kathleen Battle in concert or watched fireworks on the breakers of Lake Michigan while drinking champagne. Terry and I shared a connection of spirit, though neither of us has practiced any specific religion. It is through our recent mutual losses and while discussing our process of grief in philosophical discourses about ‘what the hell it all means anyway’ that I came to know other parts of Terry. We cried and laughed together, giving each other tender words of support. I hope I offered Terry something as precious as the wisdom he offered me. Terry was a self-proclaimed agnostic, disavowing any notion of a god, yet he was not without a belief in some power that orders and connects our collective realities, and he wondered at the energy that is consciousness and the essence of life. Part of Terry’s heritage, through his father’s family, was Algonquin. I don’t know whether the legendary, Aunt La Disa, was from the tribe called Algonquin in Canada or one of the six Indian tribes referred to as Algonquin in the U.S. or a branch of the larger language group in the northeast and central United States. However, Terry had great respect for this, and it was perhaps this spiritual perspective that he gravitated towards. He once said to me, perhaps within the last year or two, “I now think that we live in order to die.” The context was not one of rational reductionism. It was his expression about the value of living a quality life, meaningful, rich, with intention and purpose. I think Terry came to understand his purpose before his death. Our mother’s death in December 2001 was difficult for Terry. After that he seemed weighed down by his loss with something more than mere grief. It was a weariness of spirit. His health was failing. It seems he may not have mentioned the full extent of his problems to anyone. After surgery on the arteries in his leg, Terry appeared to lose part of his vitality. Like many, perhaps he saw his future in old age as a narrowing path, leading inevitably toward a mysterious, eternal darkness. Unable to exercise at his former pace, he put on weight, which he hated, complaining about it with wit, sarcasm and quiet desperation. Then he developed foot problems, his blood pressure spiked and was impossible to control. His cholesterol was high, and he faced other family demons as he struggled at times with his own depression and anxiety. He would quote Betty Davis that ‘getting old ain’t for sissies’ or lines from the poem J. Alfred Prufrock, “I grow old, I grow old”, and grin, but those of us who knew him well saw him appearing steadily more tired. Sometime during the last two or three years, Terry revealed to me in a phone call that Uncle Johns was very ill, and might not be with us a lot longer. Then he said, “If what I am told is true, I might not have much longer than that either.” He never said more, and I didn’t ask. Now I sometimes wish I had, though Terry would probably not have answered. If he had told me everything, would that knowledge have changed anything; I don’t know. Terry was taken from us in an automobile accident on July 11, 2005, while driving to his farm in Galena. I feel separated by an invisible, impenetrable barrier of eternity, alternately accepting his death as part of life’s cycle, and railing against it because I feel short changed. For several weeks I was lost, wandering through a fog of my daily life, pretending I knew how to carry on, but aware of the ultimate ridiculousness of traffic jams, bank and grocery lines, and other such matters. Terry has again taken a step before me. If there is another side, where spirits dwell, then I hope Terry is there to greet me, when my own crossing comes. My greatest regret in our relationship was how little time I actually got to spend with him, not merely as his little sister, but as another adult. For that perhaps no one is to blame. We were separated by the time between our births, and later by distance, and a million obligations that filled our days. I also realize that my early years were spent just as they should have been, growing up, but I rue that I did not pay more attention along that part of our journeys that ran parallel. However, I think he knew how much I loved him. LINDA’S POST SCRIPT Like others weaving together the gap this loss has left in my life, I have considered the circumstances of Terry’s death, while trying to accept what I cannot change. I picture the valley in Northwestern Illinois, near Galena, where he had a farm. In summer it is an endless sea of green hills, covered with deciduous trees that stretch toward a mystical horizon of blue. I imagine a scene much like the one in Milan Kinder’s novel, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” in which the main character, a doctor, played by Daniel Day Lewis, and his wife die in a car accident. The screen version shows them driving down a placid, tree lined country lane into the mist until their truck enters the light. If what Terry last saw was that glorious valley, then I believe he died in peace, though he would have been saddened that his death involved another. Perhaps this too is like another story, “Five People You Meet in Heaven,” that that ultimate experience carried them both to whatever lies beyond life as we know it. Tonight my husband and I watched a film about World War II. I am not much for war films, too macabre, inevitable and sad. This one, however, unlike many was less about the gore and glory of battle, and more about the contemplation of whether war is useful. It reflected on the moments of loss and remembrance. One of its messages was about the certainty of death for us all; that it is only when and how that we have yet to know. In grief we are forced to live in slow motion, to experience each moment as we learn how to continue living. We notice what we usually overlook. Perhaps it is because absence leaves a space that needs to be filled. Death will claim from our company some people we love and eventually ourselves. Is it merely coincidence that both my mother and brother died near to the time of other worldly disasters; Mom shortly after 9-1-1, and Terry just before Hurricane Katrina. These are times that truly test the merit of our souls, and mark the era for history. For some, it is a period of helping others, banding together in our collective grief, rebuilding, and reflecting on what values steer our current course. Others deem such losses as a sign of an approaching Day of Judgment, and/or just retribution meted out against those who have dated follow a creed different than their own. Ultimately, some losses are more difficult to accept, though all of them change us. I believe I am not alone in lamenting that Terry left us too soon. Recently, Terry has appeared in my nocturnal world, speaking as he once did, and I have had moments of lucidity in my dreaming, when I reached out and held him, aware he is gone, but grateful I could be with him there, if not in my waking life. Though not completely alone, I am left without this man who was my brother, and his inimitable spirit. I am carrying on, as I know he would want me to. “Better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.” (Christina Rossetti). A year has passed. Fall slowly painted itself across the canvass of nature around me, followed by winter’s cold rain, springtime birds that awoke me, summer heat and a procession of flowers unveiling themselves in my garden. I see with my own eyes, but hold each day as more precious because I am observing and also remembering now for Terry, wherever he is. In closing, I will draw on two ideas that seem apropos, at least from my own perspective. The first is a quote by Joseph Campbell, in his series of lectures from ‘The Power of Myth’, from the lecture called ‘Tales of Love and Marriage’, in which he talks of death and loss. “Love is the burning point of life, and since all of life is sorrowful, so is love. The stronger the love, the more the pain.” The second is an idea from Oscar Wilde, well-known writer of the nineteenth century. It is something that Terry quoted himself from time to time, “The best revenge is a life well lived.” In Chicago and Galena, after Terry’s death, the sentiments shared were of a man whose own joy of living was communicated to and shared by others, of someone who gave hope and shared of himself, who was an honored colleague, respected friend, outstanding professional and who had great love for people, creatures and the earth around him. There is no revenge here, but we are poorer indeed from his absence, yet richer for having been witness to such a life well lived. A LAST TRIBUTE One thing that Terry and I talked of was our many household renovations. We didn’t get to visit each other’s updated kitchens during Terry’s lifetime, though I saw his, when I traveled to Chicago shortly after he died. The following is a poem I wrote and dedicate to his memory. TERRY’S KITCHEN by Linda L. Anderson Opaque panes filter the light, falling as water each morning, before the heat and clatter outside have time to pierce the tranquility within. The space yawns, waiting in its golden splendor, the color of pumpkin pie, while smelling of buttered toast and mineral water or sautéed onions, bits of left over pork roast and red wine. The tile floor, cold at first, is warmed by the sun, absorbing and reflecting the scitter click of dog’s paws and thump of barefooted forays in and out on a mission. Hours disappeared like invisible photographs of loved ones, delivery clerks and unexpected guests. This while stirring, pouring, sipping the wine drunk while stirring or pouring, the ring of flatware on porcelain. Only rounded tones are here, laughter, inquiry, fuzzy with sleep, soft haze hushed in quiet words of comfort or love. The red paisley shirt Is there somewhere in the infinite shadows, Though in reality long ago discarded. It was my favorite, The orangey-red and dots of indigo so dazzling to the eye. A springing step, pirouette on right tip toe, The crooked smile and “Voila,” the custard done, Velvety soft in its perfection Of sweet vanilla purity, The burnt sugar crust and nutty, And yes, a hint of chocolate, Treasures for the tongue. An aria, melodious, the notes wafting round the corners And into the dregs of yesterday’s wine Tell the story the lips here never would Of love and life’s betrayal, The bitter-sweet passing of years And graying of hair. Now, remembering times before, when the walls were aqua green, and the cabinets opened with a metallic creak, I could hear you speak then, Not just recollect, While sending my unspoken praises Across endless time To a place I may never find Where you are still you And we can be together again In your kitchen, Your beautiful, remodeled kitchen, Under the mural on the wall.
Revised by Linda Anderson 09/19/2006-version-2
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