Losing a Roommate
Time is funny stuff. It seems like it was just yesterday and I was forced to share my bedroom with my meathead of a little brother named Craig. We all had nicknames and some of them stuck. My brother, Craig, was always referred to as “Burt” because is was merely an “n” shy of standing for burnt. We called him Burnt/Burt because of his tendancy to say dumb things around me and my friends. We even got to the point where we wouldn’t comment when he made a stupid remark. We would all strike imaginary matches and toss them in my brother’s direction complete with airy sound effects like a charcoal grill being lit. Pretty cruel, huh? The sick part is that Craig liked it.
My brother was musically minded. He started taking piano lesson when he was ten and there was no stopping him after that. My dad and I continued to push him toward sports, but the lad was truly a gifted musician. He went from piano to trumpet to guitar. After a few years, there simply wasn’t an instrument made that Craig could not play. I saw him fade into “his music” and our father stood by the adage, “Every musician I know is a bum.” My brother made being a bum work for him. He’ll be fifty in May and he still lives for his music.
Craig, at the age of fourteen, insisted that everyone call him “Byrt.” He changed the spelling and took ownership of what was meant to be a world-class insult. But that’s my brother. His existance and spin on the way things things are has always been a tad different. Sharing a room with him for sixteen years was like living in some sort of bizarre movie. Byrt had and has his quirks. He lives in Anchorage, Alaska and works as the caretaker for his church and, of course, plays in the worship band.
What prompted this little trip to talk about my offbeat brother was time. I was thinking today about the fact that here was a guy who I literally could not get away from for sixteen years. We slept in the same room and ate at the same table. Sure, we fought, but what brothers don’t? When I was eighteen I left for the United States Air Force. I can still see my father with that stoic look on his face, shaking my hand and telling me to do a good job. I can also see my little brother crying and telling me how much he was going to miss me. That was over thirty-two years ago but I remember it as if it was yesterday.
The rub comes because life rarely turns out like you think it will. Craig went to Alaska in the eighties (I can’t remember what year) and our contact has been sparse. I saw him for about three hours in 2007. Before that it was two days in the Arctic Circle while I researching a book I was writing about Alaska. I would have to say that I’ve been in the presence of Byrt about forty hours in the last twenty-five years. I never thought about that as I tossed imaginary matches at the little twit.
I guess I miss my brother. Our mother died in 2003 and she was the glue that held our family together. The seams are ripping in the Powers/Willadsen family. Annie and I are trying to hold some of it together by making trips to Wyoming and Missouri to see my mom’s two remaining brothers. Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be. The point is that during all those years I never dreaded losing a roommate. Years later, I just don’t want to lose my brother. I think I’ll send him an e-mail as soon as I finish writing this. This time, Byrt, no matches. The burn is on me.