My Brother David

Yesterday I lost my first childhood buddy, brother David. David passed away last evening. He had spent the last 2 or 3 years in an alzheimers unit in Muncie. Even with alzheimers he never lost his sense of humor or his ability to appreciate even the smallest kindnesses offered him. These things and his beautiful children were his greatest gifts to the world.

David was the youngest of my four older brothers. I was, of course, the youngest in the family, and the only girl. Being the closest in age, David and I were good buddies growing up. There is a picture somewhere that I can't find. It shows Dave and I on our tricycles, brown as berries from fun days in the sun. He is 5 and I am 3. He is supposed to be in kindergarten. Our parent sent him every day, and about an hour or so later went to fetch him home because he was "sick". They finally gave up and let him skip kindergarten so that we could continue our carefree, fun days.

The next year the state of Indiana required his presence in first grade, and I experienced my first taste of real loneliness. I missed my buddy! As we grew up we had great fun listening to "The Shadow" and "Fibber McGee and Molly", "Jack Armstrong" on the radio. We made fudge and cookies. Once when Mother and Daddy were gone for the evening, we got out all the best china and crystal and set the table and pretended to have a fancy dinner party. Our dad taught vocal lessons. We had heat registers that were just grates in the ceiling that allowed the heat to go upstairs. David and I would lie on the floor and watch the vocal lessons, and giggle at the student's mistakes.

When I was a senior in high school, my prom date (who also happens to be my husband)
was hit in the eye with a baseball the night before the prom. Don was in the hospital prom night, and my handsome brother, David, pitched in as my prom date. I think he was the only graduate of Anderson High School who ever attended three high school proms.

Of course, we did grow up and our lives of raising families and earning livings did not allow us much time to be together. These were such busy years. So that when we were all retired it was nice to have some time to becomes buddies again. Clyde and Dave had their weekly lunch dates at Storeys in Chesterfield. Sometimes I joined them, but couldn't keep up with their banter. Once Dave and Rosalyn, Janie and Clyde, and Don and I spent a hilarious afternoon making applesauce. Clyde and Dave had bought an apple peeler, and they made the applesauce --- so funny, but it was good.

Once, when Rosalyn was working we picked up Dave and we all went to Bear Creek Farms for dinner and the show. When we picked him up, he had been all ready and waiting for an hour on the porch (maybe one of the first indicators of his Alzheimers that we observed). But no one ever enjoyed a dinner and show at Bear Creek any more than did David. And I think that that enthusiasm and appreciation for the small things was the gift that David gave to Don and I over and over these last few years.

We truly liked visiting him at the nursing home. And few people ever say that. You could tell that he loved for us to be there. And, even though you know that he was often confused and bewildered, often in pain, he never, ever complained.
"How are you feeling, Dave?"
"I feel fine."
"Are you sleeping well?"
"I sleep great."

And he always loved the coffee we brought, and, oh yes, he loved the honey buns to eat. The Honey Bun company is going to experience a huge drop in sales now that David is no longer here. And the few times we were able to take him out to breakfast at a restaurant, he loved it! Once we took him some handkerchiefs and new socks. He said, "I feel like a rich man!" What a gift that was for us. I just have to thank the Lord for the blessing of this time we were able to have with my buddy.

The last words I was blessed to be able to say to my buddy were, "I love you."
And the last words that I was so blessed to hear from him were, "I love you, too."

My sweet brother and his beautiful children have taught me to never part from a loved one without saying those words.