Toronto the good!
(my home town)
Gifted with love beads in 1969!
(Vancouver)
Last night I received a communication out-of-the-blue that my brother died.
In spite of the fact I was taken away from my family when I was seven - and made a ward of the State - I couldn't help but choke up when the sad news arrived.
Suddenly, I wondered about God's purpose and the reason for the strange karmic relationship with Bill.
Actually, my whole life has unfolded in a bizarre fashion, not unlike an intriguing novel.
In fact, at times I feel quite alien on this plane of existence.
Just maybe, I'm from another planet, and here to experience the human condition?
Until I was seven, I was raised at my mother's home on Old Weston (Toronto) with the rest of the family (except for my father who died when I was a baby).
When I was transplanted out to the suburbs to the care of the Rigbys - I was soon out-of-touch - and on my new journey.
I didn't reunite with Billy (William) until the age of fifteen.
For one semester (at Humberside High) I snapped up his offer to reside in one room on the upstairs floor of the house that his wife's father provided for them to raise their children comfortably and safely.
Bill and his wife, Betty, were blessed with three healthy babies (Sandra, Scott and Sheila).
Actually, the teen lovers were babies when they married; Bill, just twenty, and his wife sixteen!
For that reason - and a gambling streak fueled by alcholism - a separation was inevitable.
Bill was quite unlike me, wiry and earthy.
My uncle allegedly landed him a full-time job as a postal worker in Toronto - and for several years - he was a responsible worker who met his end admirably.
He was keen on hockey, a good cigar, and a beer or two (or three) while catching the game in the living-room from his favorite armchair.
But, the old demon rum started to take hold, and the young couple began to quarrel.
One day, Betty was preparing to do the laundry, when she stumbled on eighty dollars hidden in Bill's sock.
Angry about the dishonesty, Betty snatched it up, out of spite.
Boy, was there a row when he got home, and reached for his stash only to find it gone.
For the most part, we got along.
But, one day, everything came crashing down.
At that time, the Beatles and the Stones were popular, and all my friends at school were growing their hair.
When mine started to get a bit shaggy, Bill gave the directive to Betty that I go and get my ears "lowered".
How I ended up with such a conservative nerd as a brother, I'll never know, I thought at the time.
I tried to avoid the issue by coming home late after school (or hiding in my room until the dinner hour).
Finally, there was an ultimatum one night.
"Bill wants to know when you're going to get your haircut," Betty quizzed.
"The barber shop is closed," I half-whispered under my breath.
At this juncture Bill gave me a deadline.
"Tomorrow. Or else."
Curiously, the next day, I was scheduled to meet with my social worker.
When I explained the problem, he advised I speak to one of their therapists, and get some advice.
The gentleman was quite outgoing and made me feel at ease right away when I strolled into his office a bit meekly.
When I explained the dilemma he got straight to the point.
"Do you want to get your hair cut?"
"No. But, I don't want to upset my brother or cause trouble."
At this point, he leaned over the table, and calmly explained that it was my hair and that I should do what I wanted with it.
"Stop being a coward," he added.
So, that evening, I slowly made the long walk home.
As soon as I sat down to eat, my brother tensed up, and gave my sister-in-law a look.
"Why didn't you get your hair cut," she asked a bit nervously.
"Because I didn't want to," I barely uttered audibly.
There was huge silence - in fact - it was so loud it was deafening.
Suddenly, my brother jumped up with his plate of food in his hand, without warning.
As Betty and I hung our heads, Bill dashed into the other room and slammed his plate down on the arm of his chair -at which point - the impact broke the plate into smithereens.
"Nobody ever does anything I say," he shouted at the top of his lungs, as his food scattered all over the carpet.
To avoid any further conflict or confrontation, I dashed upstairs, and threw myself down on my bed.
I was beside myself.
Suddenly, I recalled reading an article in the local newspaper that a lot of unhappy teens were heading out to Vancouver to become a part of the hippie movement.
And, get this, they all had long hair!
I packed up a few articles of clothing, and with the cash I was supposed to use to buy a winter coat, purchased a bus ticket to go west instead.
That was the last time I ever saw or spoke to my brother.
I hoped to make amends one day, but obviously, it was not in the cards.
As to being separated from my mother, I have one nugget of wisdom for social workers to consider.
"There is no substitute for a mother's love."
Memories of Kitsilano Beach
(Vancouver, B.C.)
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