Christmas Eve
Ever since, I wake up this day aware that he is not with us; the holiday focus seems to unsheathe the emotions that much more intensely. That year I toiled up the freeway to the maternal side family get-together on Christmas Day, which we did for the sake of the younger generation, but I will never forget the helpless misery mirrored in faces, nor the alcohol-fueled anger in those who coped in that way. (Those relatives are gone now, in the intervening years.)
So Brad is only with me in memory, and I spent a lot of this morning while cleaning and dog-walking, etc, cherishing the good ones. How, when he was small (12 years younger than I) and I was a teen, I'd frequently waken in the middle of the night with him standing beside my bed. I'd open the covers without saying a word, and he'd crawl in and huddle up next to me, heave a sigh, and sink into sleep. In later years, if the bulldog was also in the bed, the three of us would find a way to fit together like a puzzle.
We teens traded him off a lot. In those days, things were just different. Though the mom in me shudders, I can still recollect the pleasure of a spring day as I biked to the grocery store and back on errands, Brad riding on my hip and the grocery bag on my other hip. Yeah, my hands never touched the handlebars. But I was in junior high, and it never occurred to me to think that might be dangerous. All I remember is how much Brad loved riding on the bike with me.
He trotted after us like a mascot--he was so sunny and goodnatured. He was also extremely bright. I remember my brother taught him to recognize the makes of cars before he was three. He could spot a '65 Mustang by a glimpse of a quarter-panel blocks away, and he'd shout out "Mustang!" And beam as all the teenagers in the car hooted with pride.
My very best memory was spring of '73, so he would have been nine. When the parents went out we kids sat him, and often enough just took him along on whatever we were doing, if it wasn't a twosome date. He went along with me to quite a few Mythopoeic Society meetings that way--nothing he looked forward to, but I'd bring toys, and promise him ice cream after.
I had managed to score tickets to Hughes Night at Disneyland. In those days it was still those stupid ticket books (you'd get a small number of good rides, the "A" and "B" tickets, and a lot of the boring ones. In our rare family outings, it was one ticket book per kid, so the A and B ones were used up fast. The rest of the time we pretty much spent playing on Tom Sawyer's island, though I remember dutifully going to the Abraham Lincoln exhibit more than once, just to get out of the sun). Anyway, in contrast, on Hughes Night, every ride was open--only Tom Sawyer's island was closed because of the darkness. But you could go on the fun rides as many times as you wanted, and the lines were never that long.
So anyway, I and my boyfriend at the time said we were going to a Mythopoeic thing, and Brad was resigned. We made it all the way to D-land, and I will never forget his face when he realized where we were. Oh, the amazement and joy!
And he fizzed with joy all that night. We went on his favorite rides over and over. When it was time to leave at last, he didn't even make it to the parking lot, but fell asleep as we carried him to the car.
Darling Brad, one of these Christmas candles is for you.
So Brad is only with me in memory, and I spent a lot of this morning while cleaning and dog-walking, etc, cherishing the good ones. How, when he was small (12 years younger than I) and I was a teen, I'd frequently waken in the middle of the night with him standing beside my bed. I'd open the covers without saying a word, and he'd crawl in and huddle up next to me, heave a sigh, and sink into sleep. In later years, if the bulldog was also in the bed, the three of us would find a way to fit together like a puzzle.
We teens traded him off a lot. In those days, things were just different. Though the mom in me shudders, I can still recollect the pleasure of a spring day as I biked to the grocery store and back on errands, Brad riding on my hip and the grocery bag on my other hip. Yeah, my hands never touched the handlebars. But I was in junior high, and it never occurred to me to think that might be dangerous. All I remember is how much Brad loved riding on the bike with me.
He trotted after us like a mascot--he was so sunny and goodnatured. He was also extremely bright. I remember my brother taught him to recognize the makes of cars before he was three. He could spot a '65 Mustang by a glimpse of a quarter-panel blocks away, and he'd shout out "Mustang!" And beam as all the teenagers in the car hooted with pride.
My very best memory was spring of '73, so he would have been nine. When the parents went out we kids sat him, and often enough just took him along on whatever we were doing, if it wasn't a twosome date. He went along with me to quite a few Mythopoeic Society meetings that way--nothing he looked forward to, but I'd bring toys, and promise him ice cream after.
I had managed to score tickets to Hughes Night at Disneyland. In those days it was still those stupid ticket books (you'd get a small number of good rides, the "A" and "B" tickets, and a lot of the boring ones. In our rare family outings, it was one ticket book per kid, so the A and B ones were used up fast. The rest of the time we pretty much spent playing on Tom Sawyer's island, though I remember dutifully going to the Abraham Lincoln exhibit more than once, just to get out of the sun). Anyway, in contrast, on Hughes Night, every ride was open--only Tom Sawyer's island was closed because of the darkness. But you could go on the fun rides as many times as you wanted, and the lines were never that long.
So anyway, I and my boyfriend at the time said we were going to a Mythopoeic thing, and Brad was resigned. We made it all the way to D-land, and I will never forget his face when he realized where we were. Oh, the amazement and joy!
And he fizzed with joy all that night. We went on his favorite rides over and over. When it was time to leave at last, he didn't even make it to the parking lot, but fell asleep as we carried him to the car.
Darling Brad, one of these Christmas candles is for you.