He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

We stopped at the Three Crosses on Hwy 218 to pray as we headed for Ashland, WI to take care of my brother, Mike's, or Michael's (as he preferred to be called), affairs. He died Sunday morning, Jan. 25, at the age of 84.

Mike was six years older than me, so we weren't that close. But I have some vivid memories of him. One time I stepped on a nail in the chicken house, and couldn't walk. Mike carried me to the car so I could be taken me to the doctor.

Mike's appendix ruptured when he was a teenager. He was hauled to the hospital in Des Moines in the funeral home's hearse. I thought he was going to die. He almost did, from peritonitis, but pulled through after about a week in the hospital. He gave a speech at school about his ordeal and made everyone sick.

Mike was tall, 6'2” or 3. He played basketball for Monroe. The team went to the State Boy's Basketball Tournament in Des Moines, not as players but observers. It snowed so hard they had to spend the night in Veteran's Auditorium and come home the next day. They slept on the bleachers, he told me. Mom was so worried because she didn't know what was going on until late. The coach had to notify parents by payphone.

Mike was a good student, liked by everyone. Years after he graduated, people were still asking, “What's Mike up to?” I had a hard time with that, because in high school, teachers thought I was another Mike. I wasn't, as they quickly learned.

On the road to Ashland, WI, which is way up on Lake Superior, Ginnie noticed a small crack in the windshield. It was about six-to-eight inches long, rising up from under a wiper like a Cobra. I told Ginnie not to worry about it. She said, “A crack is a break.”

It was so cold in Ashland. It's been cold here in Iowa also, but that lake effect, to me, seemed to make it so much worse, like a pup turning into a polar bear. Although I did notice the locals running around without hats or gloves, yukking it up like it was a spring day. Not me. I stayed cold for the duration.

We were able to take care of Mike's affairs in short order, thanks to him having made his final arrangements before hand, something we weren't aware of. We met with the funeral home director, Mike's bank, and the nursing home where Mike had been living for the last three years. Cleaning out Mike's personal items from his nursing home room was the hardest part. I had no idea a person could cram so much stuff into one small room. But he did. Ginnie wanted me to keep Mike's television earphones because at home I have the volume cranked. Huh? She also wanted me to take Mike's walker, “For future needs,” she said. Oh. On the night stand was a little urn of his dog's ashes. We wound up with a car load of stuff that I have no idea what we'll do with.

Our last stop was back at the funeral home to pick up the urn of Mike's ashes. The urn was still warm. At some future date his remains will be buried at the site of our father's and mother's and one brother's grave in Perry, Iowa. Mike carried me when I stepped on a nail, I can carry him home.

It was so cold when we left Ashland, our car let me know how rude I was to awaken it. We heard a snap. The six-to-eight inch crack in the windshield y'd off and was progressing as we watched to the far side of the windshield. A little later it y'd off in the other direction, completing an almost perfect Y across the windshield, as in “Yikes!” We made it home without the windshield falling into our laps, thank God. Mike was with us.

RIP Michael.

Have a good story? Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com. Curt is available for public speaking.

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