Six Feet Up Your...

Here's a touching little moment that happened at the cemetery, inexplicably called Grandview (a grand view for whom,
exactly?), while making arrangements for Hyde's burial.

There we were, Jeckle, Mr. Wizard, and I, sitting together in a room with walls that are "decorated" with all the different types of grave markers. It was eerily familiar, as we had been in this very same room less than 12 months before. Mr. Ghoul had left the room for a moment, giving us a chance to discuss what marker we wanted. Jeckle and I decided we liked the plain granite one best, not because it was the least expensive, but because it was simple and stately. It appealed to our aesthetic senses.

Mr. Ghoul returned. We told him what we wanted.

"Oh, you can't get that marker."
"Why not?"
"Because it won't match the other markers in that area. You have to get a brass one."

Need I say that a brass marker was significantly more expensive? But I can see how important matching grave markers would be to the residents of the cemetery.

"O.K., so since our mother and out brother are going to both be cremated, and she already has a plot, is it possible to bury Hyde in her plot, for them to share? He would like that."
"Oh, no. That won't work."
"Why not?"
"Because there won't be room for his marker."

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but there's nothing but grass around a grave. And the hole for an urn, I mean a $150 cardboard box, is not nearly as large as the hole for a coffin. Seems to me there'd be plenty o' room for two urns and another marker.

Oh, wait. Then Grandview wouldn't get $1500 for another plot!

Sidebar: It cost $900 just to use the room at the mortuary for an hour-long service. Oh, O.K. We did use their DVD/TV and stereo, although Mr. Wizard had to figure out how to work the DVD player: Push play. I think they should have knocked off at least, oh, say $300 for his technical expertise.

I'm thinking I'm going to start renting out my apartment for services!

No, what I'm really thinking is this: When I die, donate my body to science. Have a party at someone's house. No plot, no marker, no cremation (if I have to be cremated, toss my ashes somewhere outside, or divvy them up among friends and whatever family I have left), no service. The cost of Daddy's funeral ($12,000) and Hyde's ($7,000) has left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth for funeral "homes." (Why, exactly, are they called homes?)

I won't go so far as Hyde and put them on my "hit list," but I certainly agree with the sentiment.

9/3/07

DREAM: Jeckle and I go over to the house to check on Hyde. He's not there, but there is a "swarm" of cats (and a dog?) that he obviously hasn't fed for days. When we feed them, they pounce on the food. The place looks abandoned, and a mess. As we investigate more, we become increasingly concerned. Somehow, we reach the conclusion that he has been M.I.A. for 3 days.

At one point, I am investigating a piece of carpet that is completely saturated and totally gross. I find a coin in it, but it is SO nasty! It is next to a grate. EVERYTHING in the house is neglected, nasty, and in a complete state of disarray.

Later, I'm in the house alone, and Hyde shows up at the door. (Or maybe I go back to the house and he opens the door.) He's wild-eyed, THIN, and his clothes are torn and dirty. I'm shocked and VERY worried. He, of course, is totally crazy and in his sarcastic, "Oh, I know- you LOVE me!" mode. I'm crying and pleading with him-he walks away and gets in his car and screeches away.

I go to follow in some kind of Model T contraption but I can't get my car started. It's flooded. I push it out of the grass and finally manage to get it going (it's like lighting a kerosene lamp) but I'm too far behind to catch him.

Brotherly Love

July 29, 1950. Hyde is born.
January 18, 1953. Jeckle is born. Hyde now officially has a "little helper" for his schemes, investigations, and creations. She just has to get a wee bit older.
May 10, 1960. Heckle is born. Hyde now officially has someone to blame. Heckle manifests her first Super Power: ruining Hyde's life at the ripe old age of 1 day by taking Mother's attention away from him.

Things went downhill from there.

Here's what I remember: Hyde working on projects, like taking his motorcycle apart or building the hydroplane; Hyde's boyfriend (I think) living with us-he had a trumpet. Thus, when it came time in the 4th grade for me to choose an instrument, I knew I wanted to play the trumpet. "They" tried to fool me with a (more feminine) cornet but I would have none of it; Hyde being gone for long periods of time (living with the grandparents, moving to Florida, living in another town), which were somewhat peaceful, then returning and chaos reigning; Hyde badgering Mom, following her around the house, endlessly, asking her the same questions over and over and accusing her of the same things over and over until she would lock herself in the bathroom, crying, then he would find me out on the porch and badger me into having sympathy for his plight; Daddy always gone fishing or hunting; Jeckle either gone or taking refuge in her room; having to tiptoe around the house during the day because Hyde was sleeping (I later found out that during one of these periods Hyde was taking LSD every night for approximately 250 days in a row); and, perhaps most famously in my memory and in terms of its long-term effect on me, the following scene.

I've had to recently acknowledge to myself that I have no idea when this actually took place. For the longest time, I thought I was five but realized a couple of years ago that was impossible, based on where it took place (in a part of the house that wasn't built until I was in the 3rd grade). More recently I've realized I had to be old enough to know what the word he used meant (you'll find out in a minute).

Hyde was on a rampage. This was not unusual but the fact that Mom and Daddy were both there, together, was. He was screaming and cursing. For some unknown reason, I walked into this scene (meaning, I don't know why I wasn't in hiding somewhere). Hyde was at the bottom of the stairs, carrying on and when he cursed, Mom said, "Oh, Hyde, not in front of the child!" (Boy, as I write that, that sounds REALLY fishy, but that IS my memory of what she said.) And Hyde responded with the words that have been burned into my brain ever since: "I don't know why you had to go and fuck and have her anyway!!!"

Needless to say, this did not endear him to me.

Oh, and a little footnote: Obviously I've known for years that I ruined Hyde's life by being born but I have to give him some credit for, in recent years, acknowledging that perhaps that wasn't really my fault. It was admitted a tad bit too late to undo the psychic damage, but appreciated nonetheless. However, a year or so ago, Hyde "revealed" to me that I had also taken Daddy away from him by becoming the "son he never had" (I liked to fish, hunt, be outdoors, and play sports which were all near and dear to Daddy's heart-Hyde liked none of those things) and that I knew what I was doing and that I knew it was wrong! And that Daddy making me into his "son" probably accounted for many of my emotional problems.

Jeez!, I wish I had even a third of the power over peoples' lives Hyde believed I had over his! It would really come in handy sometimes.

Miscellany

Since my return, my mind has felt devoid of witty and clever things to write. I suppose that has to do, at least in part, with the shock wearing off and being left with the undeniable, yet still unbelievable, truth that Hyde is dead. In fact, I find myself saying, out loud, "Hyde is dead."

Hyde was a genius. Have I mentioned that yet? In fact, in his sane moments I think he WOULD have been a great President; he was certainly smarter than our current so-called Commander-in-Chief. His genius was both his greatest asset and his biggest enemy. Being that much smarter than everyone else around him made him a "marked" person, something that he would, over time, exaggerate to deadly outcome.

Back to my conversation with Cap'n John. After he told me that Hyde was just causing trouble for himself, what he then said was, "He would disappear for days on end and no one would know where he went or what he was doing." Now, you see how that's kind of a strange thing for him to say? Unless Big Brother was watching, who would know or care what Hyde was up to? Why would where he went and what he did be of any concern to anyone except Jeckle and me, especially if all he was doing was "causing trouble for himself"? It was at that point in the conversation that the Cap'n veered off course and attempted to paint himself in a favorable light (having realized his faux pas) and let me know that he did not trust this P.I., even though he recognized the name of the person who hired him (a local). He righteously declared that he did not give him any information.

And what information, exactly, did he have to give and where did he get it?

The whole thing smells fishy to me!

You see, this was always the trouble with Hyde's delusions. There was always enough truth behind them to make them somewhat plausible. It's just that they became so grandiose they would fall apart under their own weight. Why would HE be the target of such intense scrutiny and "campaigns of terror" (as he started calling them this past year)?

But what if...?

Jeckle and I even briefly entertained the idea that it wasn't Hyde's body lying on the kitchen floor, that he had murdered someone (intentionally or in self-defense) and then disappeared in order to start fresh. After all, no one made a positive I.D. or checked his dental records and Mr. Wizard, who actually looked at him, stated, "It could have been anyone."

See? I have to shake my head to clear it in moments like this because it is very easy to get sucked into Hyde's world of madness.

Memories

The three days Jeckle and I spent cleaning out the house were predictably intense. After all, we were sifting through the remains of our grandparents, parents, and brother. The sheer physical bulk of what we had to get through was daunting. The first day in the basement I stood and did a 360 and felt immediately ready to quit without having begun.

But "a thousand mile journey begins with one step," I reminded myself, and started sorting and tossing. And, as you know, I soon realized that at least a third of the stuff was simply empty boxes. (I think there is deep meaning in this.)

But of course it wasn't really the physical piece that was the most daunting. It was the memories.

When I first moved to California, the house I was living in burned in the Oakland firestorm. I remember when we were finally allowed to go back to the "house" and start sifting through the ashes. Any tiny fragment of anything became a precious treasure to the point of ridiculousness: "Look! The handle off of that ugly tea mug that was in the give-away box!" And it was held up triumphantly and laid carefully aside to be periodically gazed upon with love and longing.

I can clearly remember the point at which I realized I didn't want any more memories and stopped searching. Everything I had already "saved" became tinged with sadness. Ultimately, I just wanted to get rid of everything.

That's what happened in going through the house. Initially, I enjoyed the "discovery process." Or, in the case of the things I had stored in the basement for 30+ years, the re-discovery process. I realized how much I had forgotten. I was reminded of people and events that were once incredibly important to me. But as time went on, it slowly started dawning on me how sad I was feeling. I didn't want these memories. They felt heavy. And it became increasingly clear to me that the memories were, literally (because they were contained in objects), dead weight.

So, I made a decision to keep only a few token items that were meaningful without having a direct connection to me: Daddy's hunting knife, mom's binoculars, one of the arrowhead frames, a box with a fish on it. Things that would remind me of my family but did not have personal memories. As such, I saved only one thing of Hyde's; a quote from a book by Ray Bradbury that he had printed out.

I kept it because I could imagine us, under different circumstances, having a conversation about why he chose it, what it meant to him. I kept it because I could feel Hyde's essential nature, that of a wondering human, amazed by the mystery of the Universe. I kept it because I could relate to it, which meant I could relate to Hyde, which, in real life, happened no more than 5 or 6 times. Here is the quote:

Ray Bradbury: Introduction to Infinite Perspectives

"But then the second sights came. Peering closer at the wondrous blue sphere in Space, we said, 'Where have I seen that face before?' The answer was: never. Until our time, cartographers fumbled their hands over terrains arctic and equatorial and made Braille transcriptions to steer sailors of seas and clouds. The whole of the Earth was a crinkled maze awaiting the rough guess of sea captains, pathfinders, and nomad tillers of soil. From these palsied reckonings, windblown prints sprang, hoping for safe passage but risking death. Airplanes did the first new chartings, jets sharpened the perception, but it was the Shuttle that lassoed the globe to tapestry darkrooms with manifest dreams. At 25,000 miles per hour, those bullets unraveled photo lightning flashes that drowned in chemistries rose as revelations. Now we fire off toward our tomorrows, Space Station One: Earth. Space Station Two: The Moon. Space Station Three: Mars. Then take off for the whole Universe."

At long last, I suppose, Hyde has taken off for the whole Universe.

The Eulogy by Jeckle

This is what I said at Hyde's service. The names have been changed, of course.
And the Mr. Wizard named in here is the T.V. persona, not Jeckle's husband.


Less than a year ago, my sister and I wrote, and I delivered, the eulogy
for our father. Naturally we assumed that the next one
to be written and delivered would be for our mother. We never
dreamed that instead it would be for our brother, Hyde. It hasn’t really
even sunk in that he’s gone, and yet, here I am. Each time the phone
rings, we expect it to be him. We keep thinking we need to call him and
let him know what’s happening. It just doesn’t seem like this could be
true.

Our brother, K***, or Hyde as we called him, was first and foremost a devoted
son to our parents. He took care of them during
the last few years that they lived at home, enabling them to stay
there for much longer than they would have been able to otherwise.
This meant a great deal not only to our parents, but also brought some
peace of mind to Jeckle and me as well.

Besides his role as son, he was a brother to both of us, but because of
the differences of our ages, we had very different relationships with him.
He and my sister were closer to each other in age and shared
the early years of their lives. She has often said that she was his “little
helper” for many of his projects, and was always fascinated by his intelligence
and creativity. I came along several years later, and because of
our age difference, we were never as close. But regardless of these differences,
our relationships with him had a profound and lasting effect on
both of our lives.

Hyde had a keen interest in all things scientific, and as a young boy and
teen he was greatly inspired by Mr. Wizard, the kids’ science guru of the
50’s. His interest in math and science later grew into a career in computer
programming. Electronics were an “integral” part of his life.

Hyde also had a keen sense of adventure, and throughout his life he engaged
in such activities as spelunking. He was a member of the University Caving
Club, and took Jeckle & me on caving expeditions. He even took
Mom and her best friend once. It’s hard now to believe we all actually
went! Then there was the time he built a hydroplane from scratch (yes,
that would mean water plane) and he actually took it out for a test drive.
He once took Jeckle on a trip through the drainage system under the
streets of Murville, a trip which not surprisingly ended up at Pistol
Creek. Hyde raised pigeons, brought home bats, filled the wading pool
with crawdads- all the kinds of things my sister found fascinating. She
was especially amazed at the full-size putt-putt course that he built in
the basement and extended out into the yard.

Hyde had many happy times in his life, but throughout most of it he
struggled to cope with his mental illness. Just getting through day-today
life was often a challenge for him, but during the times when he
was doing well, he worked hard to improve his situation in life and his
relationships with others. There were long periods of time when he had
a good job and led a very happy and social life. Then there were periods
when he sunk into deep darkness and everyone became his enemy. He
had a very complex mind, and his life was full of twists and turns and
ups and downs. But one thing we know for sure: it was never boring!

Mac was a complicated man of many facets- loving son and brother, scientist
and inventor, adventurer and risk-taker, a brilliant intellectual, but
he was mostly just a human being trying to find his way in a complicated
world. He wasn’t always successful at that, but he always kept trying.
In some ways we wish he were still able to continue his struggle, but at
least we do know he has finally found peace. He will be greatly missed.

The High Price of Death

This will be short and...well, short. I came home last night. Thanks go out to my friend, Cupcake and her two boys, for picking me up at the airport. There is a lot to be said for door-to-door service with a familiar face after an ordeal such as this. Not to mention home-made muffins!

Now I just feel REALLY tired. Ah, let the real fun begin, aka, processing. A therapist has already been called...

In fact I'm so tired my brain is completely devoid of anything remotely witty or suitably macabre for the blog but I had to share the final costs (in cold, hard cash only-I won't even pretend to know the emotional cost) of Hyde's death.

The bill for AfterMath's clean-up (which did include removing flooring, walls, and cabinets): $29,000.

No. Don't get your glasses; you read right. $29,000.

And the total funeral costs (cremation, plot, grave marker, service, etc): Approximately $7,000.

It costs a lot to die in this country.

A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Waste

During one of the house clean-out days last week, Jeckle found, stashed away in the corner of a small, high shelf of a floor-to-ceiling cabinet, a stack of computer discs labeled "back-ups." Jeckle's husband (who still has no clever name but for now we'll call him), Mr. Wizard, has been going through them. There were thousands and thousands (he actually said millions but that sounds like too many even given the hyberbolic-made that up!- nature of this whole situation) of photos of a pornographic nature.

But there were also thousands of what I'm going to call virtual index cards (remember, Hyde wrote everything on index cards), laid out on the page in rows and columns, each one containing one-line declarations that fell into one of the following categories: People who endorsed Hyde for President, sexualized slurs against a variety of people and groups, "revelations" about the "show" that was going on across from Heckle Street (my grandparents named their street after me), names of "mafia" connected people and businesses, and a slew of "...will be put to death" cards.

A sampling...

* Steve Forbes; Jesse Jackson, Jr.; Coretta Scott King; Sammy Davis, Jr.; Bill Schneider; Shirley MacClaine; Bob Dylan; Orrin Hatch; Karl Rove; George Stephanopolous; Karl Rove; Sam Donaldson, Allan Colmes...all endorse Hyde for President.

* Bill Frist: We need Hyde now.
* Boehner: Hyde looks like our best bet.
* Rove: Hyde has a first-rate political mind.
* Rove: The two living greatest political geniuses-Bill Clinton and Hyde.

* The (local) police have no penises.
* Bruise Obama's asshole.
* Bruise the Coach's asshole.
* The Coach's wife has a penis.

* The "actors" in front of Heckle Street are all criminals.
* The people across the street are also on T.V.
* Criminals: Everyone is aware of this slide show.
* This is the real Truman Show.

* Some mafia-run businesses (according to Hyde) included Domino's, local hospitals, the police, the state FBI, churches, local car dealerships, and the local mortuaries.

And the list of those that will be put to death include the Coach, the nursing home staff, the personal trainers at the local gym; Hyde's long-time doctor, former friends, me, Jeckle, and our cousin, JFK (he has always reminded me of him, so why not?).

He billed himself as "a stranger in a strange land."

All of these particular files were backed-up on May 17th, two or three days before he died.

Now we know why he called no one. EVERYONE was his "sworn enemy" (to borrow his expression) and, Jeckle and I imagine, he was probably raging against all of his imaginary enemies as he was bleeding out: "You goddamn criminals! You're not going to lure me into your hands with this little stunt!"

A Beautiful Mind?

I saw that movie with Jeckle and Hyde when it came out. Actually, I had seen it the week before with a couple of friends and was profoundly moved by it. Seeing it with my brother was moving in a different way. He acknowledged that it was, with a few necessary cinematic contrivances, an accurate depiction of how the schizophrenic mind works. In other words, how his mind worked.

My way of describing his mind is that he could connect-the-dots of a thousand (or more, apparently, now that we've seen the contents of his computers) disparate pieces of information and tie them all together in a spider web of intrigue that, somehow, made a beautiful pattern in his mind. Or, if not beautiful, at least cohesive. Somehow, it all made sense to him. And it made him mad that nobody else could track what he KNEW.

In the past year, he called me several times to relay some piece of the story (little old ladies following him in the grocery store, men tailing him in his car, surveillance planes flying over the house, police officers making suggestive gestures towards him) and, after a beat, ask, "So, do you think that sounds crazy?"

This was always a tricky question, one that he asked me numerous times over the years. And each time, I was faced with a decision: Do I shine him on and keep the peace? Or do I tell him the truth? Once upon a time, I opted for saving myself and would say bland, non-comittal things like, "Well, it seems like that could have happened." Or I might even actually agree. But as time went on, I became stronger AND I could no longer stomach lying so I started telling him the truth: "No, Hyde. That seems pretty farfetched. I mean, why would people be spending so much energy on YOU?"

This, of course, led to a "parting of the ways," which is why I hadn't really spoken to him for about six months before he died.

Of course, the movie did a lot for creating empathy for people with severe mental illness. And it made a strong statement about the power of love, something I'm all for. Unfortunately, when it comes to reaching out to, and reaching, someone with mental illness, love, most often, simply isn't enough. And the mind is an instrument of torture, both to the sufferer, and to those that suffer with her/him.

At Long Last

Three years ago when Jeckle and I had to remove/rescue our parents from the house because Hyde was no longer helpful or sane and they were no longer able to function (Daddy had fallen and couldn't get up and Hyde basically told him he was tired of him "faking it" and called Jeckle to come get him; Mom was wandering around in 7 pairs of dirty underwear and feeding the cat bananas), we decided it would be prudent to remove all of the guns from the house. Hyde seemed a tad bit unstable, afterall, and was already standing out at the road pretending to shoot passersby; he needed no real ability to do so.

Anyway, we got all of Daddy's guns out, we thought. Until Daddy informed us there was one gun unaccounted for. Where was it? Had Hyde taken possession? Would he use it in a heinous crime against himself or others? It became yet one more anxiety-producing element in the unfolding drama. It became an oft-repeated question between Jeckle and myself: Where is the gun?

So, remember all the tackle boxes? Tonight I was looking through them again, marveling at the sheer amount of lures, spinners, rubber worms, hooks, and lead sinkers, when all of the sudden, I knew. First I came across the long, thin-bladed knife used to clean fish. Then I saw the rag lump. And felt it. And picked it up. This was no bag of sinkers. But it was heavy. And inside of the rag was a plastic bag. And inside the plastic bag was a blue zippered bank bag (one that a business would use to transport its petty cash). And, lo and behold, inside the bag was the gun.

"I found the gun!" I yelled triumphantly. And as I held it in my hand, I remembered this very gun, in this very bag during one of my fishing trips with my Daddy.

Eye Openers

Today, Cap'n John came on over to inspect the ammunition. It was making me a bit nervous, having so much of it in the house and I thought it might be a good idea to figure out what to do with it.

Eye opener #1: You can sell ammunition in an estate sale. In fact, you can do just about anything you want with it EXCEPT throw it in the city dump.

Eye opener #2: Ammunition in a fire just kind of fizzles out (he explained why but I won't go into it right now). So there was no real danger with regards to that.

Anyway, he was a real talkative fellow so I found out all kinds of fascinating things related to law enforcement.

Eye opener #3: The amount of ammunition Daddy had was actually kind of puny, according to the Cap'n (scary!). And he actually said, "In responsible hands, no amount of ammunition would be dangerous. In the wrong hands, no amount is a safe amount."

I asked him all manner of questions while he was sorting through the bullets and shotgun shells and he obliged me with good Southern-style tales about the reason why he and his wife and daughter were trying to get up to Minnesota, about his first homicide case, about the ins and outs of doing a background check, about the expansion of the high school. So, as he wrapped up his sorting and we wound down the conversation, I decided to go for broke.

"Was Hyde causing anyone any trouble?"
"Just himself," he replied.

Now, as I reflect back on this part of the conversation, I realize I believe Cap'n John started out telling me one story then had to revise it but here's the gist of it:

Eye opener #4: It turns out that Mac's suspicions that he was being followed and the phone tapped were, true. Mac was, in fact, being spied on. Someone hired a private investigator to find out why he would "disappear for days on end."

As I said to the Cap'n after he probably revealed way too much to me, "Why would anyone but Maggie and I care about anything like that?"

But of course, the Coach would.

Men With Tools

Today Jeckle discovered a very nice art portfolio filled with a great Hyde-created poster collection of "men with tools," if you get my drift. How fitting that this happened on the same day that the real "Men with Tools" came to mow the lawn. Believe it or not, that's the name of a father and son handyman business. They appear to be blissfully unaware of the "homosexual" undertones of their business name as the father proudly proclaimed they were "men with tools!" without a hint of a smirk or even the slightest suggestive gesture. Thank God for small favors!

PARTIAL Inventory

As you can see from the quantity of today's posts (if anyone is reading this!), I finally have a few moments to get down some of my thoughts these past few days. If you're just tuning in, you may want to go to the first post and read up.

Today was Day 2 of cleaning out the house that Hyde built. OK, to be fair, he just added the final, and most insane layer, to an already insane situation. Our grandparents built and lived in the house for about 20 years, then our parents and brother for the next 25. Apparently no one ever thought that having a yard sale might be a good idea.

For example, our daddy had not one, not two, not three, but FOUR tackle boxes. In those boxes are at least 1,000 fishing lures, many still in boxes. He had at least 30 rods and reels. And there were boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of ammunition. There were loose shotgun shells in his hunting vests, and boxes in his closet, in the living room, in the trunk of his car, and in the basement. I can't even hazard a guess as to the total number of bullets and shells in that house, but I can say this: If there were to be a fire, everyone living within a 5 mile radius would be at risk.

There were at least a thousand photographs dating back to the last part of the 19th century.

Our mother apparently saved every single piece of paper (bills; letters; lists-grocery, to do, phone numbers/addresses, reminders; notes; receipts; cards; tax returns; interesting anecdotes) she ever received or produced.

There were enough dishes to outfit about 20 homes.

But all of this amounts to a hill of beans compared to what our brother contributed.

First, the dining room table: Completely covered with mail (opened and un) dating back at least 5 years. Then boxes and boxes of stuff from his days as president of a computer association. Files and files crammed full of all his attempts to get jobs over the years. And, of course, all of his documents that linked together all of the important people, organizations, and stories that were part of his organized crime/mafia paranoid delusions. Oh, and his index cards.

Next, his exercise equipment: A bicycle, roller blades, treadmill, total gym, bowflex, rowing machine, 2 exercise bikes, and a ton (no pun intended) of free weights.

But for the piece de resistance: Electronic equipment, half of which I can't even name because I have no idea what it's called or what it was used for. There is way too much to list but a sampling for your reading pleasure...

About 10 cell phones, 10 phones, 7 hand-held tape recorders, 7 computers, a wide variety of surveillance devices, several stereos and soundsystems, 5 or 6 T.V.s, a drawer full of AC adapters (at least 20), recording and mixing equipment, a reel of telephone wire, and boxes and boxes of miscellaneous electronics.

Really, I could write and write and list and list and you would never really get the picture, for this was not just a house of stuff, but stuff obsessively collected and saved over years and years.

Did I mention that in the basement was a box for every single thing that he ever bought? Or that Hyde would use a bar of Ivory soap halfway, then set it aside and start a new one (total in bathroom-about 40)? That there were 10 bottles of full tile cleaner? 15 tubes of partially used hair dye?

Whatever he bought, he bought obsessively and in excess.

Sort of like the pizzas previously mentioned.

A "Murvul" Moment

Contrast this with the reality of gay marriage now being legal in California (my chosen home-you'll see why)...

So there Jeckle and I are, sitting with the Minister of Music at our childhood church (our parents were lifelong members; Jeckle and I stopped going in our teens), discussing our brother's service. After trying to convey some of the complexities of his life to this "nice but incompetent" man (one of our favorite ways to describe many of the people we've had to deal with in the past 5 years around our parents and now our brother), I decided I needed to make sure there was no repeat performance of my high school graduation, which took place in this very church 30 years ago. At that event, the main speaker, the church minister, took it upon himself to make it clear that "homosexuality" was a sin and that "homosexuals" would not be admitted into the so-called kingdom of heaven.

Now, what that all had to do with graduating and our futures, I'm not sure. It certainly upset my mom on my behalf and she considered dropping out of the church over it (go mom!)

(Aside on a similar topic: The one and only time mom ever voted Democrat was during Clinton's first run and she did so because she could not abide the Republican's "family values" campaign.)

Anyway, I told this minister that my brother was gay and explained why I told him.

And he said (I kid you not): "Yes, I have a friend in the police department. He told me there were three deaths on Saturday, which is very unusual. Anyway, he told me that one of the persons who died was a HOMOSEXUAL."

"Natural" Causes

AKA, Death by Pizza

Three days after Jeckle and her husband (as yet without some clever moniker in this blog) found our brother's body, the autopsy report came back as "death by natural causes."

So, the pressing question of the moment is this: When one has been taking incredibly strong anti-psychotic meds (+ numerous other meds for a variety of ailments) for 20+ years , which would clearly tax one's liver; is drinking massive amounts of vodka in a fairly short period of time (10 gigantic empty vodka bottles found on the premises); is suffering from ulcerative colitis; is eating two large pizzas a day for approximately one month; and one's colon finally bursts resulting in a massive hemorrhage and death, is that death truly from natural causes?

Pain in the Back

Death is taking its toll on the clan, or what remains of it. Heckle (me) and Jeckle (my sister) are getting testy with each other over our brother's service. I want to play Patty Smith, she wants church hymns. O.K. she CLAIMS she doesn't want hymns, but she is concerned for all the old timers that are likely to show up. She doesn't want to stray too far from tradition, although Lord knows, it would be way more entertaining if we REALLY did something in keeping with our very crazy brother's life. (I suggested having that scene from "A Beautiful Mind" where Russel Crowe is looking at that big board of numbers and equations as our backdrop; she thought we could change it to a mosaic of the thousands of notes on index cards that was our brother's way of organizing stuff.) As my nickname implies, I am willing to push a few buttons and ruffle a few feathers by playing Patty Smith. Plus, I am long gone and live far away from this community so what have I got to lose?

Anyway, like all things concerning our brother, the physical and mental price is being paid in many ways: Cost of clean-up at the house? $25,000. Cost of finding his body after three weeks? Well, Jeckle's back has gone out and her hives are acting up again. Cost of me coming face-to-face with all my Hyde (brother) demons? Priceless.

Hell's Kitchen

Saturday, June 7, 2008. The phone rings. 7:45 a.m. Pacific time.
"Hello?"
"Wormy...?"
"Is mom dead? What's happened? What's wrong?!"
"Your brother is dead!"

And thus began the final chapter of "In a Nutshell: A Southern Gothic Tale."

Like all good Southern tales, this one is full of sick humor, like the title of this post. It refers to the fact that our brother's body was found by Jeckle and her husband in his kitchen, approximately three weeks after his actual death. And it refers to the fact that the kitchen was in our parents' house, and the mess he left behind will lead to floor boards, base boards, linoleum, and cabinets being ripped out and furniture and drapes being thrown away.