He was a very average boy in a family of above average overachievers, and he knew it. He readily accepted that he would not be the one put in charge of anything. And yet, what he lacked in intellect he made up for with a winning smile and overwhelming determination. I still see him and my oldest brother sitting at the dining room table going over the Drivers Handbook when he turned 15 and was ready to get his learner’s permit:
“What does green mean Ezell?”
“Green means GO.”
“What does red mean?”
“Red means STOP.”
“And yellow, what does that mean?”
“BEAT THE RED!!”
“Well I hope you don’t say that on the test!!”
That is an episode that plays over and over in my head and each time I laugh as I recall his eager face as he shouts out those words. He passed his driving test by the way.
Or the time at twelve when I was most proud of him and knew he would be just fine once he went out into the world. I had just graduated from college and had my first apartment. He had only been there once and wasn’t clear on the directions. But one day he set out to ride 13 miles on his bike and navigate unknown streets until he figured it out and found me. He was not a bicyclist or into fitness for that matter. He just wanted to prove to himself that if he wanted to he could find me. “I thought about giving up a lot of times but I just refused to until I found you” he said with an expression that was both proud and weary. It was on that day that I knew he would fill in any empty spaces with rock hard determination. From there he went on to graduate high school, get a CDL license, and drive those huge trucks that move dirt to make a pretty decent living.
I remember too the day I heard about the stroke and then went to see him everyday in the hospital. Even though he could not talk or move most of his body, his eyes spoke loud and clear. I smile now when I think how he rolled those eyes when I told him to help his recovery I would read to him every day. I selected “Call of the Wild” by Jack London, a guy’s kind of book full of adventure. Those eyes told the tale every day when they lit up as he anticipated the action of the next chapter. The recovery was not meant to be but the bond we struck as I took care of my little brother could not be broken even in death.
Funerals are a strange time. You come with all these ideas about who the person is (those memories of childhood) and then people step forward and tell you stories about a side of the person you somehow never got a chance to see. I learned that it always bothered him that he did not have a middle name and so to compensate selected the middle name “Troy”. One woman stepped forward and remembered him as such an agreeable person “that if he didn’t like you then there was no hope that anyone could.”
Later, as I stood watching them lowering the casket, I remember thinking he might feel alone there in the ground all by himself. But just as quickly the thought popped into my head of him laughing and telling me jokes in his funny way. And once again I could see my little brother running through the house full of energy and anticipation.