ProetryPlace: Remembrance for Ronnie

REMEMBERANCE

I had not seen my brother, Ronnie, for five or six years when I visited him with my sister, Audrey, in a nursing home last Thanksgiving. The occasional, brief telephone conversations had ceased, too, as he had fallen deeper and deeper into the chasm called Alzheimer’s disease. At Thanksgiving, he made no sign to acknowledge our presence, much less recognize that we were the siblings of his youth. He seemed essentially unaware of his surroundings, his condition, his self. He displayed no distress, nor any joy.

Ronnie died early in the morning of 28 May 2014. He was 85.

I have other, better memories of my brother from our youth and from our adult years. Being four years, three months my senior, Ronnie was a mentor to me in many ways. He taught me lessons in self-defense that proved valuable dealing with schoolyard bullies. Other lessons were less overt, learned simply by unconscious observation and emulation of an older male figure in my life.

Not all that he taught me worked out well, however. He taught me how to hold a baseball bat, how to keep my eye on the pitch and how to swing. Then he taught me to throw the ball high in the air and hit it on the way down in order to practice solo hitting. So I threw the ball high in the air, kept my eye fixed on its descent and swung. Ronnie meanwhile had decided to play a little trick by dashing in to snatch the ball before I connected. He was successful, except I connected with his forehead instead of the ball. It raised a nice egg that he explained somehow to our mother. Had I swung harder I would have cracked his skull like an egg shell.

One fall afternoon Ron invented a new and exciting game. Woody stalks of some plant had grown tall and tough at the end of our backyard—perfect for fashioning into spears about an inch in diameter with the pocket knife he carried. The hewing and sharpening done, we stood across the yard from each other, a distance of about 55 feet, each armed with a handcrafted spear. The object of the game: dodge the projectile hurled at you by your opponent. I got the first throw. Ronnie zigged when he should have zagged, and the spear struck and stood jutting straight out from his lower leg just as we were called in for supper.

Ron always had a fascination with and an aptitude for mechanical things. His high school education included many practical “shop” courses where mine focused on literature, science and math. After high school, he owned a series of ever-grander motor vehicles that got as much tinker time as riding time. The first was a Cushman motor scooter, soon superseded by a motorcycle of the style seen in WWI movies. Being underage, I was not allowed to drive these exciting vehicles except in my imagination as I sat on them while stationary.

Ron soon graduated to four wheels. The first car was a vintage, black Packard coupe that proved too much for even his mechanical skills. By the time I was in high school he was driving a beautiful, yellow Plymouth convertible. This time I got to drive. Without my asking, he lent me that dream-chariot to pick up my date for the school prom—only after instructing me in the proper etiquette of door-holding for young ladies (and a few other tips).

Ron was stationed in Germany with the Army where he was assigned to the motor pool. I sent him some money to help him buy a Volkswagen. When he returned home, he insisted on buying me a new suit and topcoat as repayment I did not ask for or expect. He was married to Virginia Ware while I was serving my own duty with the Army in France. Shortly after I returned home he stood at my side as best man at my wedding to Dolly Krahn in January 1955. Later that year he and Ginny asked me to sponsor their first born, Lauree, at her baptism.

Ronnie had a long career with ATT. His first job there and the one he liked best was telephone installer. He loved climbing the tall wooden poles with his strap-on spikes and heavy leather belt as aids. He thought it was great sport and won some company climbing competitions. Closer to retirement, he installed and maintained mainframe computer equipment. It was a job that called on his intellect and ability with electronics more than physical ability. I thought it curious that later, when PCs hit the consumer market, he never owned one.

Ron and Ginny visited Dolly and me in Pennsylvania while I was completing my graduate courses and research at Penn State, but later, our lives intersected more rarely as our families and domestic responsibilities grew. After my degree, I took a job with Kimberly-Clark Corporation in Neenah, Wisconsin, some 90 miles north of Menomonee Falls where Ron and Ginny built their home. I recall remarking on one of our visits there about the beautiful cabinetry in the family room. I should not have been surprised to learn that Ron had designed and built it.

He designed and built kites too and flew them in exhibitions and competitions. I often think of Ron that way now, skillfully guiding his beautiful creation, flying high in the bright blue sky.