Remembering Maurice

Dear Richie,

I read the poem that Melissa sent out, the one you wrote for your dad in school. It was such a beautiful recognition of the bond the two of you shared, how much you looked up to and admired him and what a large presence he was in your world. And it really resonated with me, because that was a bit what it was like growing up with Maurice as my big brother.

 

I don’t know how much he told you about our childhood, but Maurice, Julie and I were a bit like the 3 Musketeers. But while Julie knew exactly when to challenge your dad about one of his crazier ideas, or, as was often the case, suggest something even more insane, I kind of followed the two of them around, just so grateful they allowed me in on their schemes.

 

I’m assuming you’ve heard the by-now-infamous story of the time he shot my finger with the BB gun and then tackled me in the yard to make sure I didn’t run into the house, screaming and crying my eyes out, and getting him into BIG trouble. But that little anecdote misses the whole story of that BB gun. I remember when he got it (maybe as a Christmas gift?) and how excited he was to take it into the yard and shoot at 7-Up cans on the fence. I spent what seemed like countless hours hanging out with him as he shot that gun. And the reason I spent all that time by his side is that, as long as I helped replace the cans, he’d also let me shoot this gun that meant so much to him. Despite your dad giving me all sorts of instructions about how to aim and hold the gun steady, I never really got the hang of it. So I was in awe of how good he got over time, how he could pick those cans off one by one. I suppose that was why I let him talk me into holding one for him that time. Also, let’s be honest, I was never very successful at talking your dad out of any of his ideas.

 

Growing up basically in the dead center of nowhere, we spent hours and hours, entire afternoons, exploring on our bikes. I remember so many times when your dad would be like, “I just discovered this cool new [place, or trail, or whatever]…. C’mon. I’ll show you.” And off we’d go. I have really vivid memories of cycling as fast as I could to keep up with him, one time in particular sticks out, racing through the woods under a canopy of green trees in the sticky heat of an Ohio summer. I remember always feeling like I had no idea where we were, no idea how to get back home, and I was obviously never as fast as he was. But he never left me behind. He always got us back home again. Those memories pop into my mind all the time now when Marco and I go cycling in the woods around our home here in Germany.

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Another very vivid memory I have of your dad is his room at the farm. As I’m sure you know, the rest of us were doubled- or tripled-up in our rooms, while Maurice had his own, so already it had a sort of mystical quality to me, this single bedroom, all his. He had this KISS poster on the wall (don’t laugh, there was time in the 70s when they were very cool). But I was a couple of years younger and that poster just scared the crap out of me. Those weird guys with the white face paint, jumpsuits and platform shoes, sticking their tongues out. I remember being really afraid of it, wondering how on earth he could get to sleep with those guys staring at him from the wall, and I would avoid looking at it when I was in there. At one point, he had a drum kit in his room, I’m guessing he was probably in junior high at that time. He used to bang the crap of that drum set. I may be remembering incorrectly, but I think he basically pounded a hole in the snare. Your dad always had great taste in music. He introduced me to the Talking Heads when we were in high school. He made sure his little sisters were introduced to the finer elements of rock and roll, he had no patience for 80s pop.

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When I started high school as a freshman, Julie was a sophomore and Maurice a senior. A really cool senior, on the wrestling squad, with cool friends. But for some reason, your dad had absolutely no problem on the weekends bringing Julie and I along to all the parties. I remember distinctly getting into parties where there were no other freshmen, because I was with Maurice, and no one ever questioned him on it, as far as I know. He never complained about us tagging along, in fact, unless I’m just humoring myself, he actually seemed to like having us along. Same thing when his friends would come over to the house. I don’t ever remember him trying to get rid of his annoying little sister. And I was just in awe of all of them, so I must have been at least a little annoying. Also, I spent my entire high school career, even long after he’d graduated, listening to the girls in my class swoon over my brother. There was one girl in particular, Nathalie, who never seemed to get the hint that I had no interest in setting her up with Maurice.

 

One time when he was still at the University of Dayton, I went down and hung out with him for a weekend. I’m pretty sure Julie was there as well. Again, he let us hang out with all of his friends the whole time. He had a couple of friends there that he had also gone to high school with, and 1 or 2 of them were in a band. I have a really vivid memory of going to hear them play one afternoon in a big parking lot somewhere, and one of the songs they covered was U2’s “I Will Follow”. It was a sunny afternoon, I’m sure we were drinking beers, and your dad was rockin’ out to that song, having a blast. That was a great weekend.

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I don’t know how much, if anything, you remember about my wedding, but I was so happy that he let you skip school and brought you over for that. It certainly wasn’t a short and easy trip from California. And it was only 3 weeks after 9-11. Lots of people were very afraid to fly at that point. It probably wasn’t an easy decision for him as a parent to bring you along, but as you know, he loved an excuse to travel somewhere new. Toward the end of the reception, he stood up and gave a toast. Your dad wasn’t big on public speaking, so I was very touched (it may have had something to do with all the wine and grappa that had been passed around over the course of the afternoon). Anyway, I don’t remember exactly what he said, although I’m sure it was something about being grateful for the welcome they had received from the Italians and welcoming Marco and his family into ours. He stood beside me as he gave the toast, so that I could translate it into Italian. After 20 years, there is a lot I don’t remember about my wedding day. But I remember that moment so vividly, my handsome big brother, a little shy but also just so charming, standing next to me on one of the biggest days of my life. 

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And your dad made quite an impression on my mother-in-law and her old Italian lady friends. My MIL said he looked like a Hollywood movie star. She asked about him frequently over the years and every time she would say, “Che bell’uomo.” What a handsome man. I always thought I did your dad an enormous favor by not having a band and dancing at my reception, because he would have spent the entire time dodging tipsy old Italian women trying to get him in their clutches.

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These are just some stream of consciousness memories that have been flooding back over the last few days that I wanted to share with you. I wanted you to know that your dad loomed so large in the lives of the many people who knew him and loved him. And all those traits you recognized in him even as a child were there all along, his strength, his grace, his radiant beauty. Except wisdom, that came later. When we were kids and especially in high school, he came up with some pretty harebrained ideas…….