Eulogizing Kim Kinney

My brother was a good man. I think we buried him 17 years ago today. I think this because I'm not really certain. I was, as ever back then, drunk as a dog. I remember what I wore to the wake, a torn but handmade sleeveless cotton blouse that did little to hide my tracks. The celebration was huge. He had quite a following: east coasters, a judge from the Supreme Court of Alaska. I remember this guy particularly because I wouldn't have expected him to become a judge. Jeff. In my family we grew up with a Boston Terrier named Penny who farted like no dog I've known before or since. My brother's friends would visit, and the commentary was predicatable. People who knew that dog still blame her for their flatulence. Many, many years later, Jeff sent us a Christmas card, a shiny photograph of cellophane wrapped peppermint candy. Inside was blank but for this handwritten question: Is Penny dead yet?

Anyway, I digress. My brother, of all of us five, was the best one. Everyone of us liked him best. It was hard not to, the rest of us were such shits. I often think any of the rest of could have died (and now, some have) and it would have been better. He was an architect, designed many buildings along the Sunshine Coast of Canada. He made his own rootbeer, pickles and could play Sweet Georgia Brown on the banjo. I don't think he really got it right, but who cares? The end of his life was the beginning of mine, and for that, I owe his memory my attention, at least one day out of each year.

Tomorrow is 17 years for me. 17 years without the bane of my existence, without the elixer that seemed like life to me. I used to say, "My past is like a mad dog, snapping at my heels, keeping me ever vigilant to the danger I am capable of embracing." Now, I think that's overstating it a bit, but looking back, as I often do on these days, it was a little scary. I certainly couldn't have managed it sober.

Next topic: I sold my bike to Larry and his Green Garden Cart. Once again, calling Larry a gardner may be overstating it a bit, but if you've been paying attention, I'm always overstating stuff. He mows. I put my bike, my single-gear cruiser, in the Thrifties for 125 bucks. Got 120. Paid 189 two years ago, so did well, I think. I'm buying the Aero6 deluxe by KHS. It's a little flashy for me, but the Division street bike shop, 7 corners cycle and fitness, is making me a good deal. It is olive green with buckskin-colored seat and handle bars. Kind of the color of a John Deere tractor, like the windmill out back, if you'll recall. ....Well, Larry's mother, it turns out, called me and arranged to see the bike. You never know who'll answer these things and it's always an adventure to meet new people. A farm couple (you could tell) came waddling up the sidewalk, calling out house numbers as they went. 2587! "Keep going Larry. It might be the next one." I figured it was them so flagged them over. "You interested in my bike?"

She didn't look like she could ride a rocking chair, let alone a bicycle. "Is it for you?" My husband asked her. "Oh my nO, its for the boy." Well, I looked around and couldn't see a boy. Then, the oversized fellow in overalls raised up his head from whatever it was he had been inspecting on the sidewalk and I realized this was not her husband. It was her son, this was "the boy." And this was why they needed a single-geared model. (I have to insert here that selling the only bike I could figure out how to operate to a developmentally delayed person balanced my world for a minute.) Larry does yard work in NE Portland. So, the bike is gone now, and on to the next one. This friday.

We went to April's wedding, a full-fledged stargazing blowout, complete with unity candles, lillies and a relapsed drunk in the wedding party. Memorable. I made a fresh peach pie. I can be nice.