brother marc

For those of you who missed it, the blog was black for a minute. I changed to this parchment-like template because everyone uses the black and I AM DIFFERENT. I do wish, however, that I could make the title "bluesky" blue.

My fucking arm hurts fucking bad. I just got home from therapy. It is helping. My range of motion is much improved, but jeez.

Back to moving (see previous post.) My brother Marc always let me live with his family. He was big on the Waltons, and I think kind of viewed himself as the benevolent John Walton. My father died when I was eight, and Marc was pretty interested in replacing him -- or so it always seemed to me, the much younger sister. He was bossy, but mostly drunk, so it came off not all that seriously. It is nearly the third anniversary of his death, death by whiskey. He lived the last year and a half of his life whiskey-free, but it was too little, too late, and his liver finally gave up the long battle. I remember the last months of his life, taking him for long, methadone drives, listening to Southern Man, and Down By The River, and best of all, Wooden Ships. When I lived on his porch, or in his garage, or in the spare room, or on the couch, we'd sit all day long, playing acoustic guitars, watching the Gong Show and smoking weed. We did not have jobs, we had children and welfare and free cheese and canned pork and bulgar. If you don't know what bulgar is, you missed the commodity food era--standing in line with other people's children, coaching them to call you mommy to get more food, filling the van with lentils and pinto beans and real butter and powdered milk enough for a month. Pre-food stamps. We fed the spam-like canned meat to the dogs.