"In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You--only you--will have stars that can laugh!" And he laughed again. "And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me..." The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint Exupery
I love you, my dear brother: Alan Jon Fortney Nov. 18, 1938 - June 21, 2019
I Remember
I have a vague
recollection of a goose approaching me, and I was scared and crying, and later,
found out it was you who rescued me.
When I tried
to put crayon marks on my face (which didn’t work) and tried to impersonate an
Indian in a blanket, calling myself, “Me, Big Chief”, you guys ran to the top
of the stairs. I thought I’d fooled you
with my disguise, and you said, “Oh, yes, we were fooled, but the Big Chief
Indian is going to bed.”
I remember
you impersonating the Tomte Gub, when I found no money in the glass in the
bathroom, but also, no tooth.
You didn’t
know another little boy was tormenting me at Stony Lake Bible Camp, and telling
me my parents had left and were never coming back. So, I left him there in the
camper and crawled into your lap at the mess hall. The campers were doing a
puppet show, putting their heads through cardboard circles, and using their
hands for feet. When I went back, the
little boy was anxious and worried and wondered why I’d left him. I didn’t feel sorry for him…ever.
I remember
when you fell down the stairs and broke your arm. All I saw was a white spot, and Dad said, “He
broke it.” And I remember when we visited you from the ground at Hackley Hospital,
when you had polio, and you were talking to us from the upstairs window.
I remember
when we buried you in the sand on the beach in North Muskegon.
I remember
you inviting me to the home movies, movies, and cartoons, and including me. You
helped me watch “Winky Dink” on TV, trying to manipulate a plastic drawing that
clung, so W.D. could parachute, but then, the picture moved.
I remember
you shoveling manure or something for a garden on Prospect, and saying you were
going to grow ponies.
I remember when
you and Steve put Tomahawk in marking tape on your suitcases to hitchhike, and
when you arrived, made Mom laugh uncontrollably.
I Remember
(2) I remember when we went swimming in Crystal Lake, how we formed a pyramid,
with you on the bottom, then, Laurel, then, me at the top. I can’t remember how that turned out.
I remember when
you invited me to go with you to your girlfriend’s house, who was also my
swimming teacher, and I tasted my first pizza.
I remember
you talking to me a lot when you were at the University, and encouraging me,
theatrically.
I remember
you having me take milk of magnesia to “clean me out”, as I was in stomach
pain.
I remember
your articles in the Courier-Hub, and how Dad was so proud of them, he
collected them in a scrapbook.
I remember
you getting off the Greyhound Bus from Europe, smiling and waving, and we were
so surprised your beard was red.
I remember
walking with you, and you were wearing Lederhosen.
I remember
singing with you and the guitar, for others, and also visiting people.
I remember
calling you in Madison when I was feeling sad, and you told me to read Ian
Fleming’s novel, DR. NO.
I remember
calling you on your birthday, and you talking about my future, because you
remembered me doing a song and dance routine in the Prospect Street
basement. And there were countless other
advice giving sessions, like how we could get a house. You looked at our house,
with a sparkle in your eyes, and claimed it was already ours.
I remember,
before emails, Mom was worried about me not calling her. So, you called and
heard me try to talk with laryngitis, and laughed. So you could tell her I wasn’t really able to
talk.
I remember
when I was in the grocery store, getting a call on my cell, picking up my cell
anxiously, when I saw it was you. And
you laughed. I always remember how you laugh, and most of all, how you always
included me.
3) More
memories:
I think I
was looking down the stairs at Sunday School at the church on Yuba Street, and
you were telling me, excitedly, that Boots (the feral cat I’d picked up, I
think) had 9 kittens. I made a “house” for them in a box, not knowing that they
actually like boxes. After awhile, the cat and kittens disappeared. Maybe Mom
and Dad gave them away. So lately, I’ve
wondered if that’s why you went to get our dog, Lucky.
I remember
you played the flute, which I wanted to play, but I got pushed by a band
director into playing the clarinet and never succeeded. That was my first lesson that I should do
what I want to do.
I remember
when I went to visit you with Mom and Dad at your UW apartment where you lived
with our other brothers. I was wearing
this caramel colored bouffant wig that could be turned into a hat. Dad thought I’d dyed my hair, looked at me,
and said; “oog!” when we informed him it was actually a hat. I took it off, and you put it on, in its
state of disarray, and typed on your typewriter.
I remember,
later, you hid behind the kitchen door and had me find you before our wedding.
I remember never
landing for Christmas, first to Madison, then, to LaCrosse, then, to
Minneapolis, and you were coaching me on the pay phones all the way back. You said, not to worry, the pilots kept doing
this, because they were smart.
I don’t know
if it was the same Christmas, but you came back from a basketball game, with an
intent look in your eyes, stating that Alex broke his arm, like you had to
remedy it. Maybe that’s because you knew
what that was like.
Christmas Eve, 2019: At church and on a walk, all I could think of was how I got a fur-trimmed coat from my parents for Christmas Eve. They insisted I sing in the choir, as usual for the service, which was in the balcony in the back, and I didn't want to. My now late brother Alan, was the only one who figured out and understood that I wanted to wear my coat in the sanctuary and told our parents. I don't know if he talked our parents into letting me skip or not. I think he did. First Christmas (Eve) without him. Love you and miss you, dear brother.
