Michael had big plans.
He was working on the old barn behind his old house, which he and his wife had bought less than a year earlier. The barn looked tired. Some of the posts showed bug-nibbled rot. Some of the windowpanes were gone. But Michael saw it for what it was: a beautiful red barn, solid where it counted, capable of wrapping its walls around all sorts of memories we would have forever. He was nearly finished converting a portion of it into an exercise room (including a sauna). There were plans for a wine cellar in which you could host a dinner for 12, and a party space with a floor girded for dancing and twinkly lights in the ceiling.
I told Mike that my neighbor Andy had a tool he was trying to get rid of and asked did he want it. Andy works at a firehouse, and it's not unusual for him to send me a text asking if I want some odd thing one of the guys brought in. ("Do you want a vacuum sealer? Brand new." "Do you need any scrap metal picked up?" "Do you like pound cake?") This time it was a vintage Craftsman shaper, a four-legged machine that can create customized decorative wood moldings—and that must have weighed 150 pounds.
When I texted Mike asking if he wanted it, those little dots bubbled up within seconds, signaling that he was typing a reply. I already knew his answer.
That's how the three of us ended up in Andy's driveway on the day after Christmas, 2020. This was in the pre-vaccine Covid days, and we stood outside wearing masks and fist-bumping holiday wishes. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear sky, so bright that everything looked like it was in high-definition. After a few shivering minutes, Andy and Mike lifted the machine into Mike's SUV. "Don't worry, we got it," Andy said to me—Mike laughed at that. (I was, after all, his little brother, if only by 14 months.) The thing was heavy, but they were both healthy 40-somethings and they slid it in the back with only minimal whining.
"Beautiful," Mike said, flipping the tailgate closed. "This will be great."
This will be great. Mike's life was a successive series of plans hatched, schemes dreamed up, and visions sketched out on envelopes and legal pads. He won the egg-drop challenge in sixth grade. He replaced the engine in his go-cart with the engine from our father's lawnmower—then removed the safety bar, to make it go faster. He opened a restaurant when he was 23. Twenty years later he conceived and launched Tentrr, a national network of privately owned campsites. And even when he couldn't will some dream into reality, the rest of us were left standing there watching him, smiling, shaking our heads. We marveled at him because he tried.
As he got into his car in Andy's driveway, I didn't hug him—hugging still wasn't a thing at this point in the pandemic. But we made plans to get our families together to exchange gifts on the first warm day that week. We said, "Merry Christmas."
We said, "Okay, love you. See you soon."
He drove off with his new shaper, so pleased.
The next morning, my father called at 8:30. I can still hear his voice now, and in my memory he sounds confused, and wounded, as if he's forcing himself to speak, as I am now forcing myself somehow to type the words he said next: "Michael died in his sleep last night."
Michael had big plans.
He was working on the old barn behind his old house, which he and his wife had bought less than a year earlier. The barn looked tired. Some of the posts showed bug-nibbled rot. Some of the windowpanes were gone. But Michael saw it for what it was: a beautiful red barn, solid where it counted, capable of wrapping its walls around all sorts of memories we would have forever. He was nearly finished converting a portion of it into an exercise room (including a sauna). There were plans for a wine cellar in which you could host a dinner for 12, and a party space with a floor girded for dancing and twinkly lights in the ceiling.
I told Mike that my neighbor Andy had a tool he was trying to get rid of and asked did he want it. Andy works at a firehouse, and it's not unusual for him to send me a text asking if I want some odd thing one of the guys brought in. ("Do you want a vacuum sealer? Brand new." "Do you need any scrap metal picked up?" "Do you like pound cake?") This time it was a vintage Craftsman shaper, a four-legged machine that can create customized decorative wood moldings—and that must have weighed 150 pounds.
When I texted Mike asking if he wanted it, those little dots bubbled up within seconds, signaling that he was typing a reply. I already knew his answer.
That's how the three of us ended up in Andy's driveway on the day after Christmas, 2020. This was in the pre-vaccine Covid days, and we stood outside wearing masks and fist-bumping holiday wishes. The sun shone brilliantly in a clear sky, so bright that everything looked like it was in high-definition. After a few shivering minutes, Andy and Mike lifted the machine into Mike's SUV. "Don't worry, we got it," Andy said to me—Mike laughed at that. (I was, after all, his little brother, if only by 14 months.) The thing was heavy, but they were both healthy 40-somethings and they slid it in the back with only minimal whining.
"Beautiful," Mike said, flipping the tailgate closed. "This will be great."
This will be great. Mike's life was a successive series of plans hatched, schemes dreamed up, and visions sketched out on envelopes and legal pads. He won the egg-drop challenge in sixth grade. He replaced the engine in his go-cart with the engine from our father's lawnmower—then removed the safety bar, to make it go faster. He opened a restaurant when he was 23. Twenty years later he conceived and launched Tentrr, a national network of privately owned campsites. And even when he couldn't will some dream into reality, the rest of us were left standing there watching him, smiling, shaking our heads. We marveled at him because he tried.
As he got into his car in Andy's driveway, I didn't hug him—hugging still wasn't a thing at this point in the pandemic. But we made plans to get our families together to exchange gifts on the first warm day that week. We said, "Merry Christmas."
We said, "Okay, love you. See you soon."
He drove off with his new shaper, so pleased.
The next morning, my father called at 8:30. I can still hear his voice now, and in my memory he sounds confused, and wounded, as if he's forcing himself to speak, as I am now forcing myself somehow to type the words he said next: "Michael died in his sleep last night." |
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