I saw a movie the other night, “In Order of Disappearance.” It was pretty violent, drug wars, etc., but the snowy Norwegian landscape was breathtaking, and the snow plows ... My memories of riding in Pop’s snowplow are so beautiful that despite the violence, I watched the movie twice.

I called my brother and told him to watch the movie—to fast forward past violence and just see the snow blowing and the Norwegian snowscapes. And, to remember our wondrous youth.

He said no.

“Why?"

"Because of those two little kids who were killed by the plow."

Two children in a neighboring town had burrowed into the bank and made a fort which a plow operator didn’t see, and they were killed. That news impacted my Pop horribly, having operated the same type of machinery. He was an engineer, but loved to run the snowplow—until then. After that, we were disallowed any snow forts.

I wanted so badly for my brother to see the movie—to relive our memories. But he said no. It was one news story in another town altogether that had hurt his heart so deeply that his own good memories vanished.

Clearly, the memory of those children should be honored, and the cautionary tale must be told. But, my brother’s heart was broken forever. My heart hurting is one thing, but his heart hurting is more than I can bear. It’s been over sixty years, and he still couldn’t think of the snow or the plow with any other thought than the news story of those children. I understand.

How many of our hearts are scarred by an event, even a news event, that impacts a distant family? I bet many.

My dad became hypersensitive when his step-grandson went to the bathroom as a little boy. My stepsister and stepmom were wondering what was up with that when their five-year old needed to go potty while we were at a restaurant.

They thought he was fine to go by himself. I explained in their absence about a cousin, once removed, who was the same age as their son when he was killed in a restaurant bathroom from playing with the hand towel roller. His parents went to see what was taking him so long. He was found hanging from the towel loop that went around and around.

(His was the saddest funeral I had been to in my short fifteen years on the planet when he died. I used to babysit him and his sisters before that happened. He was the cutest little boy ever with strawberry blonde hair and a freckled face, like a little Tom Sawyer.)

He didn't even look deceased in his casket. Just looked like he was taking a nap.

My stepmom and stepsister were so grateful once I told them that.. then they understood why dad got up from the table to accompany his step-grandson to the lavatory.



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 05/08/2019 11:44AM by Amyjo.

Those towel machines were done away with for many good reasons.

The lessons need to remain, but how do people’s hearts ever heal? Maybe the human condition is that our hearts can’t heal knowing something so awful ever happened to another.

kathleen Wrote:
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> Maybe the human condition is
> that our hearts can’t heal knowing something so
> awful ever happened to another.

Evolutionarily it seems requisite to remember things that could cause harm. Our emotions get entangled but our biological imperative might be at work here.

Emotion is the indelible stamp imprinted on memory to say, "Pay attention to this!", "This is important!"

Sometimes rather than protect us, it results in denial and avoidance that can also take away our joy.

Mom couldn't bear the sight of dahlias. As a very young child, she lost her beloved father, the only one in the world who seemed to truly love her. All that seemed left of her father's life in those painful days following the funeral were the fading, brittle petals of dahlia bouquets rescued from the cemetery.

auntsukey Wrote:
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> Mom couldn't bear the sight of dahlias. As a very
> young child, she lost her beloved father, the only
> one in the world who seemed to truly love her.

Hopefully as she matured this changed?

My mom had a similar experience at age 8. He Dad died on Christmas Day. Someone put a Christmas wreath on their door. She hated those forever.

It turned out to be my atheist Dad who made Christmas wonderful for us kids. She just couldn’t.

We go on. We "have no choice."

My little brother has a lot of pain. I was like his mother as I was 11 when he was born and my parents had my other disabled brother who was 3 years older than him to deal with. So he was mine. He still is. BUT I can't save him from his pain, but I am there for him. I try to do what I can for him to make it so he has some relief. I feel the same for my kids. Watching them in pain has been the most difficult part of my life.

But I think the thing I remember and he and I will never forget, yet he was 3, was the night our brother got hit by a pickup and I saw the whole thing. He followed me into the bathroom as I was screaming. He closed the door and told me he would not let the boogy man get me. He texted me that same thing a few weeks ago--he is 50 and I'm 61.

cl2 Wrote:
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> He closed the door and told me he would
> not let the boogy man get me. He texted me that
> same thing a few weeks ago--he is 50 and I'm 61.

That is beautiful, Cl2. :)

How is your brother who was hit by the truck doing now? Please tell us he didn’t die.

He was hurt pretty bad and was in a coma for a week. I e-mailed you, but I thought I should say something for others on the board. He was in the hospital 2-1/2 weeks. He had to be held back for school that year, but he was already considered low IQ at that time I believe as he had a stroke at birth.

He is 53 and is disabled intellectually and physically, but he does live alone in my parents' home and our older brother checks up on him (who had a brain bleed at age 42 and he is 66--and is disabled himself). My 53 year old brother can drive. He has epilepsy, but that was from his stroke at birth. My 66-year-old brother can't drive. He lost his peripheral vision with his brain bleed and another work accident when working on oil rigs.

Anyway, that was one of those nights I'll forever remember. It was dusk and the sparks flew as he was on his bike. I just happened to get up and look out the window when it happened.

He served a mission. I don't know what they were thinking when they sent him.

He had some excellent friends in high school, one of whom STILL looks after him after all these years. He had good self-esteem--my brother did. He came home from his mission a changed person. He does well, but has never recovered from the treatment he had on his mission.

BUT I must say that there are several kids he grew up with who are mormon who watch out for him and do so many things for him. One lives across the street and he and his wife are like my brother's parents. We don't know what we'd do without them. They loved my mother and promised her they'd watch out for him.

Thank God for big sisters.
:)

CL,

Very sorry about your brothers. Glad they did make it through even though their lives are not easy.

Kathleen's post is one of my great fears. I've heard of that happening. So many things you just don't anticipate.

My brothers do well. My mother would be proud. So would my dad, but it was my mother who worried endlessly about them and who would watch out for them after she died. People have amazed me. Sometimes I become really cynical, but if I write about my brothers, then I remember how good people can be and that there are actually good mormons out there.

How typical of Mormondoms to get hypersensitive over objectionable material in movies and books. Their loss, they are missing out on some great entertainment. Retards.