top of page

In Loving Memory

Perhaps my farm page isn't the proper place to honor my beloved brother, father and best friend cat. But I can't bear to post things about my grief on Facebook. Yet I feel it's important to honor these 3. I know it's odd to include a cat in a Memorial; I don't care. It's been 3 years since I had to euthanize Red, and I still cry over him today.


My brother, Chris, was also my best friend. We did alot together; we talked on the phone all the time; we spent many an hour on the lakes, competing to see who could out fish the other.


On January 11th, 2021, he lost his battle with alcoholism.


My brother was a good man, with a heart the size of Texas; a personality that glowed, a smile that lit up any room, and pranks that never stopped. He was made of grit and determination. His paralysis (car wreck at age 17) never stopped him. He was an avid outdoorsman and hunter. He worked for a living, refused to park in handicap spaces, refused an electric wheelchair even as his shoulders and elbows deteriorated, and refused to buy a smaller truck to make loading and unloading easier.


But he was an alcoholic. And it killed him.


Two years ago he drowned in a kayaking accident. He was brought back from death, but he was never the same. From health issues to mental issues (both a mild brain injury from the drowning and what I believe to be his finally realizing that he was mortal and could, and would, die), we all knew Chris was changed, and not for the better.

His alcoholism, which had steadily gotten worse year after year, became a raging beast that devoured him.

On January 11th, 2021, my brother went to sleep with a blood alcohol level in the .50 range.

He drifted off to sleep in a drunken stupor as was his norm, and never woke back up.

His brain forgot to breath, to pump his heart, to live. His brain just...forgot.

His beautiful blue eyes closed one last time. His beautiful smile became one last rattled breath. His beautiful heart became a quiet, lifeless thing.

His spirit drifted free of its earthly prison and flew. For the first time in 21 years, my brother was free of his demons, his body of pain and regrets, his wounds - both physical and mental, and that "damn wheelchair" he hated. His spirit drifted free from the chains of alcohol, from the chains of embarrassment and guilt. He fell asleep a prisoner. He awoke free.

I only hope that one day, I will take solace in those truths and not miss him so damned badly. And not be so damned mad at him for leaving me, all of us, behind.

bottom of page