My Brother's Journal

I think my desire to write comes quite naturally.  My paternal grandmother often wrote prose and poetry, as does my dad.  My mother writes, too; Lovely words expressing moments in time, and feelings.  What I didn't know is  what a good writer my brother was.  Perhaps, the  best writer in our family.   That was a delightful discovery I  made this past weekend.

Although Walt lived in St. Louis, he stored many of his things at our mother's home, including a mid size duffel bag. Whenever he came to visit he'd go into  the garage to check on his  stuff, and would  point to the duffel bag telling  mom he didn't want her to ever toss it out, but didn't want her to open it.  She never did. It became kind of a family joke - "What the heck could Walt have in that bag, and why was he so secretive about it ?"  Mom would just shrug her shoulders and say, " I don't know, but your brother told me not to get into it, and I'm not going to."

That changed on Sunday.  Since my brother has been gone almost a year, I told our mother it was time to open the bag.  So that's what we did. No hundred dollar bills or rare coins, something much more meaningful - greeting cards and letters from family and friends , mostly dated from the mid to late 1980's - some from the early 1990's .   There were business cards from places Walt worked at while he lived in Phoenix, and lots of pens and pencils.  Then from the bottom of the bag, I lifted a file folder filled with a stack of papers. I saw immediately  it was   Walter's printing, and to my great, happy  surprise found he had kept a journal of sorts.  What a wonderful gift.  His thoughts, his words in his own writing . My eyes opened wide, I excitedly called out, "Mom, look ! Walt wrote these " , then began to read aloud:


by Walter Cooney

#1

What is it 
when they say, " I was touched by love"
I see love in her eyes every 
time I look into them
and when she talks I hear
love in  my ears, when we kiss
I can taste her love 
on my lips, but when I hold
her tight in bed, it's more 
than love, it's two
becoming one.

#2
This is it. The last day.
I have not seen everything there 
is to see, and I do not know 
what every man should know.  My
love for people is enormous, and love
for life even more. But this is it. 
 I ask myself, Where does a man go 
when there's no where to go?
Nothing left to be done
I don't know

# 3

My dad. He must be the smartest man in the world; the smartest man I know.  I could learn so much
from him. His fault is he will not listen to what I have to say, or give me a chance to raise my own opinion.
My mother is my Best Friend. I would , all though I can't talk to her all the time the way I want too.  Mom is always there trying to help me - like no one else. Never once can I remember mom saying, "Walt, you can't do it", or you won't make it. And the same goes for my sister, Kathy - I can't think of anything I am afraid of,
except going to my grave without my mother- sister- father knowing how I love them.


This last one brought tears to our eyes.  In that moment I wished with all my might Walt could be sitting there in that room with us. I wanted to hug my brother,  and tell him we did know how much he loved us, and to say,   "please Walt, always know how very much Mom, Dad and me love you".

                                                                         #


postscript:  These were just a few samples from Walt's journal.  Some of the writing will remain private as he would want it that way, some  I may share from time to time, as I want others to read his words to  see what a good writer he was...  his poems and essays  both  heartwarming and heart wrenching -    presenting a better picture of himself  during that time  than any camera shot ever could.  

*** To read my blog WRITE ON, WRITERS!  and more about my brother's journal please link to
http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/write-on-writers.html

Oh Spring, Where Art Thou ?

A few days ago I wrote a tiny poem about spring  for the Idaho Writers League (IWL) newsletter:

Spring is sunshine,
warmer days and
flowers ready to bloom,
budding trees, blue sky
and birds crooning
their early morning
song, sweet song


But I must have been delusional, or perhaps just hopeful, because there is no spring here.  Not in north Idaho. No warm, sunny days or tulips on the rise. Only

Grey clouds, a charcoal colored sky
rain and wind
slashing, bashing
through the trees,
crashing against the house
Muddy, ruddy earth
soggy ground -
too wet to be outside,
even the deer are hiding.
Where is Spring?
The sunshine and flowers
to lift ones spirit
from the drab freeze of  winter


I don't know, but please
Spring, get here soon.

March 17

Comin' from the Irish (Cooney on me father's side, Norton on me mother's),
I honor the great  St. Padraic  by
 prayin'  his Lorica:

(I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through a confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation),

and  by  wearin' of the green
I  fancy the  wee fairies
and sprite like leprechaun , enjoy a   pint of Guinness
and ancient  Celtic song
I wear the Shamrock proudly
and carry me rosary beads
I'm cookin' Irish stew
and bakin' soda bread
I listen to Irish music

while dancin' an Irish jig

Land of the Rising Sun

i lay on my bed
comfortable and warm
A lamp sits on the nightstand -
bright enough to cast a warm,
shadowy glow across the room; Light
enough for me to read a book
and write my journal pages.
Tonight i think of those
without even a blanket,
let alone a bed
without electricity
or toilet to flush
their crumpled earth
and washed out land
of broken lives,
and loved ones lost -
the people of Japan
Then  i cry,
and hope
and pray
the Rising Sun
will  shine  again

Ashes

 For many Christians Ash Wednesday is  the start of Lent, the forty days prior to Easter when the church  calls us  to reflect upon,  and contemplate more deeply the passion of Christ and   His sacrificial,  redeeming grace ; His  unconditional love for all mankind. For  Catholic Christians, we   are reminded of our own mortality when the priest uses  the sacramental,  blessed  ashes  to mark our forehead in the Sign of the Cross.

Father Jerry,  in his homily tonight made  it very clear about life and death, and   what  really matters. He told about those on the fated flights of 9/11, and how the record shows  many of the  passengers,  knowing they were going to die in a matter of minutes  used their cell phones to call loved ones to say, " Forgive me,  "I'm sorry" and " I love you".  

That sums it up pretty good,  doesn't it ? In the end, when our life on this earth is near over,  it doesn't  matter how much money we have, how famous we are, how educated,  political  or intellectual  we are; What matters most  is how we have loved, and  how we're  loved in return.

Thumbnail Drive

Since my brother's death last May, I'm thankful Kerri and I have remained close.  We text and  talk about television programs and movies we both watch; We talk  about the  weather, work, and other happenings of the day, and  in between  remember  Walt. The thumbnail drive Kerri sent arrived in the mail today.

I hear his voice

and see his face

throwing a Frisbee to his 

dog B

He looks like I remember him,

and acts like he always did;

Unpretentious and jovial,

having fun with life.

If only I could reach out 

to touch his arm,

stand by his side

and throw the Frisbee, too
and laugh together like
we used to do

(But my little  brother
 isn't here, not
 of this world,
 not anymore near;  So I slide
the mouse to  move the cursor
on the screen,  and click 'replay' -
then I see  the blue
of his eyes,  his smile,
and charming style  over and
 over again)

Snow, Seasons, Missy & Spring

Okay.  So I was wrong last week to pack away my snow shoes, winter pants and poles thinking spring was just around the corner.  I had been  fooled by  mild weathered  days,  and sunshine.  Not today. The calendar says March first, but it feels a lot more like January one.   No sun.  No puffy, fluffy cotton like clouds. No hint of blue sky.  Only grey and cold and lots of white - covering the ground like a blanket on a bed.  I'm beginning to think spring in north Idaho might not arrive until summer!  But I'm adaptable.   So once again, out come the snow shoes, poles and winter pants.  I whistled for Missy dog and off we went to forge a path across knee high snow.

 Missy enjoys being outside as much as I do.  Sometimes she takes off to cut her own trail, but when snow is deep, like today,  she  follows  behind me in the ruts I've made packing the snow down with my Yukon Jack's.   I pause and stop along the way to look up and around, awed by the total quiet and beauty of this place.  I offer a prayer of praise, thanking God for seasons and snow and  know when I take this walk in May, I  will think again of the beauty of the season, thankful for spring - warm, sunny days, and flowers in bloom.