Post #27

 

It looks like this picture's hanging on for dear life as far as quality goes.  This is my dear brother Greg, in his classic brown leather jacket, most likely dropping in to see mom during one of his lunch hours.  Greg worked at the CN Humpyard for many years back then.  I remember one time him taking me there as a boy and giving me a tour of the place.  So many trains!  It was quite magical for a little fellow like me.
I see that ashtray beside him by the chair, here.  Greg, besides me, was the only one that never took up the smoking habit in the family.  He must just not have found it to be for him, thank God.  He's rockin' the 'stache here, sometimes going with a full beard throughout that decade.  I have numerous fond memories of him taking me along with his girlfriends back in those days - I remember Paulette, who worked at the ticket wickets at the racetrack; then Elaine came along - I think of going to these cold water springs off of Mapleton Road and filling up all these jugs of water for the summer; then Janet, who he married and had a child named Matt with.  There were a lot of years spent at this apartment they lived in off of Pine Glen Road that had a pool in the back.  I often went to that apartment and made mix tapes with Greg's awesome stereo in those days. Never mind the mix tapes, I just loved being with my brother. 
One stark memory I have of Greg is hearing him throw up in the bathroom when he was still living at 136 in the 70s - he was actually vomiting blood.  He never went to wake anyone up in that early morning, and actually got in his car and drove to the hospital to admit himself.  I remembered him leaving and wondering what was going on.  Turns out he had a bleeding ulcer that got way out of control, and the surgical treatment for it back then was quite archaic.  He was sliced open from his sternum to belly button so they could treat it.  Thank God times have changed so I didn't have to have that done to me when I wound up with my own bleeding ulcer in the mid 80s.
Greg is responsible for me being a drummer.  Back in '78 after Dad had died, I was 12 years old, and discovered KISS through my old friend Darren Myers.  My brother Rick had the old KISS Alive! 8 track, and I'd listen to it on my sister Cindy's stereo in her room, marveling at a song called "100,000 Years", which had this theatric drum solo by Peter Criss.  I'd gather some cardboard boxes from around the house and assemble my own little 'drum set', complete with my own pair of drumsticks I'd whittled out of an old broom handle, and play along to KISS Alive! memorizing every little beat.  Greg must've got wind of things like this.  Because on my 13th birthday, I think, Greg bought this little 2 piece drum set with a hi-hat for $75 from someone at his work to give to me.  I remember that little snare drum, missing the reso head on the bottom, and the snare wires were actually stretched across the top, essentially making it upside down, but I didn't know or care at the time.  It was a real drum set!  I had no idea whatsoever how to play them, but I was determined to figure it out, and I did.  I went on to know how to play enough to jam with my buddy Larry Finn all through my teen years, and we both got better as we went, though he knew more about guitar playing when I first got those drums.  I remember early on playing songs like 'Another One Bites the Dust' by Queen, or 'Cars' by Gary Numan.  From there I learned to play pretty much anything I wanted to know.
I think maybe today, Greg knows how much of an important factor his getting those drums for me was in my life.  It gave me an outlet to focus on and channel that teenage energy into something constructive.  And God knows I needed that.  It was more of a fatherly gesture on Greg's part than a brotherly one, which is to say it's one giant step up.  In fact, I did a lot of firsts because of Greg.  The one time anyone brought me to a golf course was when Greg took me to the old Par 3 here in Moncton.  I was ecstatic at the idea of actually getting to do it!  Whether or not I was any good at it was irrelevant.  Greg took the time to bring me, even after I badgered him that day calling him and calling him to wake him up from a midnight shift slumber to bring me there.  I still remember to this day how to grip a golf club because of what he taught me that day.
He also was the one person who came to see me play league baseball. I was pretty okay playing in the casual neighborhood games with my buddies, but one day when I was a bat boy for the Moncton A&W's senior league hardball team, I was sitting by the fence waiting to fetch a bat after one of the hitters took their turn, when a speeding baseball came for me and smashed me right between the eyes.  I still remember the 'ffffffffFFFFFFTTTTT!' sound when the baseball came at me.  That led to a PTSD issue which I came to realize only in the last number of years; every time I hear that sound, I recoil in fear.  When I played league baseball, I was put right into the Bantam league, as one of the very youngest guys.  The pitchers could throw the ball pretty hard, hard enough that I could hear that fffffffFFFFFTTTTT sound, and I recoiled every single time and struck out just about every single time.  Greg came to see me play once at a baseball field on Elmwood Drive where there's a strip mall now.  He watched me strike out and get benched halfway through the game, which was the norm for me.  But I did manage to hit a foul ball.  After the game, I talked to Greg and said I was sorry I couldn't be better, striking out all the time and getting benched.  Greg, ever the kind optimist, told me, "Mike, at least you got a piece of it, don't be so down on yourself!"  That meant the world to me, at a time no one else ever took any interest in seeing me play.  I felt important, at least for a day.  
So Greg very much played a brother/father role after Dad passed, paying attention to me when no one else often would.  Of course, all my family interacted with me, so I'm not detracting from that.  It's just that Greg went a bit above and beyond.
I'm a drummer today because of Greg.  And I've never been golfing since.  Despite pleading through the years for someone to bring me along.  I guess that just wasn't meant to be.  Perhaps the Grim Reaper was looking to bonk my head with a golf ball and kill me like one episode of 'Six Feet Under' once.
Crisis averted!