My magnificent cousin Jim died unexpectedly this past October, and even though we met in person only once, we connected on social media back in 2010, and I quickly became his lifelong fan. Four months after his death and I still find myself drafting messages to him in my head, only to be gutted when I remember that he's not reachable anymore. Jim was brilliant, delightfully curious, interesting and interested, a fantastic writer, unfailingly kind, and I ended up loving him like a brother. Except he was easier to love than my actual brothers, because I didn't have a single bad memory with him.
My cousin Jim never once threw a dart with such force that it stuck in my back.
He did not join the phalanx of my actual brothers with their actual BB guns on the front porch, awaiting the arrival of a sweet soft-spoken beau of mine in high school, and did not help deliver the pointed threats about what would happen if that shy, tender boy besmirched my honor.
He did not discover the etiquette book I was reading and torment me by singing "White Gloves and Party Manners" in a fruity tone every time I got near him.
He did not steal my friends and go to campfires with them, without me.
He did not call the office on my last day of band camp one summer, asking the camp secretary to let me know my Dad was coming to pick me up, five years after my Dad had died.
He did not talk me into the hilarious prank of cracking open most of a box of Cocoa Puffs and sealing the little brown pellets back together with gobs of Play-Doh, eagerly awaiting the screams of the poor sap who poured the next bowl. (Thus, he was also not there when that poor sap turned out to be me, having forgotten the prank altogether and settling down for a big bowl of pure nastiness before I remembered.)
I never once woke up to find him standing in my room, stinking of booze, readying to drop trou and pee on my bed.
He never gave me a Lego to chew, resulting in two broken baby teeth that turned me from a sweet toddler to a demented demon-angel with corn-silk blond hair and fangs.
He never stole my records, my diary, or my weed. He never pretended to tear up my coveted Baskin Robbins Free Birthday Cone postcard so many times that the frustration broke me, wresting it from his hands and tearing it in two myself.
Not once did he turn a blind eye when his much-older friends started paying attention to me, teen-aged and chronically attention-starved, and thus did not intervene when I put myself in inappropriate situations with them that left me psychically dented, like a thrift-store baby doll with the top of its head punched in.
I got all the good parts. When Jim knew I was listening to his radio show from Ann Arbor, he'd toss in a song by one of our shared favorite songwriters, Fred Eaglesmith, just for me, and it always made me feel like royalty. Before the pandemic and Jim's move to Indonesia I had grand dreams of taking him to Canada for one of Fred's annual picnics - a bucket list item for both of us.
Jim's death, with its inherent ALL CAPS-dialed-to-11 push notification that all of our days are numbered, gave the nudge that led to a Bradshaw Second Batch Family Thanksgiving in Chicago, hosted by my brother B., #8, with the entire back end of the Bradshaw clan (spawn numbered 6 - 10) in attendance. All four of my brothers and me, in one place for the first time since 2013. It was a good visit with mostly good new memories filed away. C, #6 and the eldest brother, flew into KC from Seattle and we drove the back roads to Big Shoulders, stopping at little stores along the way on the fruitless hunt for Musselman's Apple Rings (RIP) or boudin. We tag-teamed making the Thanksgiving meal, not necessarily in harmony, but at least without fisticuffs or broken teeth. Brother S, #7, also lives in Chicago, and with his bride and three glorious spawn hosted a post-Thanksgiving Mediterranean feast with all of us around one big table almost like the olden days. Despite my fervent wishes and hint-drops, we did not have a hootenanny or singalong, even though S's house has enough instruments for everyone. I like to think that if cousin Jim had been there, we would have.
Last weekend Jim's brother D. held a Zoom memorial for him, and it felt good to see all the other people who adored him, and to cry along with them at this galling loss. The hole Jim leaves is massive, and while I'm grateful it prompted a mini-reunion with my actual brothers, I'd still rather have him here. I need to ask him about a lyric, share a rare and magical David Lindley clip, and to thank him for all the ways he made my life delightful. He was the best brother I never had.
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