November 4, 2012
THE UNVEILING - ONE YEAR LATER
It's hard to believe it's been a year since Gary's death. Even more incomprehensible is how any of us could still be able to exist without him.
How can we measure a loss when we have gained so much? How can we say Gary is no longer with us when he is so completely in our hearts and thoughts?
I need to believe my brother's death is just a very painful technicality. Even though I can no longer see him or hear his voice, he is always within reach: a thought, a memory, a word, a sunset, a bright star in the cold night sky, yes, even on a nasty shit skid on the sweatpants of a Walmart shopper.
Gary is always within my grasp. If I think hard enough, he appears, he becomes a part of me in the deepest, truest part of my spirit and fills me with a love unlike all others.
There hasn't been a day or even an hour where I haven't thought of Gary, missed him, cried for him, ached for just one more day, prayed for mercy from the agony of his absence, experienced the deepest sorrow and the most glorious joy. For me, Gary is everywhere.
In the forword to author Nikos Kazantzakis's last book, his wife wrote that she was surprised the streets her husband had walked upon had not turned to gold. Had she looked beyond her sight, she would have seen they were indeed paved with gold simply because it had been his path.
Because Gary had touched each and every one of us, we, too, are walking on sacred ground. The path Gary blazed for us is not only golden, but is one of great importance, infinite merit and immeasurable riches. It is a path of reverence, honor and responsibilty.
We all have an obligation to never forget, to remember not how we felt when we lost Gary, but how it was when we still had him. For as long as the stories of Gary are told, passed from generation to generation, as long as we hold on to all those things that made him who he was, Gary will live forever. With that promise, we can never lose him again, and for that alone, I am forever grateful.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Requiem for a Wooly Man - Happy Birthday Gary
August 7, 2012
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARY
Dear Gary,
I was woken up the night before last by the thought of your birthday. At first, I felt something akin to joy, and then I remembered......
For a moment I thought how hard your birthday will be for all of us. And then I remembered something else: how celebration was something you thrived on, something you honored for each and every one of us during our birthdays, our events. And I know you would have never wanted this day to mean pain or sorrow to those of us who loved you.
Instead of grieving, you would have wanted us to celebrate. So, dear brother, even though there is an infinite sadness and so much will be unspoken, we will indeed celebrate your birthday,
I promise we will laugh, be amused, look at this day through your eyes and smile and find something to rejoice. In your honor.
For you.
Happy birthday, Wooly Man. I will love you forever.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GARY
Dear Gary,
I was woken up the night before last by the thought of your birthday. At first, I felt something akin to joy, and then I remembered......
For a moment I thought how hard your birthday will be for all of us. And then I remembered something else: how celebration was something you thrived on, something you honored for each and every one of us during our birthdays, our events. And I know you would have never wanted this day to mean pain or sorrow to those of us who loved you.
Instead of grieving, you would have wanted us to celebrate. So, dear brother, even though there is an infinite sadness and so much will be unspoken, we will indeed celebrate your birthday,
I promise we will laugh, be amused, look at this day through your eyes and smile and find something to rejoice. In your honor.
For you.
Happy birthday, Wooly Man. I will love you forever.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
PART 7 - Letters To No One
Part 7 - Letters To No One
To Whom it May Concern,
One of my most bittersweet memories and most profound lessons was from a young boy who died at the age of 12. Many, many years ago, when I lived in Laguna Beach with my friend Jim Eady, our neighbors across the street were a family with three sons. Seneca was the youngest, a sweet, joyous boy with an unmistakable gapped toothed smile.
There was something about Seneca that made him stand out. He was all boy: playful, inquisitive, passionate and loved baseball above all else. He used to come over to my house when Jim was at work and grill me on the items that were part of the decor. This was the 1980's, and Jim's being a flaming gay man was the curiosity of the neighborhood, especially to a young boy who needed to know what set big gay Jim apart from the rest of the world.
Seneca would pick up random items in the house, study them closely and then ask me, " Is this a gay guy thing? " For the most part, almost all of my answers were yes, and most of those times, the boy would scrutinize what he was looking at, nod in agreement and laugh like hell.
When Seneca was 11, his mother found a lump on his leg that turned out to be an invasive, fatal form of cancer. All medical and sad details aside, when his family told him he was sick, he told them how he wanted to do what was left of his life, down to the very last detail.
He even planned his own funeral, ending it with all attending singing the Star Spangled Banner, which, to Seneca, meant a baseball game was starting - a baseball game he just knew he would be playing in.
As Seneca became sicker and his capacities became limited, the people of Laguna donated money to the family to send the boy to India with his mother to meet a holy man. (His name eludes me at this time)
When they came back, something had changed. Seneca was different. Yes, he was still gravely ill, but somehow it wasn't what you saw when you looked at him. There was a peace, a resignation, even a grace about him that defied description. At this point, he could no longer walk and his parents set him up in the living room, in the center of it all, so he could see and be a part of everything that was going on. Each of the neighbors and friends took turns watching him when his parents or brothers were out.
On a day it was my turn to relieve his mother to run errands, I sat down on the floor next to him and asked him how he was doing. I told him he seemed different, almost happy.
" God talked to me," he told me. I asked him what God said.
" He really didn't say anything, " Seneca explained. " He just asked me 2 questions."
" The first one was ' How did you treat the people who loved you? '
and the second one was ' Did you have fun? '
Before I had time to process what I had just heard, that unmistakeable gapped tooth smile radiated from his face. " I did good, " he told me. " I made him proud and did what I was put here to do. It's O.K. now. "
Seneca died a few weeks later, but he knew. In just those 2 questions, he had the answers and the secret to a life well lived and he had passed them on to me.
I never forgot Seneca and the lesson he had taught me. Death was not a scary, doom ladened thing to someone who lived life as it was intended to be lived, who embraced love and joy above all else.
So, when it first sunk in when I had heard my brother had died, I thought of Seneca and those 2 questions. And, between my tears and sorrow, was a smile and that certainty. Because Gary knew, too.
To Whom it May Concern,
One of my most bittersweet memories and most profound lessons was from a young boy who died at the age of 12. Many, many years ago, when I lived in Laguna Beach with my friend Jim Eady, our neighbors across the street were a family with three sons. Seneca was the youngest, a sweet, joyous boy with an unmistakable gapped toothed smile.
There was something about Seneca that made him stand out. He was all boy: playful, inquisitive, passionate and loved baseball above all else. He used to come over to my house when Jim was at work and grill me on the items that were part of the decor. This was the 1980's, and Jim's being a flaming gay man was the curiosity of the neighborhood, especially to a young boy who needed to know what set big gay Jim apart from the rest of the world.
Seneca would pick up random items in the house, study them closely and then ask me, " Is this a gay guy thing? " For the most part, almost all of my answers were yes, and most of those times, the boy would scrutinize what he was looking at, nod in agreement and laugh like hell.
When Seneca was 11, his mother found a lump on his leg that turned out to be an invasive, fatal form of cancer. All medical and sad details aside, when his family told him he was sick, he told them how he wanted to do what was left of his life, down to the very last detail.
He even planned his own funeral, ending it with all attending singing the Star Spangled Banner, which, to Seneca, meant a baseball game was starting - a baseball game he just knew he would be playing in.
As Seneca became sicker and his capacities became limited, the people of Laguna donated money to the family to send the boy to India with his mother to meet a holy man. (His name eludes me at this time)
When they came back, something had changed. Seneca was different. Yes, he was still gravely ill, but somehow it wasn't what you saw when you looked at him. There was a peace, a resignation, even a grace about him that defied description. At this point, he could no longer walk and his parents set him up in the living room, in the center of it all, so he could see and be a part of everything that was going on. Each of the neighbors and friends took turns watching him when his parents or brothers were out.
On a day it was my turn to relieve his mother to run errands, I sat down on the floor next to him and asked him how he was doing. I told him he seemed different, almost happy.
" God talked to me," he told me. I asked him what God said.
" He really didn't say anything, " Seneca explained. " He just asked me 2 questions."
" The first one was ' How did you treat the people who loved you? '
and the second one was ' Did you have fun? '
Before I had time to process what I had just heard, that unmistakeable gapped tooth smile radiated from his face. " I did good, " he told me. " I made him proud and did what I was put here to do. It's O.K. now. "
Seneca died a few weeks later, but he knew. In just those 2 questions, he had the answers and the secret to a life well lived and he had passed them on to me.
I never forgot Seneca and the lesson he had taught me. Death was not a scary, doom ladened thing to someone who lived life as it was intended to be lived, who embraced love and joy above all else.
So, when it first sunk in when I had heard my brother had died, I thought of Seneca and those 2 questions. And, between my tears and sorrow, was a smile and that certainty. Because Gary knew, too.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Part 6 - Growing up with Gary - The boy without a Shadow
Part 6 - Growing up with Gary - The Boy Without a Shadow
As far as siblings go, Gary and I couldn't have been more different. If you could take an abbreviated look into who we both were growing up, you would see Gary upstairs in his clean, orderly room, sitting at his desk quietly doing his homework, listening to the Carpenters at low volume on his stereo.
" Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near...."
And I would be in the basement with my scuzzy friends, drinking liquor we pilfered from our parents' locked cabinet, smoking weed and listening to Frank Zappa as loud as it could go.
" Steamroller, talking 'bout your hemorrhoids, baby...."
But what you wouldn't see unless you looked harder was the same circumstance hours later, when my friends had left, the basement a mess, me on the bathroom floor vomiting and Gary standing over me, placing a cold, wet towel around my neck and asking me if I was O.K. Somehow, he had managed to clean up the basement and me, as well, and I found myself safely in my room, the chores I ignored done before our parents came home from work.
Even as a kid, Gary was my caretaker and I always knew, no matter what I had gotten myself into, I was safe.
Someone had asked me once, years ago, what it was like to grow up in Gary's shadow. I had to stop and think about the absurdness of this question. You see, regardless of my brother's ambition and goodness, and in spite of my lack of those attributes, there was no shadow. If anything, the only thing that Gary would cast when you stood beside him was an illumination, a light I am still trying to define to this day.
To me, Gary was a boy without a shadow, a young man who had no darkness within or around him. There is something to be said about sharing a childhood with someone as solid, unconditional and protecting as my brother. I never had to question his words, never had to doubt his intentions. I knew from as far back as I could remember I had King's X - immunity from all things harmful and scary - simply because Gary was my big brother.
In referring back to my history and sharing my stories of Gary with people I've known, not one of them was able to remotely compare anyone in their lives to my brother. What I heard from them over and over was how much better/easier/softer this world would have been for them, how much promise their futures would have held had they had a living, breathing guardian angel like I did. I am reminded many times over how lucky I was, how blessed we all were to have had him. I know, absolutely, having been so close to the edge many, many times, that I never went over it because of the lifeline that had been my brother.
Regardless, we were still siblings. We antagonized each other and we fought, yet still, Gary being Gary, even those incidents are fraught with sentiment and kindnesses.
I recall one time when Gary really "got" me. I was in eighth grade and was going to my first rock concert that night - Grand Funk Railroad at Madison Square Garden in N.Y.C.
I am coming home from school, walking down our driveway towards the back porch. It's winter and there is a glass storm door in lieu of a screen. Gary is standing on the inside, and as I reach to open the storm door, he points to the latch to show me it's locked. He is smiling and, as usual, his eyelids are turned inside out.
" Are you high again?" he asks.
" Come on, open the door. It's cold out here and I have to get ready." I tell him.
" Not until you answer me. Are you high? " he asks.
" What difference does it make. Let me in." I answer.
" I think you're high and you can't come in until you're not. "
" Come on douche bag, " I yell. " I'm not high. Let me the fuck in! "
" Prove it." he says still smiling.
I know he is only messing with me and all I probably have to do is say 'please' and show him some civility. I don't know why, but I get mad and start to bang on the storm door and curse him out.
He picks up the phone and tells me he's going to tell Mom i f I don't knock it off. I hit the storm door one last time and it breaks - shatters all over the porch and the kitchen entry. By then, Gary has reached mom and I hear him tell her, " Edye's on drugs again and she's crazy. Broke the storm door and everything. Just started pounding on it for no reason and broke it. What should I do? " There's a pause on his end and then I hear him say, " No, I'm O.K. Just a little scared. " He is smiling still and very amused.
" Fucking liar! " I yell at him. There's another pause as he listens to our mother.
" I know, Mom, it is disgraceful, " he says. " It's got to be drugs. I'd hate to think it's something like a mental illness. " At this point, he has pulled his shirt up revealing his newly sprouted wooliness and is making faces at me.
Through the broken door, Gary tells me that Mom said I can't go to the concert tonight, that I have to clean up the mess and then I'm to stay in my room and think about what I've done. His eyelids are still inside out and he is still smiling.
I think for a moment and then turn away from the house and start to walk away. I walk back down the driveway, passed the front of our house and start up the street. Gary comes out the front door and calls out after me. " Hey," he said, " You O,K,? "
I stop to answer him. " Yeah. "
" You're not going to listen to Mom, are you? " he asks me.
" No, I'm going, " I answer.
" You need anything? You hungry? You need to come inside? " he asks me.
" Nah, " I say, " but thanks anyway. "
" Be careful, " he tells me, starting to walk back to the house.
And, as I started walking up the street and away, just before I hear the front door close shut, he shouts out " Love you, "
There were more times than I can count where Gary seemed to appear out of nowhere to rescue me. In my first year of high school, I recall fighting at the school circle and getting my ass kicked by my long time nemesis Cindy Yancho. The last thing I remembered was getting punched in the face, seeing stars and going down. The next moment, I am in the back of Gary's car, a huge green Oldsmobile Delta 88, and he is taking me home, telling me everything's going to be O.K.
Most of my childhood seemed to be much like that. Gary was the great diffuser, the master mediator, the voice of reason. He negotiated, he advocated and he was unwavering. No matter what, why or where, he was always there, rooting for me, pointing the way, making my safety and well being a priority.
I didn't realize at the time when we were young how much of an individual Gary was, how he was so unlike anyone I'd ever known, how fearless and directed he was. Everything he did was motivated by love, by kindness, by doing what was right and remaining loyal, regardless of the cost.
He was neat, orderly, regimented. He got his haircut every 3 weeks at the barber of his choosing. His clothes were hung by color and order in which they were to be worn, by season. His closet was filled with neat, pressed Levis Hopsack pants and light colored short sleeve plaid shirts, his shoes all polished with clean laces in a perfect row on the floor. His room was always spotless and organized. He knew what he wanted and worked to get it, down to the black and white naked lady wallpaper he had put up in his room.
He had many jobs from as far back as he was able to work. He had paper routes - both morning and after school ones, he worked for the shoemaker, Joe, up the street, and when he got a little older, worked for a grateful and doting couple who adored him at their pizzeria Scalia's. He bought his own bicycles, his own supplies, his own everything. He bought his first new car, a blue AMC Matador, with cash.
He used his bar mitzvah money to invest in the stock market. Remembering that this was the 1960's, I am still amazed that Gary had the insight to put his money into IBM, AT&T and other companies that were new and promising. At 14 years old, Gary was getting dividend checks in the mail in numbers that were staggering to me. He saved, he scrutinized every transaction, he looked for bargains, he used coupons. His favorite store was a place he called 'Dent-a-Can' on Lawton Avenue, and from that point on, most of the packaged goods that were in our house were a little crumbled and worse for the wear, but as Gary brought to our attention whenever we complained, they were cheap and they were good.
Gary was also incorruptible, never drank, never did drugs or smoke anything, always had full control of every situation. There was a look he always gave me whenever I did anything he didn't approve of: a perfect frown, looking much like an upside down smile, and with it was a twinkle in his eyes that spoke of sadness and care. That look followed through to our adulthood, up until the last time I saw my brother alive.
To this day, there are times I know I am going off my path and I still see, as clear as it was way back when, Gary's face and that funny frown of his, and I know. I know I need to change my plan, I know he is still with me, and I know Gary's love and influence will go on forever.
As far as siblings go, Gary and I couldn't have been more different. If you could take an abbreviated look into who we both were growing up, you would see Gary upstairs in his clean, orderly room, sitting at his desk quietly doing his homework, listening to the Carpenters at low volume on his stereo.
" Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near...."
And I would be in the basement with my scuzzy friends, drinking liquor we pilfered from our parents' locked cabinet, smoking weed and listening to Frank Zappa as loud as it could go.
" Steamroller, talking 'bout your hemorrhoids, baby...."
But what you wouldn't see unless you looked harder was the same circumstance hours later, when my friends had left, the basement a mess, me on the bathroom floor vomiting and Gary standing over me, placing a cold, wet towel around my neck and asking me if I was O.K. Somehow, he had managed to clean up the basement and me, as well, and I found myself safely in my room, the chores I ignored done before our parents came home from work.
Even as a kid, Gary was my caretaker and I always knew, no matter what I had gotten myself into, I was safe.
Someone had asked me once, years ago, what it was like to grow up in Gary's shadow. I had to stop and think about the absurdness of this question. You see, regardless of my brother's ambition and goodness, and in spite of my lack of those attributes, there was no shadow. If anything, the only thing that Gary would cast when you stood beside him was an illumination, a light I am still trying to define to this day.
To me, Gary was a boy without a shadow, a young man who had no darkness within or around him. There is something to be said about sharing a childhood with someone as solid, unconditional and protecting as my brother. I never had to question his words, never had to doubt his intentions. I knew from as far back as I could remember I had King's X - immunity from all things harmful and scary - simply because Gary was my big brother.
In referring back to my history and sharing my stories of Gary with people I've known, not one of them was able to remotely compare anyone in their lives to my brother. What I heard from them over and over was how much better/easier/softer this world would have been for them, how much promise their futures would have held had they had a living, breathing guardian angel like I did. I am reminded many times over how lucky I was, how blessed we all were to have had him. I know, absolutely, having been so close to the edge many, many times, that I never went over it because of the lifeline that had been my brother.
Regardless, we were still siblings. We antagonized each other and we fought, yet still, Gary being Gary, even those incidents are fraught with sentiment and kindnesses.
I recall one time when Gary really "got" me. I was in eighth grade and was going to my first rock concert that night - Grand Funk Railroad at Madison Square Garden in N.Y.C.
I am coming home from school, walking down our driveway towards the back porch. It's winter and there is a glass storm door in lieu of a screen. Gary is standing on the inside, and as I reach to open the storm door, he points to the latch to show me it's locked. He is smiling and, as usual, his eyelids are turned inside out.
" Are you high again?" he asks.
" Come on, open the door. It's cold out here and I have to get ready." I tell him.
" Not until you answer me. Are you high? " he asks.
" What difference does it make. Let me in." I answer.
" I think you're high and you can't come in until you're not. "
" Come on douche bag, " I yell. " I'm not high. Let me the fuck in! "
" Prove it." he says still smiling.
I know he is only messing with me and all I probably have to do is say 'please' and show him some civility. I don't know why, but I get mad and start to bang on the storm door and curse him out.
He picks up the phone and tells me he's going to tell Mom i f I don't knock it off. I hit the storm door one last time and it breaks - shatters all over the porch and the kitchen entry. By then, Gary has reached mom and I hear him tell her, " Edye's on drugs again and she's crazy. Broke the storm door and everything. Just started pounding on it for no reason and broke it. What should I do? " There's a pause on his end and then I hear him say, " No, I'm O.K. Just a little scared. " He is smiling still and very amused.
" Fucking liar! " I yell at him. There's another pause as he listens to our mother.
" I know, Mom, it is disgraceful, " he says. " It's got to be drugs. I'd hate to think it's something like a mental illness. " At this point, he has pulled his shirt up revealing his newly sprouted wooliness and is making faces at me.
Through the broken door, Gary tells me that Mom said I can't go to the concert tonight, that I have to clean up the mess and then I'm to stay in my room and think about what I've done. His eyelids are still inside out and he is still smiling.
I think for a moment and then turn away from the house and start to walk away. I walk back down the driveway, passed the front of our house and start up the street. Gary comes out the front door and calls out after me. " Hey," he said, " You O,K,? "
I stop to answer him. " Yeah. "
" You're not going to listen to Mom, are you? " he asks me.
" No, I'm going, " I answer.
" You need anything? You hungry? You need to come inside? " he asks me.
" Nah, " I say, " but thanks anyway. "
" Be careful, " he tells me, starting to walk back to the house.
And, as I started walking up the street and away, just before I hear the front door close shut, he shouts out " Love you, "
There were more times than I can count where Gary seemed to appear out of nowhere to rescue me. In my first year of high school, I recall fighting at the school circle and getting my ass kicked by my long time nemesis Cindy Yancho. The last thing I remembered was getting punched in the face, seeing stars and going down. The next moment, I am in the back of Gary's car, a huge green Oldsmobile Delta 88, and he is taking me home, telling me everything's going to be O.K.
Most of my childhood seemed to be much like that. Gary was the great diffuser, the master mediator, the voice of reason. He negotiated, he advocated and he was unwavering. No matter what, why or where, he was always there, rooting for me, pointing the way, making my safety and well being a priority.
I didn't realize at the time when we were young how much of an individual Gary was, how he was so unlike anyone I'd ever known, how fearless and directed he was. Everything he did was motivated by love, by kindness, by doing what was right and remaining loyal, regardless of the cost.
He was neat, orderly, regimented. He got his haircut every 3 weeks at the barber of his choosing. His clothes were hung by color and order in which they were to be worn, by season. His closet was filled with neat, pressed Levis Hopsack pants and light colored short sleeve plaid shirts, his shoes all polished with clean laces in a perfect row on the floor. His room was always spotless and organized. He knew what he wanted and worked to get it, down to the black and white naked lady wallpaper he had put up in his room.
He had many jobs from as far back as he was able to work. He had paper routes - both morning and after school ones, he worked for the shoemaker, Joe, up the street, and when he got a little older, worked for a grateful and doting couple who adored him at their pizzeria Scalia's. He bought his own bicycles, his own supplies, his own everything. He bought his first new car, a blue AMC Matador, with cash.
He used his bar mitzvah money to invest in the stock market. Remembering that this was the 1960's, I am still amazed that Gary had the insight to put his money into IBM, AT&T and other companies that were new and promising. At 14 years old, Gary was getting dividend checks in the mail in numbers that were staggering to me. He saved, he scrutinized every transaction, he looked for bargains, he used coupons. His favorite store was a place he called 'Dent-a-Can' on Lawton Avenue, and from that point on, most of the packaged goods that were in our house were a little crumbled and worse for the wear, but as Gary brought to our attention whenever we complained, they were cheap and they were good.
Gary was also incorruptible, never drank, never did drugs or smoke anything, always had full control of every situation. There was a look he always gave me whenever I did anything he didn't approve of: a perfect frown, looking much like an upside down smile, and with it was a twinkle in his eyes that spoke of sadness and care. That look followed through to our adulthood, up until the last time I saw my brother alive.
To this day, there are times I know I am going off my path and I still see, as clear as it was way back when, Gary's face and that funny frown of his, and I know. I know I need to change my plan, I know he is still with me, and I know Gary's love and influence will go on forever.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
PART 5 - JANUARY 15, 2012 -SANTA ROSA, CA.
1/15/2012
John Edward - Wells Fargo Center of the Arts, Santa Rosa, Ca.
A few months back, my friends Mike & Llynn bought me tickets to see John Edward at our county's performing arts center. I had no opinion or expectation of John Edward but my friends and I enjoyed his TV show and found its content fascinating.
The Wells Fargo Center was packed when we got there for the show - sold out, in fact, 2000+ filled seats. The show was to be 2 hours, in three parts. The first part was to be questions and answers, the second part was to be random readings and the third and last part was to be more questions and answers.
Almost two hours into it, John Edward has wrapped up the readings and is now into the final question and answer. He stops in mid sentence and says " Someone's telling me they planned their own funeral. "
He looks at my row and points in my direction, " There's someone with the hard letter "G" in their name, someone who took care of everyone, hard letter G, Gary......" Next thing I know I am standing up with a microphone in my hand.
" I see November, does that make any sense? " he asks me.
" Yes, my brother Gary died in November, " I answer him.
John Edward stopped and then he started to grin. " I'm getting the 'Unibomber'. He's telling me you're like the Unibomber in the family. Does that make any sense? "
" Yes, I guess I'm the family psycho, " I answer.
" He's agreeing. "
John Edward stops and starts to laugh again. " Did you do something strange with his hair? I'm seeing you and him and his hair, but it's weird. "
I answer, " I used to cut his hair, but I also used to shave his back and his chest. I have a picture of him vacuuming up his clippings. "
J.E. answers, " Yup, that's weird. "
Then he tells me, " I see four sons, three are the same and one is different, does that make sense? "
" Yes, he has four sons, one has a different mother. " I answer.
" The one who's not the same, he needs for you watch over him and keep him in your heart, " John Edward tells me. " He needs for you to stay close "
" There is also a female who he hears saying "You left me with a mess to clean up" and she's not too happy about it. He needs to acknowledge this.
He wants you to not feel so alone, unprotected and unsafe (exact words ) and to stop being so afraid of your family.
He also says he's going to be a grandfather and he's really happy about it. "
I shook my head no, but J.E. shook his head yes, " Yes, he's going to be a grandfather. "
That's basically it. Exactly as it was. I'm still stunned, still not quite understanding what it was that really transpired. But for what it's worth, Gary still has never let me down, always seems to know when I need him most.
John Edward - Wells Fargo Center of the Arts, Santa Rosa, Ca.
A few months back, my friends Mike & Llynn bought me tickets to see John Edward at our county's performing arts center. I had no opinion or expectation of John Edward but my friends and I enjoyed his TV show and found its content fascinating.
The Wells Fargo Center was packed when we got there for the show - sold out, in fact, 2000+ filled seats. The show was to be 2 hours, in three parts. The first part was to be questions and answers, the second part was to be random readings and the third and last part was to be more questions and answers.
Almost two hours into it, John Edward has wrapped up the readings and is now into the final question and answer. He stops in mid sentence and says " Someone's telling me they planned their own funeral. "
He looks at my row and points in my direction, " There's someone with the hard letter "G" in their name, someone who took care of everyone, hard letter G, Gary......" Next thing I know I am standing up with a microphone in my hand.
" I see November, does that make any sense? " he asks me.
" Yes, my brother Gary died in November, " I answer him.
John Edward stopped and then he started to grin. " I'm getting the 'Unibomber'. He's telling me you're like the Unibomber in the family. Does that make any sense? "
" Yes, I guess I'm the family psycho, " I answer.
" He's agreeing. "
John Edward stops and starts to laugh again. " Did you do something strange with his hair? I'm seeing you and him and his hair, but it's weird. "
I answer, " I used to cut his hair, but I also used to shave his back and his chest. I have a picture of him vacuuming up his clippings. "
J.E. answers, " Yup, that's weird. "
Then he tells me, " I see four sons, three are the same and one is different, does that make sense? "
" Yes, he has four sons, one has a different mother. " I answer.
" The one who's not the same, he needs for you watch over him and keep him in your heart, " John Edward tells me. " He needs for you to stay close "
" There is also a female who he hears saying "You left me with a mess to clean up" and she's not too happy about it. He needs to acknowledge this.
He wants you to not feel so alone, unprotected and unsafe (exact words ) and to stop being so afraid of your family.
He also says he's going to be a grandfather and he's really happy about it. "
I shook my head no, but J.E. shook his head yes, " Yes, he's going to be a grandfather. "
That's basically it. Exactly as it was. I'm still stunned, still not quite understanding what it was that really transpired. But for what it's worth, Gary still has never let me down, always seems to know when I need him most.
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| 1991 |
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