To Stand Once More at His Side...

"To Stand Once More at His Side"

   
The oft-made reference to chicken soup being the equivalent of "Jewish penicillin" has always tickled me - and served as the premise for my assertion that it naturally follows... "laughter is chicken soup's global equivalent".

    I was thinking about that today - and about how especially true it was of my beloved brother, Kirk, who we lost at the age of only 33 to the cruel clutches of AIDS.  As devastating and horrendous an illness as it was, it never managed to rob Kirk of his magnificent sense of humor and tantamount zest for living each moment as it came. 

    During the final autumn season he was to be granted on earth, despite being in the throes of his illness and the ravages of a subsequent course of chemotherapy, both Kirk and Mother Nature were having a glorious day.  Kirk, as he was so charmingly wont to do, announced on the spur of the moment that he and I were going to "do" the Popcorn Festival in Marion, Ohio. 

    Yes... I said Popcorn Festival.  Not the Pumpkin Festival in Circleville, not the Bellville Street Fair... not the Apple Butter Festival in Grand Rapids.  For, as Kirk so succinctly summarized regarding the latter three, "Been there, done that, got the Tee-Shirt... using it now for a dust cloth." 

    Who could argue with that kind of distilled logic?  The regularly scheduled programming for the day now withering on the proverbial vine, off to the Popcorn Festival we embarked at break-mosey speed.  (I was putty in the lad's hands.)

    It was one of those postcard-picture, splendorous fall days... sun-kissed and deliciously-warm-but-not-at-all-humid, the tree-bedecked countryside adorned in vivid autumn hues, the air a veritable smorgasbord of tantalizing aromas.  After about an hour's drive, we arrived at the rural celebration, parked our ride, synchronized our watches on "Dawdle", and eagerly melded with the throngs of fellow Festival Fiends on foot.  We frolicked and meandered aimlessly, wholly entertained and reveling in the sheer decadence of "playing hookey" in the middle of a workweek like a couple of gargantuan kids. 

    And how we did make merry!  Everywhere we turned, there were booths, displays, kiddie rides, cotton candy, open-air eateries, games and contests, and, of course, POPCORN.  Un-popped, popped, white, yellow, rainbow-colored, buttered, salted, unsalted, un-buttered, candied, flavored, plain, balled, puffed, fattened, flattened, sweetened, soured, beaten, floured - you name it, it was there for the munching.  Captivated as always by Kirk's zeal, I found myself utterly fascinated that popcorn could be manipulated via such a vast number of means... rather like the wondrous epiphany (also facilitated by his tutelage) I'd experienced only a year or so before regarding the sugary stars of the Jelly Bean Festival.

    We cavorted like children for hours, stuffing our faces and basking in the glory only such simple pleasures can boast until about 4 P.M. or so, when Kirk, who's eagle eye for such things had spotted several roadside elderberry and pussy willow patches on the drive down, declared it was time to mount up so that we could pluck a healthy stockpile of both on the way back home.  As we ambled toward the egress from the Festival, Kirk paused a moment, seemed to decide something, and said, "hang on a minute", which I of course did while he scooted off to one of the souvenir booths to make a last-minute purchase.  When he came back, he had that impish grin on his face that I then, today, and until the moment I draw my last breath - so cherish in my heart of hearts.

    "So what's in the bag, Dude?" I asked, scrambling madly to match his lanky long strides. 

    "See for yourself, Dudette", came the reply as he handed over the mysterious purchase.  Inside was one of those bodaciously bouffant clown wigs - only different from its more commonly encountered, multi-hued, man-made-fiber "haired" ilk.  THIS wig was made of even more outrageous metallic-fiber "hair", the innumerable neon hues of which were shinier, appreciably more "sproinged" and, though I would never had thought it possible, infinitely more vibrant.  And, (you should pardon the pun), to cap it all off... from the wig protruded two spring-mounted, manically bobbing, silver-glittered, sphere-topped "antennae" reminiscent of a 3 A.M., post drinking-binge episode of The X-Files on Ice. 

    Stuffing the hideous thing back in the bag and glancing furtively about to insure I'd not been spied by one the Menacing Majority of "Normal People" lurking in the vicinity, I inquired of my brother, "Okay, I give... what the hell are ya gonna do with THIS mess?"

    "You'll know soon enough.  Now put a cork in it.  We've got berries to pick."  And off we went to do just that, topping off the tank of a perfect day and arriving home laden with a bounty of berries, gourds, maize corn, dry thistles, pussy willows, and, of course, POPCORN, in tow.  For the time being, the antenna-adorned Neon Colors Clown Wig lay forgotten, relegated to the gossamer folds of my all-too-easily-sidetracked psyche.

    ... Until about a week later, when I accompanied my brother to his Oncologist's Office for one of his post-treatment visits to monitor his mid-chemotherapy-regimen status.  By now, the chemo had taken a brutal toll on Kirk's once thick and luxuriant, strawberry blond, wavy hair - so much so that he'd quietly resorted to wearing the human-hair wig I'd purchased for him "just in case",  despite his initial protestations that he'd never wear it.  While waiting for the doctor in an examination room, Kirk excused himself for a moment, strode into into the adjoining bathroom, and closed the door behind him. Moments thereafter, the Doctor entered.  After greeting him and advising that Kirk was in the bathroom and would be out momentarily, the Dr. asked, "so how are things going for Kirk this week?" 

    Just as I parted my lips to reply, the bathroom door opened with a flourish and Kirk swept into the room.  My jaw dropped as I beheld my 6-2", fantastically handsome though now very thin, brother - his countenance bearing a perfectly deadpan facial expression as he peered out from beneath the gaudy bangs and crazily gyrating antennae of his Psychedelic Neon-Colored Clown Wig.

    "Doc", he said, his sincere  expression never wavering... "we have to talk about this 'chemotherapy side affects'  sh-t."

    For one paralyzed moment, both the Doctor and I froze, the sight before us, coupled with Kirk's words and demeanor, washing over our hapless souls like some kind of insane tsunami. 

    And then the Doctor began to laugh.  It started as a strangled chortle, refusing to be stifled despite his frantic effort to maintain a "professional" demeanor.  Heralded by a "raspberry"- type expulsion of air, it morphed first into uncontrollable chuckling, then progressed to outright guffawing destined to subside only moderately - and only after the passage of at least ten, if not more, mirth-marinated minutes.

I, naturally, upon realizing that the Doctor was laughing too hysterically to present any real risk of shipping my brother off to the Funny Farm forthwith, soon succumbed to my own snort-punctuated giggling fit as my brother shifted his steadfast, poker-faced gaze from the now incapacitated-with-laughter medicine man to my own stunned and gaping countenance. 

    In the throes of a horrific disease, valiantly fighting a battle he knew he would not ultimately win, my brother spit in the eye of death and despair every chance he got with his indomitable wit and unfailing spirit. He, more than any other human being on earth, taught me that laughter is indeed the best medicine - and made certain that ALL of us received healthy doses to the very end and beyond. 

    Still attired in that gawd-awful wig, my brother and I continued to laugh - in stomach-clutching, tear-spurting, pull-over-before-we-hit-something, utterly guiless gales all the way home -  and on many wondrous, magic-filled occasions thereafter.  Recalling the escapade, I still laugh to this very day, even through the tears...

    ... and hear him laughing with me.  Though I cannot see or touch him now,  I know with every fiber of my being that the laughter carries me through the mists...  to stand once more at his side.

~  I love you, Kirkie... ya big Rangoo.  ~

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