Histories

From: lucytmcm To: patrick tombeau ; Tombeau, Jan Sent: Sunday, October 12, 2008 6:48 PM These are the things I remember about my brother Patrick: Being introduced to the wonders of science (biology and chemistry and physics): (we had our own in house “Mr. Wizard”) --there was a strange plant you bought called the venus fly trap that actually caught and ate flies. yuk --two fishies that lived in our back pond (one gold fish and some strange black thing) called Abercrombie and Sympharosa. I thought 'what unusual names', I wondered what they meant. I still don’t know, (guess I should Google this)--a bobble bird thing on the edge of a glass that went up and down taking sips of water whenever it’s beak dried out---weird moving contraptions made out of an erector set --strange smells that signaled Patrick might be about to blow up the house with his chemistry set. Broadening my intellectual and cultural horizons: --waking up on Saturday morning to the explanations of Karl Hass (may he be playing his heavenly harp for God) and the strains of classical music. (although I fought to switch to rock and roll on WKNR) --being the only grade school student who could recite the Greek alphabet, and whole sections of Edgar Allen Poe, and chunks of Shakespearean plays and Greek tragedies--being tricked into reading some book by Booth Tarkington because I was told there was a risqué joke in there about “canned peaches"--being taught to play chess, although I really don’t have the patience for the game now--learning the social graces of penpal-ship when I was introduced to my first ever pen pal, Ginny Nicgorski--finding out in eighth grade that I tested in vocabulary at the level of a college sophomore; of course, how else would I understand my older brother, who not so coincidentally was exactly at that level in his education--having all sorts of interesting discussions on matters of philosophy, religion, history, the arts--having someone to balance my flighty liberal notions with weighty conservative wisdom and values (I believe I was the only young person in my group of friends who knew who William F. Buckley was (may his mansion in heaven be far from Abby Hoffmnans’)--listening to erudite (I didn’t know that word then) discussions about Jean Paul Sartre, Emmanuel Kant, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and others between Patrick and his friends ( Jim Gerardi, John Dingman and I think, Arnold Donahue) and feeling 'wow these guys are geniuses! maybe if I just keep listening I'll get smart too.’--acting as a guinea pig for one of Patrick's Psych classes where he had to administer an IQ test and being delighted to learn I had an above average IQ, concluding I must not be ‘the village idiot’ that people think I am--receiving helpful critique from a brilliant, but obscure author, Cimat K. Puberata, for a short story I was writing about a French widow who was reflecting on her life as she entered a church after a wedding--reading a article in the paper about Dr Tombeau's successful treatment of pedophiles, a disease with a poor prognosis and a much recidivism. (and no, it wasn’t your email that reminded me of this, as I have mentioned it many times when it fit into a discussion, and as recently as a month ago.) Some other warm memories: (in no particular order) Being glad my brother taught our dog, Duke, so many tricks, because it meant he would get the blue ribbon at the park dog show--a strange clay sculpture called Professor Screwball, that I always took to be a humorous self portrait in recognition of his professorial personality--thoughtful ’little girlie’ presents I received from him (most guys don’t have this talent) like a Swiss chalet music box (sadly the mechanism is broken but I still have it, as well as the Christmas angel chimes that ring when the air pressure from the burning candles stir them--shyly peeking into the living room to see my brother with his date (Pat Crowley)and grasping that my bookworm brother had a girlfriend!! How would those trembling hands pin the gardenia on the dress without drawing blood? And where on earth did he find such an amazing creature when he seemed to spend all his hours roaming the library stacks, or standing over the top of a steaming beaker in the science lab??--his teaching at St Als and confessing these squirrelly little hormone addled teenagers were reeking havoc on his dignified composure.--dinners at our house on Glastonbury were my children delighted in the wackiness of their Uncle Patrick.--the marvellous family reunion in Monroe, where i realized for the first time how much time and passion my brother had poured into this 'simple hobby.' What a legacy of family history he has prepared for us!--our family visit sometime in sixties to a university (that I shall pass over without mentioning the name of). I wore my favorite pink and red flowered dress that I had sewn myself, and my first pair of nylons and grown up dress shoes with a one inch heel. Patrick proudly escorted us around campus and introduced us to his friends. This was the very first time I saw my brother cry because I guessed he was sad to be leaving them. There were other memories, a bit more serious: the letter I received from my brother, who was studying at the aforementioned unnamed university, when I was contemplating leaving Marygrove. The advice he gave me, even though I did eventually transferred to Wayne State, has stayed with me and served me well in many serious situations, including the difficult years when Robert and I were rebuilding our marriage that had been near fatally damaged. What was this earthshaking advice, you ask? “Don’t give up on something because it is difficult. Don’t seek the easy way out. Stay and keep pushing against the obstacles and you will develop strong (spiritual) muscles.” (This advice alone is worth any pain I have ever felt because of our disagreements and misunderstandings.) the pall that settled over our house when Patrick came home from Marquette medical school before finishing. I never knew why, but felt a sadness when I understood this meant he wouldn’t be able to realize his dream of becoming a psychiatrist. Patrick’s advice to me before my marriage that Robert was a clone of our father. This let me go into my marriage with open eyes about what was good about that comparison and what was not so good. Patrick visiting me at Torch Lake, and we somehow had a serious personal talk about God, which was unusual. I remember him saying something like ‘his belief in God was only a matter of intellectual assent.’ I don’t know what caused such a melancholy feeling . I know I felt helpless and inadequate, not knowing how to make him understand that God “held him in the palm of His hand, and knew him before he was born,and had formed him in our mother’s womb, and called him by his name, “Patrick.” I still think about this, and yet have never asked him if these aloof and abstract feelings have changed, never asked, does he feel “hugged” by God? And positive and hopeful memories: realizing one day in my twenties that this odd brother of mine was more of a simpatico, than I had ever imagined. We shared the same irreverent sense of humor, the same intellectual curiosity, and insatiable thirst for knowledge, and especially, we shared a mad love affair with both the written and spoken word, and we had such instructive and wonderful and funny verbal jousts.