A River Runs Through It

The Boy has become a Montanan.

He has lived here for eleven months and is now a resident. 

"I don't plan on living in Seattle ever again permanently," he said. I think the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (aka CHAZ) might have been hard for him to explain to his non-Seattle friends at school. To the rest of the world, they saw CHAZ and thought "WTF?" To Seattlites, we knew this was the uber-left co-opting the Black Live Matter movement to justify taxing Amazon, not to change policing practices towards people of color.

The Boy is becoming an outdoorsman. He imagines his first car will be a pickup truck. He likes Dodge Chargers. He thinks there is nothing inherently wrong with Republicans and one day he might own a gun to hunt.

The Boy has become a Montanan.

Since the Boy can't mountain bike or hike or ski with his newly repaired knee, he has found a new sport. The Boy collects sports the way I collect books: just because I found a new book doesn't mean I don't love the ones I've already read. This sport is one that will likely never leave him: fly fishing. 

"In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing," opens Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It, a book read and re-read by the Boy. We watched the movie tonight at the Boy's request. The story takes place in Missoula, about 150 miles from the Boy's school. In Montana terms, 150 miles is considered the next town over. The scenery is breathtaking.

Norman's brother, Paul, is played by a young Brad Pitt. Paul is charming and smart and handsome and an artist when it comes to fly fishing. He also has a gambling problem and some other addictions that in the end ruin his life and break the hearts of his parents and sibling.

"Why do the people who need help the most refuse it?" Norman's girlfriend, J.C., asks. Her own brother is a very hot mess, but lacks the kindness and grace of Paul.

I was talking to a fellow boarding school mom the other day and she was moaning about the cost. Another parent a few months ago also kvetched about the cost. While I have no solid proof, my guess is that these families have some means. If they can afford this, why are they complaining? Don't they know they are lucky to be able to save their sons, cost be damned?

Why do I think this? I am the queen of investing and saving money. Shouldn't I be evaluating the cost-benefit analysis of this spending? Why am I so okay with shelling out an obscene amount of cash when people who I am guessing have way more money than me are complaining?

My brother was Paul Maclean, minus the fly fishing.

I couldn't save my brother, but perhaps I can save my son. If I lose him to Montana, I am okay with that, as long as he finds himself.

Broken Brothers

I have several friends with challenging brothers.  These strong, funny, intelligent women have brothers whose lives are remarkably different from theirs.  The women's lives involve children and homework and mortgages.  The brothers' are marked with addiction and/or mental illness.  My own brother has a similar set of challenges, and his life has gone in the opposite direction of mine.  I also know people with sisters with demons, and this could apply to them, too.

When I was in seventh grade, my social studies teacher, Mr. Philips, told us that siblings are the most important people in our lives.  They will know you longer than a spouse, and they will likely outlive your parents.  I believed him, and in spite of my brother's mental illness, I still think it is true.  Yet, it is hard to watch the people who were primary witnesses to your childhood and beyond fade away, implode, explode or otherwise self-destruct.  A friend of mine wrote me the other day:

I'm sorry for both of us, and our broken brothers.

We remember the little boy he once was.  Before there were cracks, when he was whole.  Before there were signs that he would be different.  I remember my brother when he was blond.  The white locks only lasted for the first few years of his life, and he had light brown hair before kindergarten.  We remember trains and legos and running races in the backyard.  One summer, my brother and I collected grasshoppers and put them in shampoo bottles for the day.  We made a "Grasshopper Circus" for these angular creatures with our Playskool toys, and let them free at dusk.

Guilt is a big theme with me and my friends, and for a variety of reasons.  Some wish we could have done more to stop the self-destruction.  Some wish we could have intervened before the crash.  Others are tired, exhausted and afraid.  With that comes a different kind of guilt: I wish I could do more, but I can't.  I need to protect myself and my family from getting caught in the downward spiral.   

To my dear friends, I wish you peace.  We can look for solutions, we have have our regrets and guilt, and we can try to hide.  We don't know where those roads will lead.  Sometimes they lead to tragedy and all we can do is grieve.  Each of these brothers are different, but the suffering, frustration and powerlessness we feel is similar.  Sometimes, the best comfort we find is knowing you aren't alone, that we aren't the only one with a broken brother.