Binderama60for60

Tim was the protector of our Family. He made me feel safe, when I needed it most.

He was the oldest of us three Brothers. A force, smart, funny and wildly creative. He savored the spotlight as a robust raconteur, given to mischief and occasional mayhem. He was an iconoclast, a contrarian, a curmudgeon, a Luddite, a fighter of demons. He smoked cigars in the car, with the windows up. He was often a pain in the ass.

All of these descriptors he’d consider compliments. He’d probably suggest a few more in the same vein.

Timbo would have turned 72 today.

Here was his take on me, his littlest brother, probably 50 years ago:

Although he's just a little punk
Who fills his stomach up with junk
And falls asleep upon the rug
And curses when I try to tug
Him down the hall and into bed
So he can rest his weary head.
And though he spends his hard earned bucks
On so-called music that really sucks;
His room is covered o'er with gook
And he never reads a decent book;
I'd never trade him for another
Because he is my baby brother.

Still cracks me up and chokes me up.

As I explained in a recent post about my Brother Mike, this 60|60 project came about for the want to celebrate some special people and let them know what they’ve meant to me and my life, and to do it while we’re all still here. Tim ranks way up there. I never got to tell him.

Back when I was a geeky, gawky 7th grader, Timbo was a strapping, tanned adonis going to law school. Some weekends when he was home, I hung out in his room downstairs while he lifted weights. I was struggling to find my identity, and Tim opened my eyes to a lot of things, especially humor: The Dick Van Dyke Show, Andy Griffith, Bob Newhart, SNL, Steve Martin, MAD Magazine and more. The biggest effect on me was the National Lampoon. He liked to read it aloud.

Spoken word satire, especially in Timbo’s voice, was mesmerizing; it helped to define my own tone and delivery. Even better were the times when he couldn’t hold back his laughter. We’d both be screaming hysterically, trying to get through a single passage. To see what I mean, get yourself the National Lampoon Yearbook and the National Lampoon Sunday Newspaper. Read them aloud with friends.

The OG

Timbo was the Original Geek, being the oldest. Mike and I followed in his footsteps, up to a point.

He was also a rebel, a loner, a member of his own one-man counter culture movement back in the late 60s and early 70s. He argued with teachers, Mom and just about everybody else. Never Dad, at least back then. When it was time to get a job, Mom dropped him off at McDonalds and watched in the mirror as he climbed over the back fence to escape an interview.

Somehow, he turned himself around in the years after high school. He wore a suit and tie to his classes at Virginia Commonwealth. He became a health nut and exercised vigorously. A core memory for me: he drank a breakfast shake every morning, combining a pound of raw liver and a dozen eggs with protein powder, blending it and snarfing it down in a single, excruciating slurp.

The “New Tim” got himself into Princeton, where he continued to excel, evolve and build muscle. And then…

Virginia Law.

Tim became a BMOC. Buff and bronze with a curly golden mane. Mike’s undergrad stint at UVA overlapped. He described once hearing from a suitemate who’d seen Tim crossing the Quad carrying a girl under one arm and a case of beer under the other.

He was now officially my role model.

Our Consigliere

Though he came to decry the legal profession, he helped everyone in our Family at some time, as well as a few friends. Some examples:

On the literal eve of my Folks’ retirement, Mom and Dad were involved in a terrible accident. Dad lost control of the car while leaving a concert at Wolf Trap and drove into a crowd. People were injured, one seriously. It made the front page of The Washington Post. It soon became clear that our Folks might lose everything they’d worked for, just as they were entering their golden chapter. Tim threw himself into their defense, rabidly. There were months of back and forth, with Tim taking Dad to lunch to deliver bad news. Dad stopped accepting the invitations. Within a year, the matter was settled (thanks to Tim and Audi) and Dad was absolved of any wrongdoing. A relief, to say the least.

Before he had even passed the bar, Tim got me out of a scrape of my own making. I’d been caught shoplifting at a coin show. The organizers called home but my Parents were away. Tim, citing his UVA legal chops, showed up to spring me. He said all the right things and I was free to go. On the way home, he said that he wouldn’t tell the Folks. In his most somber tone he admonished me: don’t ever do this again. I was scared straight and so, so ashamed.

Yeah, well, about 10 years later, Tim got me bailed out of the 33rd Street jail for the Great Orlando Sentinel Newspaper Vending Machine Heist. For the first hearing, he flew to Florida from Virginia and sported a white linen suit and a proper pair of Atticus Finch specs into the courtroom, speaking with a smooth, smoky southern drawl. The charges were dropped immediately.

He was there for Mom in her dotage, going out of his way to stop by her house many nights after work to boost her spirits. It made her and all of us feel safe, secure. That said, he was notorious for picking through her jars of nuts, poaching all the meaty ones and leaving only peanuts for the rest of us. Lawyers.

The OG of OGs

Three Tim Stories

Cookies

When Tim was home on Saturday nights, as the Family watched the entire CBS lineup, he made chocolate chip cookies. The cookies were excellent. But what I loved more was he’d save the raw dough for me and him to savor. This is long before Ben & Jerry’s stumbled upon the idea. Sure, it’s dangerous, but read on…

Medical Attention Deficit Disorder

Tim didn’t like doctors. So any scars he had–and he had more than many–came from some self-inflicted and self-ignored run-ins with glass, knives, snakes, pavement, tires, etc. The only time I remember him seeking help was when a poisonous snakebite turned his hand black and horribly swollen. Dad convinced him to get treated, eventually.

On a deadly serious note, Timbo didn’t stay up with his meds, especially ones for the condition the entire Family shares: hypertension. Sad to say, that contributed to his ultimate undoing, as far as I know.

The Letter

On the evening of my high school graduation–five years after my first brush with the law–as I was leaving to meet up with friends, Tim asked if we could talk. He handed me an envelope and a letter, and said to read it whenever. Of course I read it immediately after we parted. In it, he recalled that horrible day and source of so much shame. He lauded me for having not strayed again and hoped I would stay honorable. I got choked up at how much faith and love he had for me. I needed a moment.

If you read the above section regarding lawyerly matters, you know that it didn’t hold.

Creative writing and drawing

In a Family of creative souls, Tim was the most prolific. Because of him, Mike and I were impelled to craft custom cards for every Family event. We still do. Tim’s wit and eye were tough to top. Bonus: he was a master of self-deprecating self-portraits.

He eschewed technology in creating his art. Everything was done by hand: illustration, calligraphy, wall-sized murals. Pen and ink, acrylics, markers and X-acto knives. I seem to remember him whittling a smoking pipe. The most high-tech he ever got was using a stencil and mastering the airbrush. No computers, no Photoshop, no cutting, no pasting, no layers, no adjustments, no auto-anything. Perish the thought!

Fishing

I could devote 10,000 words to Tim’s passion for fishing. Actually, there’s no way I could write even 100 words about it; fishing bored the living crap out of me. Besides, Tim preferred to fish alone–sometimes more than 15 hours a day–though he did make an exception for Dad. More on that in a moment.

The last time I saw Tim, he was lying on one of those cold metal tables at the funeral home. He had a knowing smirk on his face, very Tim. I spent a few minutes.

Standing over him, I conjured Hamlet and Yorick: “…a man of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times.”

At his celebration of life a week later, his widow Gina displayed hundreds of Tim’s artworks and writings, most of which I’d never seen. Bursts of color and life in the illustrations; smart, funny irony and drollness in his prose and poetry.

Sadly, little of it was ever shared with the world.

One of the speakers at the service was a mystery to everyone: a Metrobus driver in uniform who’d passed the church a few days earlier and seen the sign for the event. He took the afternoon off to honor Tim and share a story. Years before, he said, he was being sued for something by Tim’s client. He couldn’t afford his own lawyer so he defended himself. After the first hearing, it was obvious that he was at sea. Tim took him aside and, within ethical standards, gave him advice for how he needed to prepare and make his case. Tim offered to follow up as well. The man was in tears at the altar, recollecting Tim’s wisdom and kindness.

At the reception that followed, I met a few other of Tim’s clients, along with several lawyers, both friend and foe. The most memorable encounter was with a judge, a black man who exuded his love for my Brother. He shared a story, trying hard to contain his laughter. Every February 1st, Tim would seek out the judge in the courthouse, sometimes chasing him down hallways. The judge would hide out in his office or a courtroom until Tim finally found him. And then he’d give the judge a big hug and wish him a Happy Black History Month.

The Conversation

Timbo died a few weeks shy of his 61st birthday. As I write this, I am a few weeks shy of my 61st.

I got the news from Gina early in the morning while I was on a business trip to Portland, Oregon. I was scheduled to attend a few meetings at the airport that morning. When I finally got there, I called Mom from an empty ticketing area. I lost it like I don’t remember when. I paced around the empty terminal just crying my eyes out, bawling uncontrollably, trying to console Mom. Didn’t work.

In the following days, visions started coming to me, of Tim and Dad on a boat fishing on some celestial lake. They were talking. In life, Tim and Dad talked for hours most every night they were together or on the phone when they weren’t. In the later years, to some observers, it seemed every conversation was nearly identical in cadence and content: the same old movies and movie stars, writers and books, classic comedians and bad jokes, highlights of Dad’s life.

In the finished piece, all created digitally, Dad and Tim have dropped their lines into the heavenly-kissed water. Tim’s got a cigar. They’re talking. About everything. Again and again, over and over, for eternity. I think that was their idea of comfort and peace.

I think Tim would have liked it. That would’ve made me proud.

Peace, Timbo. Love you.