Where Are The Snows of Yesteryear? - and - The Gardenia

 

                                                   The Gardenia

                                                   An original drawing on 100% rag Strathmore

                                                   9" X 12", unframed

                                                                                 ( click on image to enlarge )

     Francois Villon's famous line of poetry doesn't have much to do with today's 

posting on the blog, but it speaks eloquently of the cruel and relentless passage 

of time.  This week is one of the sadist weeks of my life: I have lost my one and only 

brother.

     During the midst of the great depression, shortly before world civilization became

swallowed by World War Two, my parent's married and bravely began to raise a family. 

They had two baby boys, separated by just two years.  The first born was named after

his father, and the second was named after his father's brother.  The couple worked hard, 

struggling through financial setbacks and health problems, to raise their boys to a high 

ethical standard.  There were plenty of snows of yesteryear as the boys were growing up, 

with many long, icy walks to school, in those days before busing.  And there were the

the episodes of mumps and measles, chicken pox and whooping cough,  scarlet fever

and broken arms, and all of the other difficulties which threatened children's lives in

those days.  But there were also games and skating, biking and sledding, and annual 

holidays and birthdays marking our growth.   

     The older brother soon began showing a curiosity about how things worked.  

He made kites of unique design and flew them well.  And he made large, model

airplanes, out of nothing but thin strips of balsa-wood and tissue paper, with a

wind-up propeller, and these planes would sometimes fly so high that we could not 

see where they had gone.  Then he would have to depend on the kindness of the 

strangers who found the planes, to call us and return them.   These early interests 

led him naturally toward the fields of engineering and drafting. 

     The younger brother tended to be a bit of a dreamer, who closely observed

the natural world of flora and fauna, and developed a talent for drawing the

things he saw, better than most boys his age.  That was a portent of his life yet

to be.

     So we began life together as a pair of starry-eyed little boys, a pair of traveling

companions, looking out at a world of wonders and surprises.  And he remained

my loyal traveling companion on this long mysterious journey we call life.  He did

not have the title of a nobleman, but he was a nobleman in spirit.  Honest and

trustworthy to all, he was always ready to answer a call for assistance, whatever

the problem might be.  He remained a loving husband and father, and a devoted 

brother, until the very end of his journey.   Now his half of our shared travels is 

finished, so I will have to complete my half of the journey alone.  I will be the 

final repository of our shared memories, of a family which once was; a father 

and a mother, and a brother too, now gone.

                                                    Eugene P. McNerney 11

P.S.    I have been observing the blossoms of a gardenia plant in the garden

this week, as the end drew near for my brother.  There is a kind of reluctance 

about the way the tightly wrapped petals of the buds gradually unfurl, like little 

fingers trying to keep the flower's fragrance from escaping, much the same as 

my reluctance to let go of my brother's loving spirit. 

                                                Thomas T. McNerney Jr.

                                                June 19, 1935  -  June 27, 2023

                                                Rest in peace.