Simon Amstell - Do Nothing Live

a recent picture of my mom taken by my niece

I stole this from my niece's website. You can check out her work at

www.LeanneRDesigns.com

Paul Brown's Memoir

Below is a story I came across on the internet this morning. It's written by a man I've never met although we share at least one thing in common. We've both been to Story, and were both enchanted by the experience; it truly is a place of solace most of the time. Unfortunately Mr Brown learned as child, as we've just recently experienced, you can't always "escape the harshness of life", even here. Here is his story:

The summer of ‘72
I left the town of Story Wyoming in the summer of 1972. That was forty years ago. Even though four
decades have passed I don’t there has been a single day that I haven’t found myself drifting back there
in my thoughts. A part of me never left Story. My days there were spent exploring the crystal clear
trout stream that ran just on the edge of the pine filled town. It was really more of a village than a town
and sat quietly some 20 miles from the classic cowboy city of Sheridan. I can still see the purple and
green Big Horn Mountains that stood majestically in the distance; I can smell the trees and clean thin air.
I can feel the sun on my face on those long summer days. It was where my oldest sister, a young school
teacher and her husband had found a home. My sister’s name was Barbara Brown-Bonner, I was certain
she was one of the prettiest girls who ever lived in St. Louis Missouri. She grew up in the fifties and
sixties, graduated from high school in 1963 and went on to the University of Missouri. She was a
cheerleader, a sorority girl and in 1966, Barbie was Missouri’s Homecoming Queen. She was the
epitome of the iconic yet fading days of America’s Camelot, a princess with bouffant hair and dimples.
At the end of her senior year she married a handsome law student from St. Joseph Missouri named
Dennis Bonner. His dream was to practice law in a place where he could also rope steer in his spare
time. After law school they moved to Wyoming. At first Dennis worked as a hired hand at the IXL Dude
Ranch in Dayton, soon after they moved to Story. Dennis started work at a law firm in Sheridan where
Barbie was a third grade teacher at Highland Park School. In the summer of ’72 my sister was 27 years
old, I was 13 and quite literally on the cusp of puberty. I came to Wyoming in early June with my family
for what had become our annual trek west for vacation. As usual my parents and sisters stayed as long
as they could and then went back home to St. Louis. This year though I had a different adventure ahead
of me; I was to spend the rest of the summer with Barb and “Denny”. We built a roping arena at their
small ranch where Dennis and his friends could practice their team roping; I came to discover that this
was the Wyoming equivalent of a Midwestern bowling league. My world was surrounded by horses and
steers, cowboy boots and lariats, Skoal and Olympia Beer. I was having the summer of a lifetime. I
couldn’t have imagined how much my life was about to change.
It took me many years before I realized that the events that happened that summer were part of a
tragedy, a ghost story and a classic tale of a boy coming of age. All of those things were unfolding right
before me under that big Wyoming sky. The day my Mom got on a Western Airlines flight out of
Sheridan Barb and I waited next to the runway and watched the plane taxi from the terminal. I would
be away from home for a month, the longest stretch of time I had ever spent away from my parents, I
was excited. Barb, on the other hand, was sadder than usual to watch her Mother leave, as if she knew
this wasn’t a normal good bye. My Mom cherished Barbie; she was the perfect child firstborn of the
post-World War II era. All the hope, determination and love of the greatest generation were wrapped
up in both of them. As the jetliner rolled toward the runway Barb and I were amazed when we could
clearly see a face beaming from a window just over the wing, it was my Mom with a smile as big as it
could be. Never before had I been able to pick out a face in the window of an airplane and it hasn’t
happened to me since. The plane lifted off and headed east in to a perfect blue sky, Barb cried as we
drove back to Story in that blue and white Ford pick-up. I tried to console her by saying something like,
“you’ll see her again in a year.” She bravely forced out a smile through the sniffles and we drove on.
For the next few weeks I patrolled the streets and trails of Story on my Honda 50 mini bike and got to
know some of the local kids. We hung out at the general store and drank “pop.” I tried to explain that
in St. Louis we called it soda; they probably thought I was weird. We would go to the Fish Hatchery look
at the giant trout then try to catch a rainbow or a brook downstream with an old rod and reel and a
piece of corn for bait. We played on the battlefield where the US Infantry and Sioux Warriors had waged
the famous Wagon Box Fight a hundred years before. It was on a windswept hillside and always had an
eerie, desolate feel. I would imagine the horror of the battle and the blood that was shed there. At
night I helped Dennis care for the horses and steer and I played with the dogs, my favorite was a faithful
German Shepard named Sam, short for Samantha.
An old school friend from St. Louis of Barb and Dennis was also spending the summer in Story. His name
was Lou Exner, “Louie” as Barb called him. Lou had not been back long from the war in Vietnam. He
didn’t talk much to me about what he’d seen there and I didn’t ask. I’m sure he had come to Wyoming
in search of some measure of peace. Lou was a gregarious, friendly man, I liked him a lot. Dennis and
Lou both drove Chevrolet Corvettes but Dennis had his sight set on a much more exotic car. It was the
evening of June 29th 1972 when I came back to the house from one of my new pal’s little league baseball
games, as we came down the long drive I saw a new car parked by the house. Barb, Dennis, Lou and his
girlfriend Marie were obviously immersed in the car’s aura. It was an Italian sports car, a mid-engine
DeThomaso Pantera, very rare, small and very fast. I never even got the chance to sit in it. Minutes
after I got to the house Barb told me they were going to go for a ride in the new car to celebrate and
have supper. “We’ll only be gone for a couple of hours,” I remember her saying to me, “Sam will keep
you company.” The engine of the Pantera roared to life and angrily growled as they drove away. Louie
and Marie followed in his Corvette. It was the last time I ever saw my sister.
It was starting to get dark but I’m sure I felt quite comfortable at the ranch house all by myself; after all,
I was 13 years old. I settled in to the den and turned on the TV. There was a large picture window in that
room that looked out toward the Wagon Box Battlefield and as night fell I could see the profile of the
mountains against the dusky sky. A couple of hours passed and I was starting to wonder why Barb and
Denny weren’t back yet, no big deal I thought, but I wanted to get a better look at that new car. I
remember at some point the dogs started acting strangely, they were spooked by something. Sam
stayed faithfully by my side with her ears attentively tweaked, but the younger dog was barking
insatiably. At that moment I looked out the window, I wasn’t sure if I actually saw something or if it was
just my teenage imagination. It was a wisp that seemed to pass by the window. I calmed myself by
thinking it must have been a reflection, but still, the site of whatever it was left me uneasy. The dogs
finally calmed down but it was getting late and Barb still wasn’t home. I moved from the den to the
front room and sat by a window, looked out at the road and waited. I waited for a long time. I don’t
know how late at night it was when I finally saw headlights, but from only one car. Lou got out of his
Corvette, slowly walked toward the front door and then told me Barb and Dennis had been in a crash.
“She’s unconscious” is all he told me. He drove me to the home of the general store owner where I
could spend the rest of the night. The family knew the whole story but they couldn’t bear to tell me the
truth. I don’t know how I slept at all that night wondering what was happening, but somehow I drifted
off. The next morning Louie came and got me, as we drove back to the ranch he told me the words that I
suppose I had been expecting to hear, “She didn’t make it” is how he said it. Dennis was still
unconscious and Lou didn’t know if he would survive or not. I thought of the wisp that I saw; I
remembered that the dog wouldn’t stop barking. To this day I still don’t believe in ghosts but I have to
consider that what I saw that night may have been my sister’s spirit, just released from her body, drawn
back to her house to make sure the little brother who was left in her care was safe. She saw what she
needed to see and then went to be with the Lord.
My parents and sisters were on a private plane flying back to Story as quickly as they could. I’m not sure
why they raced to get back, they knew Barb was dead but they must have felt the need to be there in
her place for Dennis. My Mom just wanted to be as close as she could get to the place where her
precious firstborn last breathed. I spent that day at the house waiting for my family to return. I was
comforted by Marie and Lou who were strong but still in shock themselves. They were the first ones at
the crash immediately after it happened. The descriptions I heard of the scene were horrific. The story I
was told was that the accelerator may have gotten stuck and Dennis lost control on a curve. They
crashed in to a large pine tree. I was told Barb probably died instantly and I remember that I took some
solace in that. All I wanted to do was to see my mom and I can still vividly recall the moment she arrived
at the house. I was on the front lawn and reached out to her, I wanted desperately to embrace her, but
she was so overcome by grief and so determined to be with whatever presence of Barb that was still in
the house, that she drifted past me like I wasn’t even there. At that moment she was so pitifully
touched and the memory of her empty eyes as she passed me by is still haunting. There was no funeral,
no casket, only a memorial service in Sheridan. In what I can only explain as a premonition, Barb had
told several people in the weeks before her death that when she died she wanted to be cremated and
her ashes spread over the Big Horn Mountains. My Dad made sure that her request was granted. Life
had to go on. My Dad, who was becoming a very influential banker in St. Louis, went back to work. My
Mom stayed at Barb’s house packing up her things, salvaging whatever memories she could.
Dennis had been moved to a hospital in Billings and was still unconscious. Louie visited him several
times but each time he would return with very little positive news of improvement. This big quiet guy
who had apparently seen a lot in Vietnam still wasn’t able to escape from the harshness of life. At some
point Louie decided to take me under his wing. He had gotten to know a sheep rancher who needed
some hands to help drive the herd to the Big Horn high country pastures for the summer. He asked me
to go with him. The full timers who worked the ranch were happy to have the extra help and we were
glad to have an escape. We drove the herd some fifty miles in five days then planned to stay and watch
over them when we made it to the grazing lands. Louie was always kind, encouraging, comforting and
fun to be with. Even though he was a Vietnam Vet he was really just a kid himself. Our adventure gave
him another chance to find some of the peace he had been seeking. We stayed in our saddles on
horseback from sunrise to sunset, worked the dogs to bring back the stray sheep, ate our meals around
camp fires and slept under the stars. It had to look like a scene from a Hollywood movie but it was all so
authentically real. At night I would lay on my bedroll with a saddle as my pillow, listen to fading sounds
of the sheep’s calls, and look up at billions of stars that filled the sky. I would think about the days on
the trail, how once I had rescued a wounded lamb caught in fence and carried it across my lap on my
horse until I bandaged it’s leg and reunited it with an anxious ewe. I thought about when we came
across an abandoned gold mine and I looked down its collapsing shaft. I thought about how I had shot
my rifle to chase off a hungry coyote from the herd. It was the most memorable experience of my life.
As the days on the trail continued I thought about my life ahead, I realized that in a couple of months I
would be starting high school! Whether I wanted to or not, I was about to grow up. As I gazed out up to
the infinite sky I thought about the universe and Heaven and God and my sister Barb. How did I get to
this place? What is my role in all of this? Where will God take me next? I guess those are the same
questions that a lot of people everywhere ask themselves every day.
There is so much more I remember about that time, so many more details and thoughts. Strange thing
though; of all the details in my memory I can’t recall anything about the day I left Wyoming. Not a single
thing. Maybe it’s because I never fully left Story. A part of me is still there, still remembering the
summer of ’72.

On the Eve of Placing My Mom in a Nursing Home

Last week I was talking to my Dad when he said that he was going to speak with someone at Amvets about his options should he need nursing home care in the future. As horrible as this sounds I replied “But Dad, it's different with you. Any of us would take care of you.” Our conversation was in relationship to the decision to place my mother in a facility. You can read into that whatever you like but the cold hard truth of what I was saying is that my mother would not be afforded the same affection or consideration, that in my opinion, my Dad would. I'm sorry for that. I felt sorry when I said it, and I feel sorry right now.

The complexity of the mother/daughter parent/child relationship is so hard to navigate and nearly impossible to be objective about, at least when talking about ourselves. In my case I will say that my Mom, like all of us, was/is flawed. She had issues. She wasn't perfect, and more often than not her better self was nowhere to be seen. When you boil it all down, she could be a mean and hateful person, especially to those closest to her.

More than once she told me the story of how when she was in elementary school a friend of hers went to school dressed fancifully. That really embarrassed my Mom so she wrote her friend an anonymous note telling her how ridiculous she looked. Later the friend thanked her saying that she knew my Mom wrote the note because no one else would have cared enough to tell her what a fool she looked. Unfortunately that interaction formed the very foundation of my mother's emotional and psychological development for the rest of her life. From that day on she mistook criticism for affection.

Once when Zoe was little she corrected me for telling Zoe that I loved her because, in her words: “you should never tell children that you love them, they take it for granted. If you say it then they might think that you don't”. If she ever told me she loved me as a child I don't remember it, but about a year ago, out of the blue, she said it. It blew me away. I joked with Larry and my sister that it must have been the dementia talking but another part of me cherishes it as a truly lucid and divinely inspired moment...her reaching out to me knowing that she would soon be lost forever.

There are only two people in this world (that I actually know) that I can honestly say I feel hate for, and she is one of them. I'm sorry if that's too shocking, it just is. I have owned it for a long time. It isn't 100%, but is often visceral. The last time I saw her she was starting to decline. My presence was a surprise and she shot me dirty looks for a good ten minutes before my sister brought it to her attention who I was. The next day or so we occupied the same rooms but interacted very little. I tried not to let it bother me, it's just her way, dementia or not.

That being said, I find I'm really and truly grieving at the loss of her. I realize she's going into a great homey facility where she'll be well tended and probably happier than she's been in a while. She will have more to do and lots of new friends to meet. Still, the realization that the person who I used to know (and often loathed) no longer is. And no matter what her short comings were, she was in a sense a pillar. I think I will miss that strength for a long time.

Sandie told me yesterday that our Mom's been playing with dolls. You can't imagine how out of character that is for her but it's how I want to remember her always. Maybe Alzheimer's has blessedly robbed her of all the ugly and hateful torment which had so often consumed her and has instead left her with a heart of innocence and play. Maybe these last years will be truly happy ones for her. I hope so. She deserves a little carefree joy before she goes. 

Larry's new website...

is not quite finished yet but it's getting there!

photo by Valerie Blair / inciweb.org

Part of the Fontenelle Fire burns behind summer homes in the Bridger-Teton National Forest in Wyoming.