From my cousin Jonathan(Jonastin, as my dad would say)

I received an email from the author of stalled at 12, Mary, the other day.  I also received a card, sending condolences and words of advice, comfort, and wisdom.  There were things other people had yet to say to me written in them.   They were real and from the heart, filled with concern and love.  “Don’t spin the bitterness, anger, and unfairness of it all into depression. It’s not advisable. I love you.” So all of you know the card and emails were regarding the loss of my father.  He is the man to the left of my cousin Mary in her profile picture, Sam. The one with the dark sunglasses trying to look serious, taking pictures in a photo booth with one of his favorite people (I don’t believe I’ve seen them, but I’m sure hilarity ensued in the other three shots).  He would have been 66 this August, but unfortunately, he passed away on April 30th, four years and four days after Mary’s father, my uncle Frank.  My father meant the world to me, he was, as I stated at his memorial, my father, my mentor, and my best friend and words do not do justice to the pain I am feeling.  Mary could say the same thing (substitute older brother for father) about him.      My dad went by many names, Sammy, Dad, Sam Pop Pop, and Oyde to name a few.  But the one that my family knew him by was Butch (I know Mary by another name, but it’s mine and you guys can’t have it, not yet).  Please don’t ask where the name came from.  My Aunt says she was the one who started it, but beyond that, I have no idea.  It is one of those things that just “was” to me, like the Pyramids, the great wall of China, and the Windmill over in West End.    Butch was, in many ways, the favorite son of our family, especially with the younger crowd.  He was witty, charming and smart.  Man, was he smart…He could debate the greatest speakers of our time and come out on top.  And yet, he could turn that seriousness off in an instant to plunk down on the ground and play a game with his younger audience.  The adults often referred to him as the Pied Piper, due to the gang of kids that would follow in his wake to hear stories that the other adults wouldn’t share.  I once saw him get out of his seat on an airplane to walk several rows back just to cheer up a crying child. It was not because he didn’t want to hear the crying (he would have happily held the child for the duration of the 4 hour flight, crying and all) but because he genuinely wanted the child to be happy.          So that’s a bit about the man who is in the picture with Mary.  I could go on and on, fill books about him and our own adventures, as I’m sure Mary could do also, but I also would like to speak about my cousin.  Mary had mentioned her blog to me a few times, and after some prodding, shared it with me.  I have known about her condition from my father for a while.  She had tried to keep it from me (which I was upset over at first but later came to realize that my emotion was…misplaced for lack of a better word) but I knew something was up when I would get calls from my father asking if I spoke to her, something that, as I told Mary, he didn’t do for anyone else.  This blog provided me with more insight as to just what has gone on, and I’m happy for having read it.I read it all, from the beginning.  I went through an array of emotions (I’ve been very emotional lately) with each passing post.  I was saddened by her pain, was angry about the way people treated her, I laughed at her mannerisms and way of speech which I’ve always found brutally honest and…well…fun (Mary does this thing with her eyes when she is being sarcastic.  She deadpans the delivery perfectly, and I immediately look to her eyes to see the laughter and playfulness behind it, but it gets me every time.).  I read her last post, about her detractors and those who would claim her stories fake and a train wreck.  That pissed me off.  And then, the next night, I fired up my blog that lay, untouched for 3 ½ years, and wrote.  I was inspired, motivated and energized about writing for the first time in a long time, and it was Mary’s doing.  She didn’t need to tell me to do anything, she had always encouraged me, told me how much I was loved, how she always (secretly when we were younger, publically later on) wanted me to be her little brother.  And now, without saying a word, she had unsuspectingly rekindled my love for writing.  She did this by sharing these stories, by being strong and courageous, and by simply being, well, Mary.That is one of the amazing things about my cousin.  She won’t bullshit you.  She’s not going to tell you something for the sake of having you hear it, which means when the love and emotion come out (as they often do) it’s genuine and true.  I never have to question anything we speak about because I know where it’s coming from.          Mary told me she would be honored if I wrote something for her blog.  That it could be about anything, maybe something on my father.  She said if I did this, she would be encouraged to continue blogging, something I have asked her several times to not give up (If not for herself, than for everyone here who shares her pain. You are a wonderful community of supportive people.).  I started writing immediately, without giving it a second thought.  While I pressed her on specific subject matter to write on, it really wasn’t all that tough to figure out.  The difficult part was trying to keep a post on two of the greatest people I know short in length.  ~Jonathan    

Well...uhm, thanks...~Mary oxoxoxo