For Marcus

  If I'm running out
  I'm not running out on you.
              Paul McCartney

  October 2018
  I am on Ridge Ave on a blustery Autumn day reading On The Shortness of Life by Seneca. Mide's urn is on the floor near my bed.
Lucius Annaeus Seneca was a Roman statesman and stoic philosopher who wrote masterfully on life's foibles and how important our fleeting time is. He was first a tutor to the young emperor Nero and then an advisor. After multiple clashes and a period of exile Nero forced Seneca to commit suicide. All this happened in the first century CE.
  Mide is my younger, by twenty months, brother who died in the Spring of 2018. He could have been a philosopher and in a way he was. He took a tremendous personal setback, becoming quadriplegic at twenty three, and turned it into a learning experience for not only himself but for those of us who loved him. He was simply the strongest person I have ever known. Luckily this was something I was able to tell him many times over the thirty-two years he lived in a wheelchair. More than half his life.

  April 2018. I feel like a smuggler. I have the small white plastic container in my carry on. Mide's ashes. My share. We all got some; Mom, Paul, Mark and me. And, for now, the large urn is up in Mide's old room, in the closet, at 16 Ridge ave. At some point we're going to give some to Kev Mahon. He's as much a brother as he is a friend. Then we're going to put the urn up at Saint Joe's cemetery with Dad.
  I make it through security with no questions asked. I have all the legal paperwork just in case. The death certificate and a letter from John Bresnahan, another caring friend and most compassionate of funeral directors. He made things very easy for us. It's before noon as I take off out of Albany and I contemplate having an early drink. Mide certainly would.
  I read from Seneca, he writes,
  "Hold every hour in you grasp. While we are postponing, life speeds by."
  And,
  "I do not regard a man as poor, if the little that remains is enough for him."
 
After twelve hours of travel I'm finally home. I put an Aerosmith sticker on Mide's container and set him on the bookshelf.

  June 2018. We are in the parking lot of the Saratoga Performing Arts Center not very far from where we used to park Mide's handicap van, close to the box office. It's a mild June afternoon and the freaks have turned out en mass to see Dead & Company. The hippies are resplendent as usual. Freak flags and tie-dyes, beat up VW buses, old road weary campers, and every imaginable bit of swag for sale over the bridge on Shakedown Street. In a way, we are home.
  How many shows did Mide and I go to here together? My brother Paul and I try to figure it out. Yes, Asia, Santana, Genesis, for sure. I'm forgetting some. We missed the Dead and Rush though. I know he saw Zappa and some metal bands without me. He went to many more shows here than I did. He loved this place and today it was Paul's idea to bring some ashes with us and fling them in the pines near the river. Earlier at Paul's house we filled a pill bottle with a modest amount of the white powder, part of the remains of our wildest brother.
  We are not very ceremonial as we lead a few loved ones into the trees and dump some ashes in each of their hands. On the count of three we toss them in the air. The small dust cloud diminishes quickly. Nobody acts sad, but we are. Steve Lussier says Mide would have loved the irreverence of the moment. There was loud music in the parking lot, dope dealers and scalpers hustling their stuff and girls in Garcia shirts pissing in the bushes. It was quite a scene. Odd and very peculiar, but ours.
Later Bobby Weir sings, "One way or another this darkness got to give."
  Then, "Oh oh what I want to know, where does the time go?"

A memorable moment at an Asia concert. Maybe 1981 or 82.  Steve Howe, the incredible guitar player, is about to play his solo segment and stands under the spotlight. The rest of the band has left the stage and the crowd becomes silent in anticipation of Howe's mastery. Mide, however, is in a mood. He stands on his chair and bellows, "SMOKE A JOINT STEVE HOWE!!"
  The great rock star nods his head as if to say, "There is one in every crowd."
 A few people start to clap and laugh and it only takes a minute for the entire shed at SPAC to join in the applause. The party out on the lawn erupted as well. Howe stands there smiling until the cheering dies off before beginning his lovely rendition of Mood for a Day.

  Paul and Mom already scattered a bit of Mide up at the country club. By the pond. A peaceful spot. An old hangout at night after the golf course closed.

  It was the early morning of February 3, 1986 when I came down the stairs to go to work that Mom and Dad were waiting to tell me the news of the accident. Mide was in the hospital and not expected to live through the morning. We hurried to his bedside. Walking in to his room I trembled seeing Mide strapped down and a metal contraption that was grossly called a "Halo" bolted into his skull so he wouldn't turn his head and do more damage. His eyes were open but he could not speak. We stared at each other and both started to cry. Then he looked at me with such fierce and piercing focus that I knew he wasn't going to die. Years later when we talked about it he told me that he knew it too. He refused to give up. He often wrote to me about his determination to live.

October 2018
  I'm in Pittsfield for twelve days. I take the urn out of the closet in his room and bring it in to mine. I set it on the floor near my bed. He'll remain there for the duration of my stay.
I take some ashes from Mom's white plastic container and fill a prescription bottle to the top. That seems to be the system. There's something balancing about it. I think about the probably thousands of these bottles he emptied over the years. Thirty plus of monthly trips to the pharmacy. When I made the pick ups for him I usually got five or six different drugs at a time. He needed so much to keep the pain and infections contained to a tolerable level. The doctors bounced him around on a lot different stuff so he wouldn't become addicted to any one painkiller. He became an expert at balancing his intake.
  While tightening the lid I get a little of Mide on my fingers. I rinse him off in the kitchen sink. "What the hell." I say to myself. When he was a baby Mom bathed him in this sink. Somewhere there is a picture to prove it.
  The day is blustery as I drive Rockwell Road. My ultimate destination is Stoney Ledge. I listen to some appropriate music as I pass through a steady leaf rain and a light drizzle. The trees that form a tunnel over the road are mostly yellow this year with touches of red and orange. On the car's Bose system I play Yes; Close to the Edge, The Remembering, the very beautiful And You And I, and the gorgeous and redemptive Turn of the Century. A song that is now even more poignant. Mide was a great fan of the magnificent bass player, the late Chris Squire. At the lot at the top of Sperry Road I leave my rental Cadillac and head out toward the Ledge.
 I walk the dirt road in peace passing a family; mom, dad, three kids, two dogs. They are enjoying a leisurely saunter. I, however, am on a mission and keep a steady quick pace on the two mile walk.
  As I approach the Ledge I hear singing. Oh What a Beautiful Morning. From the musical Oklahoma, I believe.  A lone hiker comes into view. He has a ruddy completion, balding but with longish curly red hair, a full backpack.  Looks like he has been on the trail for a few days. He smiles broadly and says, "Not much of a view today." But this doesn't seem to dampen his enthusiasm for his trek. We wish each other a good day and I stroll, slightly cheered by his joyful demeanor, the final few hundred feet to the cliff. He's right, visibility is about twenty yards. But it's still a beautiful scene with the slate mist blocking the view of the summit and the Hopper Valley. A steady warmish breeze blows from the southwest.

 A few years ago Mide wanted to take a ride out here. As usual, his handicap van was in rough shape. The lift wasn't working properly and the tires were balding. Plus Sperry Road was closed to traffic. Not that that was really a problem. A chain was the only gate and a few days before I just unhooked it and drove down to the campsites where I was quickly busted by the ranger.
  "How did you get by the chain?"
  "What chain?" I replied innocently.
  "Someone must have unlatched it."
  "Seems so." I agreed.
  I was told the road was partially washed out and I had to turn around. Which I did with apologies and in a act of goodwill reattached the chain as tight as I could. Recently the chain has been replaced with a simple, but heavy, iron gate with a large lock.
  Mide still thought we should give it a try. He really wanted to see the Ledge again. It's a place that held good memories for both of us. The always reasonable Kev Mahon tried to help me talk Mide out of it. Weather wise it was a miserable day anyway. Finally during our negotiations it started to snow and that put and end to the adventure. Rockwell Road would now be closed.
  So I am reminded this morning as I ramble along in the mist that he never made it back up here. He didn't see this place for over thirty years. But it was always on his mind. The only place he actually told me he wanted his ashes spread. So here I am.
  I take the pill bottle out of my pocket and twist off the lid. Fog momentarily engulfs me. Perfect timing as I toss Mide and he hovers briefly in the wet air mingling in the mist. The light wind carries him away before his cloud drifts into the trees. I sit on the ledge for a while, maybe a half hour. My thoughts almost as opaque as the sky. Someday I want part of my ashes spread along one of the trails near here. I talk to Mide for a bit. I tell him a few things I've been going through in my life. I bring him up to date on the long melancholy summer that is now thankfully over. I can hear his voice in my ear, "It's going to be ok Tone Head."
  On the drive back to Ridge Ave Bob Weir sings, “There’s a ghost wind blowin and it’s callin me…”

 I remember the first song he ever wrote when he started to take guitar lessons. How old was he?  I'd guess eleven, maybe twelve. The only lyrics were,  “Doo doo do, your hair is like straw.” It was never a big hit but I still sing it to myself every now and then. And it makes me laugh.

 It is one thing to live frugally and without excess in your life. But to be denied something as essential as physical abilities that are so easily taken for granted is quite a different story. You can rationalize not being able to take a vacation this year, or having to put off buying a new car. But not being able to get out of bed by yourself makes existence very perilous both physically and mentally.
  Seneca wrote, "Contented poverty is an honorable estate." Be happy with what you have seems to be the message. Don't be greedy. For some, too much is never enough. How honorable is it to want something as natural as being able to walk or pickup a beer bottle? Or hold a loved one. Or wipe your own ass. How can you be content with so little?  Especially after having it all then losing it. Well, Mide took for others what would be an unlivable situation, his loss, and used it like a hammer against fortune to prove he would not be defeated by his disability. He would prevail over obstacles unfathomable to you or me. Mide was most definitely not content with his physical poverty. He raged against it and proved over and over that it would not undo him. Some things were taken away from him forever but he would live with his disability on his own terms.
  Even on his days when all he could do was be helped out of bed for a few hours, or some days not even that, to spend some time working on his lyrics or consulting with doctors, he proved that in his everyday day life he was braver and stronger than I'll ever be. Even on his best days he lived with more pain and setbacks and courage than anyone I've ever known.

  One night we are drinking beer in his room in the spinal injury center at the Mass General Back Bay Hospital in Boston. It's durning the first year after his accident and he determined to be as self sufficient as he can and he has a room to himself. Only recently have the doctors removed the wire halo that kept him from moving his head and neck after his first surgeries. They've been running tests on him and performing brutal acts of physical therapy that leave him worn out. But he's in good spirits. I'm only in Boston for two days. I'm supposed to be attending a food show but I skip out on the dinner and sneak a six pack up to Mide's room.
  We drink for a while not bothering to conceal the beer cans when the nurses occasionally stop in to check on him. The staff is very tolerant of the smaller rules being bent in the desire to alleviate some of the bleakness of the situation. But the line must be drawn somewhere and none of the caregivers will go so far as to join us. But not for lack of Mide trying to coax them in to having a sip.
 Mide tells me about the care unit he's in, about some of the people he's met. He's generally happy with the doctors and the very slight progress he's making at keeping his muscles from atrophying. The most amazing thing he tells me as I hold a beer to his lips is that most everyone on his floor is in worse shape than he is. I'm astounded by this. Mide tells me how it could have been so much worse for him than it was. I still couldn't get over the brutal fact that he'd never walk again and he was telling me how lucky he was. There's not even a word to describe that kind of thinking from his one of a kind brain.
  The rooms on this floor are pretty sparse. You have to provide your own TVs and VCRs. And you can have little refrigerators if you want. (But technically not for beer.)
  Mide tells me that a few nights ago two guys with a giant cart on rollers came down the hall and stole a bunch of the patients' electronics. Stealing from people who are too paralyzed even to operate a nurse's call button is just about as low as you can stoop. Absolutely reprehensible. As if their struggles weren't terrible enough. Mide suspected an inside job.
  Visiting hours were coming to an end but Mide assured me that they were not strictly enforced. He told me about a side exit door on his floor that led to the parking deck. That way I wouldn't have to pass by the desk and explain myself to the nurse on duty. So I opened another beer for each of us.
  An hour or so later Mide was exhausted and I cleaned up the beer cans and threw them in the garbage in the men's room down the hall. We hugged goodbye and I found the exit door. Of course as I swung it open the fire alarm sounded. I stepped out into the stairwell as the heavy door slammed shut behind me. I wondered what the fuck to do next. I waited there for a few minutes ready to offer my apology but the alarm was turned off and again there was silence. Nobody came to check the door so I guiltily went to my car feeling horrible about the terror I caused those poor patients unable to evacuate on their own in the event of a real emergency.
  Back in my hotel room a dear friend visited and consoled me with all her charming beauty.
  The next day I called Mide and he told me not to worry about it. "Happens all the time Tone-Head." He assured me. "We don't really pay attention to it."

April 2019. Sea Ranch California.
  Sea Ranch is a community about two and a half hours north of San Fransisco. It's an area of beautiful vistas, hidden coves, steep oceanside cliffs, spectacular sunsets, foggy afternoons, whales and seals, vultures and osprey. I've been using the ruggedness of this stretch of coast as a refuge for almost twenty-five years. It is a peaceful and enchanting part of California.
  I could tell Mide I was going to Vegas or Hawaii or Ireland or Alaska or any other number of places and he'd say "Have fun!"  But if I was going to Sea Ranch he'd always ask for pictures. (Yosemite was the other place.) Maybe there was something in my descriptions of past trips that sparked his imagination. He also knew and loved the people I traveled with when making my pilgrimage that far north; The Wus, Pam and Mike, Kevin and Marcie, Brenda, Johnny. So he got a kick out of our escapades.
  On this beautiful afternoon the breeze is mild and warm after a few days of rain. It is a year to the day since he died. As is now becoming a tradition I fill up a pill bottle with Mide's ashes and we drive over to the chapel. I tell everyone my plans and they all agree to join my little non-ceremony. Aileen and Liam, Juliette and Ellie, Pak and Joanna and me.
 The chapel is a small room made of local wood and stone. It has a little altar and beautiful stained glass windows. There are just a few rows of pews. When viewed from the road it looks like it was formed by the wild waves of the deep Pacific. It's a quiet and soulful place to rest and meditate. I've spent many early mornings here over the years sitting in silence pondering the mysteries of existence.
  We all sit for a few minutes each lost in our own thoughts before going back outside. I didn't pray, it's too late for that, and I didn't ask what everyone else was thinking but we all, even the kids, had a calmness about us.
  On the grounds we took some pictures and even though this wasn't my original plan, I dropped a bit of Mide in the flowers that face toward the ocean, my amazing friend Pak was at my side.
  This is a soulful (for lack of a better word) place where people come and think good thoughts, pray, contemplate, and mediate, so I figured it's a good place to be surrounded by positive emotions. The chapel is used by everybody; Catholics, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists, Atheists, Protestants and any other denomination you can think of. Everybody is welcome. Even me.
  Next we drove down to the Sea Ranch Lodge, where Pak and Joanna got married. Not to mention it is the scene of many other fine afternoons sipping champagne.
  The lodge is undergoing renovations so there was nobody there. We walked out to Black Point and had the place to ourselves. Black Point juts out in to the ocean about a of a quarter mile. Waves crash on both sides of the rocks and the view of the coastline is stunning. We linger around a bit and Joanna helps me find the right spot. It is far out on the left as you look at the rolling sea. The black rocks contrast with the blue water and white waves. Oystercatchers screech and pick mussels at the tide line. The surf roars.
  There's nothing to really say as I uncap the bottle and flip Mide to the light wind and he drifts through the air and dissipates down to the rocks and water. Little wonderful and beautiful Juliette waves to the cloud that is my brother. We all smile, there is nothing to be solemn about.
  I plan on visiting this place for years to come.
 
 August 2019
 Wawona, CA
  By noon I’m at the trailhead to the swinging bridge and ready to walk. I see the first two ravens of the day, raucous and playful, darting through the pines. I have Mide with me. Well, a small pill bottle full of his ashes. Even though it was only a tiny portion it didn’t stop me from talking to him on the ride up from Santa Barbara. I often hear his voice in my head. Today I told him of a particular dilemma thats been vexing me. I suspected he would laugh and say, “Don’t put up with it! You’re Tony-Fucking-Ferdyn!” He liked saying stuff like that. And he liked reminding me how great he thought I was.  I am not kidding about this. He humbled me.
  I lace up my boots and saunter down the trail and plan on stopping at the small meadow were an old tree had fallen alongside the trail two winters ago. I figured that would be a good spot to drop Mide. I planned on keeping an eye on this tree for a long time. I’ve already watched it rot and waited for it to fall for thirty years.  When I get there the tree is mostly gone, cut up into logs some of which have been hauled away no doubt to be used for firewood at the Redwood’s cabins. Oh wells, I nix that plan and am disappointed that I won’t be able to enjoy the years of decay that I planed to observe. Some of the character of that clearing has been diminished.
 I pass the swinging bridge and the swimmers lounging on the rocks. After that I won’t see another person until I come back. I stomp along leaving a small dusty cloud in my wake. I’d love to see a bear but I’m too damn noisy. Maybe if I slowed down and stopped singing out loud. Easy To Slip is running through my head. Go figure. I sing a few verses to Mide.
  The trail is flat and follows the river up to what Johnny Reilly calls The Tubs. It’s a shoot of water that fills a massive pool. For mid August the Merced is flowing pretty hard. It was a good snow year. I sit by the falls for a while emptying my mind of the detritus that has built up over the past weeks. There is no better antidepressant for me than being alone in the woods miles from another human. It is me, river water, blue sky, Ravens, trees and a breeze that drys my sweat. Wawona Dome is visible through the dead branches of the sugar pines that burnt in a fire last year. I slow my breathing and listen to the river and the occasional bird calling for what I can only guess. I think of Mide and his long struggles. His courage. His capacity for endurance. His humor. His grace. I am truly a better man because of him. I think of a million things to tell him. But we’ve already said everything that matters to each other. And for that I am grateful. Never let an opportunity pass to tell those you love how much they mean to you.  Mide and I were pretty good at that.
  Why bring him to Yosemite? He always wanted to go and loved my pictures and stories of the mountains that I climbed and the trails I hiked. After Bobby B visited here for that famous party he told Mide that there was a lot he could do and see from his chair. Bobby, of course, was also an expert on navigating the world with a handicap. He got Mide excited about a trip and we talked about it for a few years until the contingencies of his situation just kept setting him back. He continued to ask for photos from my visits but sadly we realized a trip was unrealistic. I wonder how many times he had to admit to himself that there was so much he could never do. He was a realist for sure and kept most of his disappointments to private.
  I get up too quick and have a slight bout of dizziness. Typical for me these days. I continue up the trail and spot a large boulder easily visible from the path. It looks like a giant gravestone. “Perfect!” I say to Mide.
  I make my way up the hill to the granite rock. It's easily twice as tall as I am and maybe twelve feet long. I circumnavigate it a few times and finally decide to pour Mide out on the side facing the forest. I do it without ceremony and then lean against the cool stone and cry for a minute.  It has been a very long year. I go back to the pool and dunk my head under the small rapids of the ice cold Merced River.
  An hour later I’m back at the jeep, hot, sweaty and dusty. I take my phone off airplane mode and text Mom, Paul, Mark and Kev. They are all bittersweet and Kev tells me he is taking Mide to Japan in the Fall. "Bravo!" I say!
 In my cooler I have beer and club soda buried in ice. I opt for a soda and drink it in about eleven seconds.

 There were particularly bleak times over the years. Long stays in care units or hospitals. Months of being bedridden. Prolonged mind stopping pain. How he weathered this I'll never understand. A weaker man, and we knew a few, would have given up. But not Mide. Even during the worst of it all, and at times he wanted to, he would not take the easy way out. There was one time when his condition, for him, was truly unbearable. We talked on the phone a few times because he had finished his will. He wanted me to know about it and sent me a copy. He also sent me some money. Banker's checks so I would have to cash them. He knew if he sent me a check from his personal account I would tear it up. He was clever that way. He always thought everything out to its natural conclusion.
  At this time he was in tremendous pain and sent me a letter that was the closest he ever came, at least with me, to true despair. It scared the shit out of me and in my guts I felt like he was ready to wrap it up. Another part of me wasn't so sure. He always said to me that he wouldn't ever kill himself because of the anguish it would cause Mom. He just couldn't bare being the cause of that hurt. His own he could deal with but to burden others was out of the question.
  Still, I couldn't tell if he thought the pain was going to kill him or that he had finally had enough. He knew, because we talked about it many times, that no matter what he decided, I would understand and respect his decision. His would always be the final say. The last word would rightfully be his own. Period.
  Then he fell out of bed and smashed his head. At the hospital they put him in a coma to reduce the brain swelling. From 3000 miles away I figured this was it. He did it. I called and talked to Kev Mahon who, as I’ve said, is more than a friend, closer to a brother, Mide's best friend and caretaker. Kev told me he, too, thought that Mide finally did it. And he would know. Kev had access and control of everything and a few hours later when we talked again he told me all of Mide's drugs were accounted for. He did not try to overdose.  Which of course when I thought about it later, and knowing Mide, had to be the case. He wouldn't botch the job if he wanted to take that road. It was a fucked up accident. But a bad one. The brain swelling would cause permanent hearing loss. Mide attributed this, and he was right, to doctor error. They stopped all his meds and his body went haywire. He made, as only he could, a scene when he finally woke up. When he read his medical file he threw doctors and care providers out of his room. He tried to check himself out but they wouldn't let him go. A psychiatrist wrote a report that was so blatantly incorrect that she should've been fired. She was grossly incompetent. In time Mide would go after her job. (Later he would joke with me saying, "I'm crazy! Just ask my psychiatrist.")
  Slowly he got stronger and they gave in and let him go home. He called me and yelled in my ear, "I AM INVINCIBLE!" But overall it was a terrible ordeal. It took so much out of him. But it also gave him an enemy, Berkshire Medical Center, and something to war against. And he battled their shoddy care and tried to build a court case against them. It would consume him for years. Unfortunately, in the end, he didn't get the satisfaction he deserved.

August 30, 2019
  Today I get a short video from Paul. He's emptying out yet another pill bottle of Mide. This time at Tanglewood, on the great lawn in front of the Shed. At a Pat Benatar concert, of all things. Tanglewood is another scene of many raucous evenings of music. A particular Neil Young concert sticks out as memorable as much for the parties before and after as for Neil's epic performance.

  We shared a car for about a year. A 76 mustang. Black with a red interior. Dad bought it for us. Our friend Johnny Rev approved. It was too fast for me and not fast enough for Mide. He had a motorcycle at the time, too. So I mostly had the car. Usually I'd pick him up after work at night. I worked until eleven at the Encore Room and he worked until midnight at GE. We'd usually make it to Jay's for last call. Most of those nights were unmemorable. A bunch of guys sitting around unwinding before heading home to sleep and then do it all over again. But sometimes, with the right combination of old friends, things could be slightly more entertaining. As the saying goes, we had a lot of laughs.
After picking him up after work one night we went to Jay's and I bought the first and he said' "Tone-Head, you've always been like a brother to me."
We laughed about it for years. He was as equally witty as he was funny.

"They would let you kill a dog, Tone Head." He would often say this to me, mostly in jest, when he was in a particularly bleak and prolonged period of pain or his infections were raging like a wild fire. But he always said it with a grin.
  When I had my mild heart event (attack) and ended up in the hospital for a few nights he was my second call, after Mom. It was my first ever overnight stay. I was a little loopy and overwhelmed by all the hospital commotion and constant attention by several doctors and nurses. He gave me a little speech that went something like this, "You're the boss in there. You tell them what to do and what you want. Ask every question you can think of. Use that call button anytime you need to. Keep an ear open for bullshit. Gobble pain meds if you need to." I think he sensed how nervous I was and he expertly disarmed my apprehension with his wicked humor. Compared to him it was embarrassing how little I suffered and I vowed not to be a pussy. Even he lost track of how many nights he spent in hospitals and care facilities and I was, and am, an amateur when it comes to dealing with the healthcare system.
  Mide asked me a bunch of questions I didn't know the answers to and he encouraged me to hound the doctors for explanations. I was relieved when I lucked out with a very fine cardiologist. He was brilliant and compassionate and as I knew from Mide's experience this wasn't always the situation.
  "What do you call a doctor who graduates last in his class?" He would ask. The answer is, of course, "Doctor."
  His advice when I broke my foot was equally appreciated. I had a doctor I wasn't quite comfortable with and Mide told me just to get rid of him. So I did and ended up with someone I trusted who did a great job.
  One time I told Mide that I didn't understand a hospital bill I received. He told me to throw it away. "Sometimes that works!" He said cheerfully. Instead I spent hours on the phone trying to figure it out. I should have listened to him.

  I get a picture from Mark today. Mide is with him in a boat, salmon fishing up near Pulaski, NY.

  I'm home one Autumn and Mide asks me to drive him to a new doctor's office in Lenox. Kev Mahon is, or course, with him. Kev was in charge of helping him keep appointments, among a dizzying list of other chores like shopping, paying bills and picking up prescriptions on time. I remember one time watching TV with them.
Mide: "Tomorrow is my appointment at the pain clinic."
Kev: No, that's not til Friday."
Mide: "Oh yeah, at one."
Kev: No, at three."
Mide: Tomorrow must be my dentist appointment."
Kev: No, that's next week."
Mide: Then what's tomorrow?”
Kev: Tuesday."
Mide nodded his head in agreement and we went back to watching a Blue Oyster Cult concert video. Entertaining banter.
  So we get to the waiting room and the receptionist says, "Michael, we don't have you scheduled for today."
  "Yes you do." He says pleasantly enough.
  The girl looks irritated. "No Michael! We don't."
  Mide raises his voice, "How come every time I come here you screw up my appointment?"
  People in the waiting room are starting to take interest.
"You're the one who can't keep your schedule straight." The receptionist scolds him while giving him a glare that could peel paint."
  "I'm changing doctors!" Mide snaps.
  "Good!" She fires back.
  Kev and I look at each other. We're both thinking, "What the fuck?"
  "And you know what else?" He says and I cringe figuring here it comes.
  "What?"
  "No more chips for you."
  Now it my turn to say, "What?"
  Then they both start to laugh and the receptionist says, "Go right in, Doctor G will be right there. And don't forget my chips!"
  It seems Mide and the receptionist were old friends and played this game every now and then. He would have Mark give her free potato chips from his Fritos route. How Kev didn't know this is beyond me.
 
  The last time I saw him.  He was still so handsome.  And incredibly sharp that day, as he had been for the last few weeks that I had been on the east coast. We had lunch every day until I went to NYC.  He had the gleam in his eye. He was feeling somewhat stronger after spending a few weeks at Hillcrest, the open infections were getting slightly better. We enjoyed our usual long talks. We sipped occasionally from a bottle of Cutler’s 33 that I shipped him and he smuggled into his room. I, sometimes with Mark or Paul, would bring in lunch. One day when I showed up a nurse was in the room and he said to her, “Look what my brother brought.” And when she did he said, “It’s called food!” His meals left something to be desired, “Like flavor!” He told me.  Mom was always sending meals too.  And he had a drawer full of halloween candy. He vaped like crazy and anyone who showed up to visit was enlisted to refill the load and charge the batteries. I was sloppy at it, always getting the goopy liquid on my hands and overfilling the tiny canister, but Mom and Paul had the system figured out.
 One afternoon we talked about the old crew, now all gone; Johnny Rev, Suko, Pretzel, Heath, Bobby B and, of course, Dad.  We laughed about what we learned from Dot and Nan. And then he talked about Ann L and Maz.
  Tony Masdea. Maz! Mide's closest friend for years. They started kindergarten together and grew to have similar interests.  Starting with sports, mostly baseball, and then, as they made their way toward high school, music, art, and girls. Often times the two were inseparable for days on end. Afternoons in summer were spent playing ball and then listening to the Red Sox on the radio usually in Maz's backyard where a group of us would gather after dinner. Both Mide and Maz had a lot of restless energy, even for kids. They'd run at the track, walk around town, buy records, eat pizza, and play little league, I was on the team as well. I was also an inferior player compared to those two.
  In Summer the Masdeas ate dinner earlier than the Ferdyns. Inevitably, before we were finished eating the phone would ring, to the irritation of Dad, and it would be Maz checking in to see what the evening plans were. It was usually a ballgame. Although sometimes it could be a movie or a concert. If it was raining or winter we'd go to one of their bedrooms to listen to music or play cards for dimes and quarters. This is also where we tried our first taste of swiped booze.
  It was August of 1980. Mide and Maz and a few other friends attended the Black Sabbath concert at Lebanon Valley Speedway in New Lebanon, NY.  I was unable to go because of work. In the chaos after the show everyone got separated and Maz started to hitchhike back to Pittsfield, about twenty miles away. It should have been an easy time as there was plenty of traffic heading that way. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Maz half expected to be picked up by Mide and the gang. Instead the outcome was more horrible than our young minds could grasp. Tony Masdea, 17 years old, on that beautiful summer night was hit and killed by a drunk driver in a white van. It shattered our lives. The next morning Mom and Dad were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs to give me the news. I was on my way to Fenway for the weekend with Kerwood, Tierney, Eksuzian, (who was at the concert.) and Wilk. We were all stunned. It was the most heartbreaking few days of our lives. It was the first time we had lost a peer. We honestly did not know how to react. Kerwood, an old grade school teacher of ours who planed these trips, was our compassionate guide and helped us comprehend our grief as best he could. And there was no mistake that he was also in deep pain. Everything had changed for us. We realized, as one must at some point in their younger years, that life wasn't always going to be fair.
  I didn't see Mide until I got back on a Monday. He was in a rage of anger. And that anger would last a long time. It never really faded, even thirty-plus years later I could still catch glimpses of it.
  The funeral was heart crushing. I felt as if all the atmosphere had been sucked off the planet. Mide was a pallbearer. The first adult job he ever had to perform and he did it with bravery and a deep strength of character. I was so proud of him that day.
  One night several years ago he told me this. When he heard that they had a suspect in the case he went to Maz's dad, Al, to find out the name of the guy. It hadn't been made public yet. Al wouldn't tell him. Mide was honest about his intentions. He was going to kill the guy. Pure and simple. An eye for an eye. Honest and cold satisfying revenge. In his mind he thought it might put his world somehow back in balance. Al, a gentle man, good father and husband who also buried his wife, talked him almost out of it. As he explained to Mide, it wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't bring his son back and Mide would suffer even more.
  He thought long and hard about what Al Masdea said. He was still set on murder but waited. And then his accident got in the way. And he said to me, "If I couldn't kill him with my own hands it wouldn't be right."
 
  October 2017   Saying goodbye that last time: After a final sip from the bottle of the 33 I leaned over and hugged him and we both said, “Love you brother.” Like we always did. He gave me the smirk and I didn’t get teared up until I got to the hallway and started walking to the car. It took me more than a few minutes to gather my wits, meager as they were that day.

  Now there is nobody left who calls me Tone-Head. I'd like to see somebody even try it. Perhaps Mark could get away with it. Also with Mide gone there are things that nobody knows about me. Sometime I look at the small plastic box with stickers of Sabbath, Yes, ZoSo, and of course, Aerosmith, that rests on my bookshelf and I remind him of those things. Yes, I talk out loud to him. I wonder if there are things about him that only I know. I have scoured his letters and wracked my mind for clues. But so far I'm not sure.
  The morning of his last day before he 911ed himself we played our usual game where we texted each other song lyrics. We tried to stump each other. He wrote, "if I'm running out, I'm not running out on you." The words were familiar but I couldn't find the tune in my head. I let the text sit for the day while I tried to come up with the song.
  Then in the middle of the night, after two AM, Mark called. Those phone calls at that time are never good news. Mide had called an ambulance that afternoon. It must have been bad because his tolerance for suffering was enormous. And I can only imagine that he must have been scared.
  The oxygen in his blood and lungs was so far below normal that his chances of making it though the night were minimal. When Mark called he, Mom and Paulie were there at the hospital with him. I talked briefly with all of them and don't remember what we said. Mark and Paul, with strength and brutal honesty, did not hold out hope. Mide was in and out of consciousness. Mark said he knew that they were there. I told Mark to tell him that I said, "You're just a punk in the street." He held the phone to Mide's ear. He'd know what that meant. We hung up and this time things felt different. Mide had beaten the odds against him so many times before and I wanted him to again. But there was something in Mark's voice that told me otherwise. When the phone rang again an hour later I knew what it meant.
  A long struggle with pain was over. A brave spirit silenced. A legendary wit and unique mind had now passed away. It seemed impossible that such a force could be gone. There was something grossly unfair about it. My beautiful younger brother had made his stand in this world and now we were on our own. I cried the hardest I ever cried in my life. And it did no good. In the morning I bought a plane ticket and was in Massachusetts the next day.

  His voice comes to me often, "Tone-Head!" He says, "Buy those tickets!" Or, "Why the fuck didn't you ask her out?” And recently, "Quit that job!"  It cheers me up and I usually follow his advice which conveniently parallels my own.  

 1991. A memorable lunch in Miami. It was Suko, Reilly, Mide and myself. We went to one of Mide's favorite seafood places by the water. We got there early, right as they opened. The restaurant didn't have an elevator so Mide had to take the service lift up to the kitchen. The staff knew him and I could hear him talking to the chefs before he came out to the dining room that overlooked the marina. A place not being handicapped ready couldn't stop Mide from going somewhere he wanted to go. I'm remembering the times we carried him in his chair up those tight stairs at Lacos. Really! We did!
  Our waitress that day was charming and attentive. So attentive, in fact, that she was reprimanded for neglecting her other tables. Both Mide and Suko tried to convince her to either quit and join us or tell her boss she was sick (with an earache) and follow us to another bar. Reilly and I swear she was contemplating it.
  Lunch lasted about three hours. We had platters of shrimp and stone crab and then giant grouper sandwiches, Mide's favorite. Needless to say the drinks flowed liberally. It was an un-rushed afternoon. I vaguely remember our waitress having a shot with us.
  Then Reilly and I tried to grab the tab only to find out it was already taken care of. And it had to be substantial. Suko and Mide laughed and laughed. That day set the tone for the next few days of hard, high performance living.
  Later that night they took us to a club, Penrod's on the beach. At the time it was famous for MTV doing spring break shows from there. When we went through the big main door there was a girl standing there dressed in only a bandolera loaded with shot glasses. She brandished a bottle of tequila in her hand. "Hi Mide!!" She yelled. She grabbed him by his hair and tipped his head back and filled his mouth with tequila. Remarkable, I thought. Then a six foot six bouncer who looked like a tackle for the Dolphins stared at me and said, "Dress code. No shorts."
  So as Reilly and Mide and the practically naked waitress went into the club Suko brought me back to the condo to put on long pants.
   Reilly and I still joke that we had to sneak out of Miami lest those two drank us to death.
There are other tales to tell from that visit but I will save them for another time.
  There are also many other stories from many other places. His visit here to Santa Barbara. Our trip to Vegas. Fenway. Concerts. Endless bars and restaurants in Massachusetts. They are cherished memories now. I will try to tell these stories over time.
 
  April 2018
  John Bresnahan, as I've said, is a good friend. His younger brother Bobby was one of my best. When we went to see John at the funeral home he and I talked about how we had a big thing in common. We both lost a little brother. We teared up there in his office where there is a wonderful picture of Bobby on the wall. After taking care of the business part and choosing an urn, Uncle Ed picked the one, it was elegant, silver and dark grey metal, and we all agreed it was perfect, we then went downstairs to see Mide.
  It was Mom and me, Paul and Mark, Uncle Ed and Aunt Pat. We waited in the lobby for a minute. We told Kev Mahon four o'clock. He was right on time and brought Mide's favorite red Fender bass. Mide was laid out on a gurney with a cloth over it. No fancy coffin or platform. He was covered up to his waist with a blanket. He wore a collared shirt unbuttoned enough to see the Red Sox World Series shirt that was John's. It made us all smile.
  Mide looked like himself. There was no doubt he was at peace. He looked composed and intelligent. He was handsome. John led a prayer and then we stood around Mide, each for a time, lost in our own thoughts. Mom was happy with the way he looked; young, too young, and strong, ready for what ever came next.
  We all had moments of unsteadiness. But our family has always been known for an inner strength when the worst times crashed down. We smiled even as tears streamed down our faces. But make no mistake about it, it was the hardest thing any us had ever done. I am proud of my brothers and of the way they showed their grief. They showed it with love. And that was hard too.
  Mom said she was ready to go. She saw what she needed and was calm and composed. We walked her to the lobby and Ed and Pat took her home. Paul, Mark, Kev and I went back in with Mide. John asked if maybe some music would be appropriate. We agreed it would be and he brought out a speaker. We all knew what to play. John turned up Aerosmith and we stood, not talking, looking at Mide. I half expected him to smile. After a song we lowered the music and tried to be strong for each other. John said we could stay as long as we wanted, even all night if we had to. It was a generous offer. The funeral home was empty except for us. We listened to some more music for a while and then finally decided it was time to go. The guitar would stay the night. I lingered for a minute alone with Mide. The boys and John went to the lobby and I looked one last time at my little brother. A world gone. I would never be the same.
 
  John was waiting for us when we got out of the limo at the church. He touched the pin on my sport coat, a final gift from Bobby that I wear in remembrance. The place was packed, a testament to love. To the love for us and the love for Dad and the great love for Mide.
  The silver urn stood on a pedestal in front of the alter. The Fender bass was there too. Kev had polished it and gleamed in the candlelight.
  Father Peter came out of retirement to say mass. He has been a massive source of comfort for our family in our worst moments. His eulogy was personal. He scattered a detail or two but it was heartfelt and warm. After the service Mark carried Mide down the aisle, Marcus carried the Fender. Paul and I walked with Mom. I tried not to look people in the eye as we made our way to the door. I was afraid I'd breakdown. So many caring friends aiming their compassion our way was almost too powerful to bare. I do remember reaching out and touching Maggie Knysh's hand. Her smile got through to me somehow.
  We had everyone to Zucchini's for lunch. On the way over in the limo Mom reminded us not to invite too many people back to the house. We'd need our peace later.  The next few hours were a blur. So many people came from so far; John from New York, friends from Boston, and Carlos from California. Our hearts swelled. People lined up to hug Mom. Marcus came and found me in the bar, he was worried. He told me, "Grandma hasn't eaten anything yet."
  I went back to the dining room and asked, "Hey Fran, should I make you a plate?"  Marcus, and I could see the man he will become, was relieved when Mom sat with him and finally had some food.
  We, being who we are, Mom included, couldn't help but ask people to stop by 16 Ridge after we were done at the restaurant. The house quickly filled up; with people, with food, with flowers and with stories. We placed the silver urn on the table in the living room.
  As if anyone needed more to eat Mom and Aunt Pat set out dishes and platters on the kitchen table.
  Outside coolers of beer appeared on the deck, wine bottles were popped, pot smoke drifted on the breeze. Someone (Carlos) handed me a whiskey. I thought about the summer parties Mide used to have here. There'd be tee-shirts for everyone, kegs of beer, music, burgers. People came and went all afternoon. Some of those same faces were here today in his honor, all with their own memories of how Mide touched their lives.
  Later up in my old room I made a pact. With Mide? I guess. I would never lose the strength I always got from him. If he could always fight on, I would always fight on. Nothing was insurmountable. He proved that to me over and over and over. Surrendering to despair was not an option for him. I will not ever forget it.

 April 2020.  I now measure time by how long he's been gone. In my life there's a with Mide and an after Mide. It's been two years almost to the day since he died. The stories still come to me regularly. Durning these recent days of quarantine a friend asked me what do I miss the most. She meant it about all the regular routines of life that for a time would no longer be permitted. But my mind was elsewhere that morning. I texted her back, "My brother Michael."