My brother (he’s actually my half-brother from my biological dad), Doug, was born on February 7, 1952, and I was born on July 8, 1972. I always remember his birthday because he was twenty years older than I was.
Doug was an incredibly happy man. Everyone liked him. He always had a smile, he brightened up a room when he entered, and he always made you feel like you were special because he would always make it a point to connect with you. He was married for a while, never had children, got divorced, and then lived with a woman for decades. He lived in Portland, Oregon for a while, but I was so young, I never knew exactly what he did there. But when he moved back to my hometown, he worked in a factory producing soda (we called them pop) cans. He was so well-liked at work, he was voted the union president year after year.
My best memory of him was the time my parent’s car broke down in a town a couple of hours away. They had taken my younger brother to his hearing appointment, and they expected to be home shortly after I got home from school. Doug was able to pick me up and drive the two hours to meet my parents at the repair shop. I was eight years old, and he talked to me the entire time! He talked about his high school years, his time playing the saxophone, and his job at the factory. He smiled at me, and would occasionally look over at me, eyes fixated, making me feel like he enjoyed this more than anything else in the world. I had never felt more special before that time or since then. I still think of that time and am filled with love for that man.
Doug died on August 18, 1998, about six weeks before my middle son was born. He was estranged from my family off and on, mostly because my mother didn’t’ get along well with him. Through a letter that I wrote to him in college, I had the opportunity to tell him that he was very important to me, that I loved him, and that I valued him as my brother. My only regret is that I didn’t pursue more of a relationship with him after I left Wyoming, but I know that he knew how I felt about him.
My advice to any of you, survivors or not, never leave words left unsaid.
Harry L. Estes 