Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life Goes On
My brother Kevin. Always with a camera in hand.
Chapter 16
It was the second or third week in May.
I was forty. My brother Kevin was forty-six.
It was a day like most days except this was one of the last days Kevin lived. And I had the joy of living it with him.
Over the prior eighteen months, I had made numerous trips to Denver to be with Kevin—as did all of my brothers. We grabbed a day or two as often as we could. I’d arrange my visits around “business trips,” but there was very little business going on. These trips were all about Kevin. They were about sneaking away and submerging into Kevin’s world as often as possible.
Each trip gave me vivid memories; this particular visit in May, however, seemed to encapsulate all that was Kevin. It helped me bring closure—in part—to the relationship Kevin and I had experienced on earth. During this visit, Kevin gave me a gift that would become forever etched in my heart. And I saw Kevin for the very last time.
I found him in his family room watching the news on television when I woke up my first morning there. I was still wearing the clothes I had slept in. He was dressed. His wife had already left for work, so we had the house to ourselves.
“I need you to take me to the mall today,” he said slowly and kindly when I walked into the room. “I want to check out that new Beatles CD.”
Kevin was a huge Beatles fan for as long as I can recall. Growing up, I used to sneak looks at his collection of Beatles albums (which I was absolutely forbidden to do) to check out the funny haircuts and funny clothes on those four guys from a faraway place called Liverpool.
When I had arrived the day before, Kevin had mentioned something about this new CD—a collection of some important songs.
“And don’t go telling anyone we’re doing this.”
I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get Kevin to the mall. He could barely walk. He shuffled. Slowly. Getting him to and from the bathroom in his home was an undertaking. He wouldn’t use a wheelchair, either, so a public outing sounded impossible.
But I knew we were going to try.
He guided me to a mall fifteen or twenty minutes from his home. There I was driving a car, my brother sitting next to me inside the body of a ninety-year-old man. Feeble. Tired. But not yet beaten.
I maneuvered the car as close to the main entrance as I could. There was a bench about twenty feet away we both spotted.
“Why don’t you drop me off here and then go park the car,” he said somewhat apologetically in his gentle voice. “I think I can get to that bench myself and then I’ll wait for you.”
“You bet, Kevin. That’s great.” I tried to sound encouraging. I wanted so badly to make this happen for him because he rarely asked for anything.
After I helped Kevin get out at the curb, I parked the car and ran back to him as fast as I could.
He hadn’t progressed a dozen feet.
“Just walk next to me, Jim. In case I need to hold on to you.”
By the time we made our way through the mall doors, Kevin suggested we go into the Barnes and Noble near the entrance and get something to drink.
“Sounds perfect, Kevin,” I replied. What I was really thinking was how relieved I was not to have to get Kevin through the entire mall at that moment.
Every table was empty when we inched our way into the bookstore but we still picked a spot a little out-of-the-way. I got myself a cup of coffee and a glass of water for Kevin. His taste buds weren’t working, he told me.
What was working, however, was his ability to share from his heart. And what Kevin chose to share with me that day was what it meant to him to be a photographer.
Kevin’s business was print photography. Newspapers. Magazines. He covered the entire spectrum of life. Sports, current events, politics, and human interest. He did it all.
And he did it in a way that was so very Kevin.
I loved seeing Kevin’s pictures, especially when they were in a newspaper with his name in the byline. My favorite photographs were of the “everyday” person. The guy next door.
I always suspected those were Kevin’s favorite subjects too.
Our conversation confirmed that hunch. He shared with me in detail what it was like to photograph these people. He talked about how nervous they often were. And how he learned to take his time with them.
When his subject was a celebrity, an athlete or a politician, he would typically have a short window of time in which to shoot a sufficient number of poses and get his job done. So he knew how to move fast.
But with everyone else, he had a different approach.
He would show up at their door empty-handed. No camera, no notebook. Nothing. Just himself.
He would hang out with them—in their environment, in their world. And he would do what came so naturally to him.
Talk.
He showed interest in every person he was photographing. Interest in their story. He said he would always endeavor to find something in his life he could relate to in their world. He told me what it was like to connect with the 100-year-old man with thirty-nine great-grandchildren. And the kid who caught a twenty-two-inch-long frog. Or the grandma who won the county yodeling contest.
And he wouldn’t go back to his car to get his camera until he felt he had earned a person’s trust. For, at that point, he could simply continue the conversation with the individual and shoot away without them feeling any anxiety or stress.
In the newspaper business, you live by deadlines—tight ones, usually. Kevin talked to me about how he had learned over the years to perform his job without letting deadlines run his life. Or lessen his experience. He talked about how he tried never to let other people know what his deadlines were. He talked about balance.
He talked about all the stories he would have missed had he solely focused on his deadlines.
He talked slowly. Sometimes he would stop and sit and look at me. For seconds at a time. Sometimes he would close his eyes, and I would watch him breathe. I imagined him seeing all these people in the photo album of his mind. Each and every one of them.
His stories were a little random, but his message was crystal clear. Time has value. What we do with our time—even when there are deadlines—is a choice.
“Let’s go to the music store,” he said as if he suddenly was done looking at his photo album and ready to run a race.
I looked at my watch. We had been in Barnes and Noble almost three hours. It felt like it had been thirty minutes.
In the music store, Kevin befriended a young clerk and inquired about the Beatles CD. Sure enough, it hadn’t been released yet.
“Another month or two,” the clerk said.
Then, the two of them started a conversation, which led to the topic of guitars. This young man was an aspiring musician. He made extra money playing in coffee houses on weekends. Kevin could play the guitar. Not fabulously well. But well enough to help him have a good conversation about the experience with this young man.
At one point, looking at his own watch, the clerk said to Kevin, “Hey, man, give me your phone number and I’ll call you when we get the CD in.”
“Tell you what,” Kevin said, “I might not be in town next month. But I’ll try to stop back in again.”
“Cool,” the clerk said smiling.
I looked at Kevin and felt as if I would burst into tears. My brother, my middle-of-the-night-baby-bottle-delivery-boy brother, was making sure I had one last lesson for the road.
If ever there was a man with a deadline, I was looking at him. If ever there was a man who had the right to announce his deadline to the world it was him.
But you’d never know it.
Even without a camera hanging around his neck that day, Kevin was still a master of his craft.
And his own time.
“Jim, it’s Jack. I’m calling to check in on you and see how surgery went.”
I had known Jack for eight years at that point. His two sons, Taylor and Mitch, had been good friends of Kevin and Wallis for many years. Their family was a regular fixture in our lives.
After a nice, friendly talk on the phone, Jack asked me if I might be up for going on a walk sometime.
“Absolutely,” I quickly answered. “But I’m moving pretty slow right now.”
Jack was an easy guy to be around. I’ve been to many parties in his home. He and his wife have been in our home numerous times as well. I’ve sat through ballgames with him. I’ve been to graduation ceremonies with him. We’ve carpooled with each other more times than I can count. But even though Jack was a familiar person in my life, it dawned on me how little I knew about him.
“Terrific. How about next Wednesday?” Jack replied.
“What time?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll get up and go to the gym. I’ll come over after that.”
“Um, great. I’ll be here. See you then!”
He picked me up that following Wednesday. And for many Wednesdays thereafter.
Our walks grew longer with each passing week as my pace became faster. And during those walks, we talked. Not solely about the weather or our kids.
We truly talked. Jack unknowingly became my therapist.
Jack had had a flourishing career with a healthcare company for more than twenty years. Over the years, he witnessed buyouts and mergers and countless reorganizations. During that time, he ascended the corporate ladder.
He enjoyed the respect of his peers and had financial success.
He survived layoffs. He saw the company culture change. And he ultimately saw his own enthusiasm for his career wane.
“I couldn’t keep doing it, Jim,” he told me. “If I did, I realized I was cheating not only my company but also my associates.”
So he left. Walked away.
And before the age of fifty, he gave himself a gift—the gift of rediscovering himself.
He had no road map. No preset plan.
He simply knew it was time.
Every week I listened to him tell me the story of his journey. And I was inspired.
Inspired to look at my own life. Inspired to look at where I had been, where I was, and where I had the potential to go.
I looked forward every week to my time with Jack. I was convinced his message was part of the gift I was searching for.
But his message also stirred a lot of conflict within me. It was easy to soak in his inspiration, but he wasn’t there with answers. I wanted answers!
That wasn’t his purpose.
I’d go back to his well of wisdom week after week trying to find that answer. But there never was one.
He just kept planting the question.