My Bro -- September 9, 1946 - April 29, 2019

Yesterday we did a great job of remembering my brother. A memorial in Enumclaw at the VFW Hall was packed with old friends and family, some that came from afar to attend. Here is a poem I wrote about my bro, which I read:

My Bro

A small history about a big person.

My brother, the boy, wanted to please our dad when he signed up for Little League but found the fit of eighty-eight black-and-white ivory keys suited him more than an oak bat and leather glove. Report cards were low on the list of anticipated events but teachers loved my brother. My brother’s favorite-come-in-the-back-door-at-the-end-of-the-day-shout was “what’s for dessert?”  My brother was mom’s best guinea pig. Lemon meringue pie, lady-fingers, wedding cake icing, petit fours, peanut sauce and honey mustard dip.

My brother, the teenager, learned how to sweep floors with sawdust at Nelson Lumber & Hardware; turned in his push-broom for a guitar. The Ivy Three. Practice sessions late at night. The Drone.

My brother, the friend, was never at a lack of company. His friends were keepers and band-mates, fans and brothers, cousins, hermits, old, young, digital and analog.

My brother, the musician, played piano from the age of four and took up brass at ten. The only parts of the orchestra my brother didn’t master were woodwinds and reeds, but my brother would blow a tune on a saxophone if challenged. Harmonicas, accordions, trumpets and cornets, set sheets, songbooks, sheet music, late nights, dark roads, local followers, fans, messages on bar napkins and coasters, heavy loads, love letters.

My brother, the actor, had the lead role as Tully Bascomb in The Mouse That Roared, the All-School-Play in 1963. It was a quaint lesson in war that stained his naivety. My brother joined the protest in his own way; Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Woody Guthrie, Phil Ochs, Buffalo Springfield, Hoyt Axton.

My brother, the digger, was hip to Miles and Mercer, Willie and Waylon, Elvis and Elvis, Mavis, Aretha, John, Paul, George, Ringo, Stones, Animals, the Duke, Ray, Dizzy, Louis, Booker T. My brother was the clam-digger winner. Copalis Beach, annual camping corner, musty tent, open fire bacon and egg breakfast, mosquitoes, 6-12, and rain.

My brother, the Parks and Recreation Guy, knew everyone’s name, never missed a wave or hello, drove a loader, could dig a hole and use the right shovel, and didn’t take shit from no one.

My brother, the dad, was more proud of his progeny than anything he ever did. My brother wasn’t called to fatherhood but he wore it like the cloak of a knight. Overseas phone calls, road trips, Mariners, Seahawks, Avery Grace, Marin Skye.

My brother, my bro, hanging tinsel on a real pine tree, one that dad brought down from the hills; sitting on my chest and farting under my chin; hanging in the U District at Coffeehaus Eigerwand, Hippie Hill; teaching me how to use a capo; painting plastic cars with Testor’s enamel paint and letting me paint the wheels silver; sitting in front of the mirror while I trimmed his bangs; visits to Snow Camp; boxing in the basement, learning a left hook; giving me perfume for Christmas when I was sixteen; dime movies at the Roxy; skateboarding on Skateboard Hill; giggling in church, getting scolded; overnights with Grandma and Grandpa, hiding liver and onions under the table; madras shirts and cut off jeans; blue eyes, freckles; Beatle boots, Stetson hats, Rainier Beer belt buckles; old/new Mom tattoo; walrus moustache; authentic, stubborn, stoic; vests and bolo ties; books, penguins, CD’s, LP’s, penguins, coffee mugs, photos, penguins, postcards, ashtrays, penguins.

The longest journey is the one that takes you home.

Me and My Bro
On Vacation
Two Cool Kids
1950's

There were so many old schoolmates who I didn't recognize and some I did. I was so grateful to see them all and get some good warm hugs. I don't know how long it'll be before I realize JC is gone. The night he passed, I felt someone at the top of my stairs; it woke me up and I expected the phone call the following morning. I was lucky to be able to be with him that day, April 29th, along with my younger brother, Dana; his two kids, Charlie, and Rosie. 

JC, the Dad, with Charlie 

JC and Jim

I idolized my brother when I was young. He taught me a lot about many things. He was there first and I was his avid student, from babyhood, to teenage years and beyond. We shared a love of music and books. He got to make music his life; I became a mom. We had a wonderful childhood and the words and photos yesterday were a testament to that. I loved listening to his best buddy from kindergarten on, Jim Nielsen, talk about those days and though it made me feel old, it confirmed what I knew to be true: we came up in a magical time.

My brother's son, my nephew, Charlie Lenier, made a great video that I'll post here later, once I get the link. I've got some outtakes from his compilation. 1965; South Dakota; School; and Lance Romance.

Great Kids at a Grand Dam

My brother made an impression on a lot of people. He was referred to as a storyteller, and a man of few words. Obviously he struck different people in diverse ways. One thing we know for sure, he was an incredible musician, of whom Fat Domino expressed his admiration. Yesterday was a testament to how many loved him. It was a surprise when two of the Kingsmen introduced themselves and gave their condolences, having driven up from Oregon, and the remaining members of his great Country Jazz band Lance Romance were in attendance.  

JC was a collector (some might say hoarder) and he didn't accrue just one thing. He had hats, lots of them, ashtrays (someone said the reason you can no longer smoke in bars in the NW is because JC took all the ashtrays), coffee mugs and shot glasses, photographs, CD's, LP's and books. He had far more lawn mowers than a person would ever need. His most treasured collection was his penguins, hearkening back to the the time of his dear Joe, a stuffed penguin he loved from the time if was gifted to him as an infant.  

Life goes on, but there is a part of my history gone now. Once you lose someone like this and they are gone forever, you get the true meaning of "no man is an island," because you are completely aware that a clod has been washed to sea and you are lesser.

Thanks for reading. 

John Carl Rieck
September 9, 1946 - April 29, 2019