The Catskill Chronicle

By Janet Waterston

My brother was born in January and died in April. I suppose those are the anniversaries when he should be especially on my mind. But as autumn brings the crisp air I love, the crunch of leaves under foot, and the panorama of blazing color, I also think of life’s cycles. Autumn, always my favorite season, is also the saddest one for me. It signals endings, and as the leaves drift from their branches to the ground, I feel the absence of my brother.

There was a story I heard when I was growing up, and as with most childhood lore, I never questioned its veracity and am pretty sure my lifetime experience bore out the story’s truth. According to my parents, they took my brother, their first born, for psychological testing. When the results were in, the doctor said, “I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news is that your son is a genius. And the bad news is he’s a genius.”

That pronouncement captured the essence of my brother, a study in contradictions. So smart that he rarely invested time in studying and aced his courses, and such a “smart aleck” (both my mother’s term and that of half his teachers) that he mouthed off in class, becoming both the class clown and the pain in one-too-many-teachers’ necks. Their answer? Skip him ahead a year. And then skip him ahead another year. When the school suggested a third skip, my parents resisted. It was true that my brother was an academic whiz. He was also immature and the more grades he skipped, the more he lagged socially behind his classmates.

No one in the family ever called my brother by his given name, Harry. At birth, he weighed in at just under 10 pounds, an unheard of heft back in 1946. The nurses called him Buster. Within days, their nickname was shortened to Buzz, and that’s who he remained for the next 62 years.

When I was 10, I wrote in my diary capturing the complexity of the reactions Buzz could evoke: “Harry is horrible. He is a fink, a jerk and anything else that’s horrible. He can be good at times, but if you don’t feel well he does his best to upset you. He snorts all day long at me. I’m sorry for what I said. BUZZ can be a wonderful brother.”

A lifelong friend of the family tells a story of Buzz at four years old, finding me, his newborn sister, in my crib where he proceeded to bury me under his wooden blocks. The friend wondered, “For someone so smart, how could he be so bad?”

Strangely, my sister and I have few memories of growing up with Buzz. Since he was six years ahead of me in school and nine years ahead of Jude, we rarely seemed to share experiences. If Jude and I were playing a game, whether in our bedroom or in the den, and Buzz so much as walked into the doorway, one or both of us could be heard yelling, “Buhhzzee,” until one of our parents called to him to leave us alone. Not an easy position to be in and, most likely, frequently unfair. Buzz simply had to appear to evoke our disdain.

When Buzz, just 16, went away to college, my impression of him improved. He was my “big brother, a college man.” On one vacation home, he took me out to lunch and to see a Broadway play. I felt so grown-up and wondered if people who saw us on the subway envied me for being with someone so handsome and mature. And he certainly thought he was mature because later that year, he met and proposed to Wendy who would become his wife of 43 years and his best friend.

As time passed, the difference in our ages seemed to shrink and, eventually, our family relationship morphed into a warm friendship. We drove back and forth to each other’s homes to spend holidays and non-holidays or met half-way between for a few hours together.

One summer, Jude, Buzz, Wendy and I shared a long weekend at an inn on the Maryland Shore. Buzz had been there previously and enthusiastically described hammering crabs on a picnic table to find the sweet morsels of meat or taking a dip in the bay. This was typical of Buzz to want to share his loves with those he loved. The “catch” was that he rarely understood or even accepted that anyone’s preferences were different from his. Jude and I like dressing up on occasion and experiencing a special meal. We were taken aback when Buzz announced he hadn’t packed a jacket or any long pants besides jeans. What we came to understand is that Buzz enjoyed, and took pride in eating at establishments, perhaps better referred to as dives, that many would have shunned for fear of the flies sitting on whole goats hanging down from hooks or cauldrons of something unnamed but being slurped up by the locals. Buzz tried and appreciated everything from alligator to chicken’s feet and frequently filled an ice chest with these exotic goodies to take home and cook. Food was a passion of his, and the stranger the better. Luckily, on this joint vacation, the restaurant was willing to overlook the jeans and provide Buzz with a jacket, and Buzz was willing to overlook the dress code for our sake.

Besides exotic foods and lands, one of Buzz’s greatest passions was dentistry, the career he chose for himself when he was 12. He took more continuing education classes than were ever required and often brought his staff along or sent them to their own courses. And he loved explaining, in depth, what he was going to do for a patient. He even sought courses that gave him language to help someone choose the best course of treatment. “This is what I’d recommend to my sister,” he’d say. Following the words of some instructor, for a period Buzz also started his explanations by saying, “Can I be honest with you?” He tried that once with me. After I responded, “No, I’d prefer you lie,” I think Buzz realized that the wording wasn’t quite as effective as he thought. Either that or he just stopped saying it to me.

He wrote a monthly newsletter with tips and facts about dental care, and it was both helpful and truly interesting. I can say that without feeling I was unduly swayed by being his sister, because I was equally discerning in noting that the video series he made as the Traveling Dentist was corny, contrived, and painful to watch. He would shoot himself in Guatemala or New Orleans or Rio, talking about the scenery or some food he’d just eaten and conclude with an unrelated tip for flossing or choosing an electric toothbrush. A devotee of puns and strange humor, Buzz also filmed himself, fully clothed, standing in his shower, claiming to be at some “falls.”

His staff sometimes complained that he ran behind schedule because he talked, incessantly, with his patients. Like the Waterston family members, they rolled their eyes at his plays on words and bizarre humor. But when Buzz was in treatment for multiple myeloma, every one of his staff members hung in there, keeping his practice running in the hope that he’d return. Most told me they would not continue to work for whoever might eventually buy his practice, but they’d be there as long as Buzz needed them. Patients felt the same way. I know, because I trekked from New York to Media, Pennsylvania for his gentle touch and extensive knowledge. When he died, it took me nine months to find another dentist I was willing to trust. Jude took even longer.

Buzz could be manic and often multi-tasked because he felt there were so many things to do, conversations to have, and places to go. Especially if we were somewhere public like a restaurant, Buzz would talk with strangers, starting up a conversation with someone at the next table or chatting with the waitress. I found myself using an “I” statement, a technique I teach to clients. “Buzz, when I’m telling a story, and you interrupt to make a pun or call to someone across the room, I feel like you aren’t interested in what I’m saying, so I shut down.” Buzz responded, “I hear every word you say.” And he probably did. Those geniuses can juggle many balls in the air at once. “I’m sure you can repeat back every word I said,” I responded, “And I feel like you’re not interested.” Buzz got my message loud and clear, and despite his limited impulse control, did try to change his behavior.

Buzz could also be controlling. One might even call it manipulative. If we were going out for dim sum, one of his all-time favorite meals, he would announce, “We have to be at the restaurant by 11.” Jude almost always challenged him with “Why?” “They stop making fresh food then,” he’d answer without hesitation although it wasn’t true; he was hungry and wanted to eat earlier than the rest of us. At other times, he’d offer to make dinner. “Do you want Ants Climbing a Tree or grilled hanger steak?” “I’d like steak,” I’d say, not knowing what the ants were about and suspecting Buzz was suggesting it to show off how open he was to exotic foods. “I’ll make the Ants Climbing a Tree,” he’d conclude. And Jude and I would mutter, “Why ask if you’re going to do what you want anyway?”

Some of the best times I had with Buzz were when he came, alone, to New York for a course or visit with our father. Then he’d stay at my apartment, and we’d always find time, usually over a meal, to be together. We’d speak frankly and in-depth about anything on our minds. As much as I valued these conversations, I think they may have meant even more to Buzz. Although he was a social creature, he basically had only one close friend outside the family. In typical Buzz fashion, he’d rank us as he seemed to rank everything. There were his favorite countries in this order; his favorite cuisines in that order; and his “best” friends starting, always, with Wendy.

Buzz and I also spoke about once a week, often on Saturdays. He’d call or I’d call; it didn’t matter. Sometimes Buzz’s hyperactivity took over. He’d talk at me more than with me. When he’d finished 45 minutes of a monologue, he’d ask, “What’s new with you?” By then my mind was numb, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Buzz found that frustrating and thought I was “withholding.” I wanted to tell him that he didn’t understand the art of conversation, but there are only so many ways and times in which a sister should give feedback.

In early 2008, Buzz’s dental answering service reached him at the airport where he and Wendy were on their way to a conference out of town. The answering service had received a call from the hospital to which our father had been taken when he listed over to his side during a bridge game. Jude and I had just been visiting with Buzz and Wendy, and our father thought the doctor could catch all of us together. Instead, I came home to a message from the community center where the bridge game had taken place. “Your dad wasn’t feeling well, but he’s okay. We had him taken to the hospital to make sure he’s checked out. Please come and pick up his car.” Hearing that Dad was okay, I made arrangements to get the car and was on my way when I received a call from Buzz at his most infuriatingly superior and obtuse: “Since I couldn’t reach you and Jude, I told Dad to go ahead with the protocol for blahblahblah.” “What are you talking about?” I asked. Buzz continued his medical babble. “Buzz, I have no idea what’s wrong with Dad. What are you talking about?” Then he told me Dad had had a stroke.

Buzz was torn about whether to proceed to his conference or drive into New York. We agreed there was little sense in all of us hanging out in the hospital, especially when we didn’t know how serious Dad’s condition was. So Buzz and Wendy flew to their convention, and I went to North Shore University Hospital where Jude soon met me.

Unfortunately, in the weeks and months that stretched into years after our father’s debilitating stroke, Buzz seemed to feel little ambivalence. He visited when it suited his schedule and his priorities and could not hear my requests to be spelled from serving as our father’s care partner. The time between Buzz’s visits almost immediately stretched from every four to six weeks, to quarterly. Then one year, Buzz announced he didn’t like our father and was giving himself permission not to make the trip to New York. I gave up asking him to do it for me, to give me a break. Strangely, after a year, Buzz said he’d come to terms with his dislike, and he resumed his erratic quarterly visits.

By this time, however, Buzz had not only been living with multiple myeloma for three years, but he was losing the battle. In March 2012, he went into the hospital and never returned home. Our father, now struggling with the dementia that followed his stroke, had no recollection that there had been a period of time in which he hadn’t seen Buzz. He only remembered the son he loved. Sometimes, after Buzz had died, Dad’s mind just couldn’t accept the fact that his son predeceased him. “What do you hear from Buzz?” he’d ask, indicating he remembered that his firstborn hadn’t been well. “He died,” Jude or I would remind him, and he experienced the loss all over again.

Yom Kippur, one of the Jewish High Holidays, occurs in autumn. Buzz used to go to synagogue, and in fact, with his deep and rich baritone voice, chanted the haunting Kol Nidre for his congregation. But Buzz was not particularly observant or religious, and, while Wendy and other congregants remained in temple for the day, Buzz returned home. He always called me. I’d look out the window at the trees ablaze with color or leaves raining down on the ground below, and we’d talk. At this time of year, I miss him more than usual. I don’t forget his annoying traits or my disappointments, but I wish the phone would ring and he’d say, “Seester,” his loving and childish name for me. The last word he spoke to me before dying.

I miss you most of all…when autumn leaves start to fall. – Johnny Mercer, lyricist