The Youngest Branch: Reflections on My Brother Jim and the Family We Came From
Growing up the youngest of six kids — five boys and one girl — came with definite advantages. You might think having four older brothers would mean getting picked on or pushed around, but that never happened. Not once. I was blessed with good siblings, steady siblings, the kind who lived their lives without drama and without causing trouble. Looking back now, especially after losing three of them, I realize just how rare that is.
Last week, my second-oldest brother, Jim, passed away at the age of 83. He’s the third of us six kids to go. Don, our oldest, died three years ago at 81. And Roger — the closest to me in age and my favorite big brother — died in 2010 at just 59. Roger’s death hit me the hardest. He was the ultimate big brother, the one I looked up to, the one whose voice I can still hear saying, “Hey, Davy!” every time I called. I miss him every day.
Now it’s just Terry (78) and our sister Pat (80) left. Pat won’t be able to make the trip to Jim’s funeral in Le Sueur, and I understand — even though in my mind she’s still the smart, level-headed sister who won the state spelling contest and headed off to Marquette University before building a life out east. Terry still lives in our hometown of Alexandria, and my wife and I will stop by his place on our way to the funeral. As the years pass and our own families grow, the family we grew up in fades into the background. It’s still there, still part of who we are, but the branches stretch out in different directions. And when one of those branches falls, it brings a sadness that’s hard to explain.
Jesus said He is the vine. In our humble family tree, Mom and Dad were the vine. We were the branches — six of them — growing outward, sprouting our own roots, building our own lives. The vine is gone now, but the branches continue, each in its own direction.
The Siblings Who Shaped My World
Because I was born fourteen years after Don, twelve after Jim, and ten after Pat, I didn’t grow up with them so much as around them. They were already teenagers, already listening to music I absorbed without understanding, already forming their own lives. But even from a distance, each of them left an impression.
Don, the oldest, was the classic first-born: take-charge, gung-ho, the leader of the pack. Even as a little kid, I could sense his confidence.
Jim, the second oldest, was even-tempered — the opposite of me. Always in good humor. Drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam in 1968, he never talked about it afterward. He didn’t let it define him. He came home, built a life, raised a good family. I remember his wedding day in Geddes — late January, twenty below zero, all of us bundled up and shuffling into that small-town church. Funny how some memories stick.
Jim had a way of being content with small things. One scoop of ice cream — that was enough for him. Not me. No way. But that was Jim: steady, simple, satisfied.
Pat, our only sister, was smart and level-headed. She won the state spelling contest, went to Presentation College, then Marquette. She headed east for a job and never came back to live in the Midwest. She built a life in New York with her husband and raised her family there. We write back and forth every few weeks.
Terry was quiet, low-key, the third of us to serve in the military. He married a girl from Mitchell, and he and his wife have traveled all over the world. He still lives in Alexandria, and I’m glad we’ll see him next week.
Roger… well, Roger was special. The only one who never married, he devoted himself to caring for Mom after Dad died. He delivered groceries, visited her weekly, handled her finances, and was a godsend to all of us. He worked hard — first at the grocery store in high school, then for a vending company where he became something of a legend for his work ethic. I never once heard him raise his voice. Not once. He was gentle, patient, and steady. Losing him was losing a piece of my foundation.
I was blessed — extremely blessed — to be born into such a remarkable family. No drug problems. No delinquencies. No illiteracy. Just six kids who grew into decent adults. That’s a gift
The Roots Beneath the Branches
Our parents shaped all of this.
Dad’s family had close ties to Luxembourg — his mother, Mary, and his paternal grandfather, Andrew, came from the old country. From what I heard, Dad didn’t speak English until he started school. He was a gentle man, though he could raise his voice when needed. He worked long days at the grain elevator, walking six blocks to work, six blocks home for lunch, and six blocks back. He walked because that’s what life required. And when he retired, I think he lost some of his sense of worth. Men of his generation often did.
After retirement, he kept himself busy with long walks, solitaire, and 500 Rummy — sometimes cajoling one of us kids to play with him. He collected aluminum cans around town, pedaling his bicycle with a basket on the back. It gave him purpose. It kept him moving.
Mom wasn’t a “huggie” mom, but she was the rule enforcer, the listener, the one we brought our problems to. Dad read his paper at night, and we weren’t to bother him — so we didn’t. Mom was the emotional center of the home. She kept us steady.
Together, they created a home where six kids grew up safe, grounded, and decent. That’s the vine we came from.
Gathering the Photos, Gathering the Memories
When Jim’s granddaughter asked for photos for the funeral, I dug into the folders Roger digitized years ago — one for each of us kids. I uploaded thirty or more pictures. It felt like opening a time capsule. Each photo was a reminder of the quiet, steady life Jim lived. No drama. No bitterness. Just a good man living a good life.
Next week, Terry and I — and our spouses — will be at Jim’s funeral. Pat won’t be there, and I understand. She’s 80, though she’s not that old in my mind. But time moves on, and we have to accept what it brings.
The Shape of the Tree Now
Three branches gone. Three still standing. The vine long gone. But the roots — the heritage, the values, the memories — still hold.
I was blessed to be the youngest branch on that tree. Blessed to grow up watching my older siblings live their lives with steadiness and decency. Blessed to have parents who gave us a strong foundation. Blessed to have brothers like Jim and Roger, whose memories still warm my heart.
As the branches thin, the tree changes shape. But the life it gave us continues — in our families, in our stories, in the quiet ways we remember each other.
And next week, as we gather to honor Jim, I’ll be thinking about all of it — the vine, the branches, the roots, and the remarkable family I was lucky enough to grow up in.
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