Deeburger

My brother Dee died on October 26, 2002 — 12 years ago today.

Being a “weekend and holiday brother,” my memories of him are a bit more sparse than the rest of my siblings, but here are some little nuggets I’ll always remember.

My  first memory of Dee, was at Raelene’s house before she married my dad. I think she lived somewhere by the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon with Grandma Chase. 

Dad had brought Mark, David and me up to to her house to meet our new family. April and Dee were both so small, one with dark hair and dark eyes, the other, a tow-head with blue eyes. April was quiet and puttering the way a toddler will do. Dee was screaming his head off. I was pretty small, too, but I just remember how much Dee screamed. Red faced, clenched fists, screaming.

After Dad and Raelene married, they moved to 900 East in a small house by the Iceberg Drive Inn, where I remember Dee screaming on his rocking horse. The family shortly after to a house a few doors down. When Mark, David and I came over on weekends I remember reading stories to April and Dee.

When the family moved to Tonya Drive I remember they way Dee would speak. His “Gs” were “Ds” and his “Cs” were “Ts.” When Grandma Chase would stop by, Dee would bound down the steps to greet her, yelling “Drandma Trace! Did you breen me some tandy? Tan I have some dum?!” I’d tease him about it, but stopped one day when he hauled off and slugged me in the gut. I think that’s also when stopped calling him “Deeburger.”

I’ll always associate Dee with “The Gully.” Summers were spent wandering from one end of it to the other. We never discovered anything very interesting, but always hoped to. We’d walk to the west end water grate—it seemed to take all day—and peer inside. I’d scare him by saying there was probably a body hidden there. 

One Fourth of July, I remember Dee and I were throwing fireworks around and caught a big bush in the gully on fire. The firemen showed up and we blamed it on little Jason next door, knowing that he was too young to get in trouble.

The tubing memories are the best. We had the longest hill right off the back door. Right across was the hill with the big jump and further west was the curvy snowmobile run. Again, I’ll always remember Dee screaming. But this time with laughter. Whether it was the exhilaration of flying through the air, or getting the wind knocked out of him on a bad landing, Dee loved to tube. We’d do it for hours at a time, it seemed.

When Dee was older, I’d take him to the Golden Eagles hockey games. This time we were both screaming. At the refs bad calls, when the Eagles scored, or when the other team did something wrong, we’d both scream our heads off. Looking back maybe it was a good way to get things out of our systems rather than excitement about sports. We’d both be hoarse by the end of the game. Driving back to Sandy, we’d crank the stereo and scream some more to the music of Queen.

I took Dee to Bear Lake one time with some friends of mine from work. We basically paddled around in rafts the whole weekend, but when the time came to sunbathe we all slept in chaise lounges. When we awoke, Dee proudly displayed the Playboy Bunny that had been burned onto his chest from his artistic placement of suntan lotion.

These are the good memories of Dee. I’m sure there were more from reunions, Mountain Man Rendezvous’ and birthday parties, but I really lost track of him after he turned fourteen or so.

The last time I saw him was a few months before he died. I got a phone call from him. He said that he had come back to visit some old friends. I agreed to meet him at The Pub in Trolley Square. When I got there I didn’t even recognize him. The years had not been kind (to either of us, apparently, because he didn’t recognize me, either). We ordered a pitcher of beer and talked. He spoke of his disappointment that none of his friends from ten years ago were still around and laughed that he probably should have called them first. He asked about the family and spoke of how he missed Grandma Perry. I asked where he was staying. He told me he had slept on the steps of the City & County Building the previous two nights. For a variety of what now look like selfish, regrettable reasons, I didn’t offer to put him up for the night. He was heading back to Eugene in the morning. We hugged goodbye. 

That was the last I saw or heard of him, but not what I will remember. What I’ll remember is a tow-headed kid screaming his lungs out. Just wanting to say “Hey! I’m here!” It’s easy to get lost in a family as big and spread out as ours. My hope is that if Dee taught us anything—it’s that we should be ourselves, love the lives we have, and never lose touch. 

Deeburger, we hear you loud and clear.