Mark Joseph Harvey

Written Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Today is my 38th birthday. But I'm going to set aside celebrating my own life for today and instead celebrate my brother's. This afternoon in Glenrose, Texas, we will hold a funeral for my big brother, Mark Joseph Harvey. He was killed in a terrible car accident this past weekend. He was 45.

I realize that it might sound really terrible to say that I'd be celebrating at all. Losing him is devastating, and I miss him like crazy. All of our hearts are broken today. But my parents, my brother Si, my sister Carla, and Mark's three daughters, Sarah, Skylen and Scarlett have been sharing lots of stories about him. We alternate laughing and crying. I'm sure he's listening in and smiling. At the viewing last night and through calls and e-mails, so many people have expressed their love and admiration for Mark. I've heard so many examples of his generosity and good nature. That makes me proud of his life, and I just feel like celebrating him.

I'm sad to say that in the past six years, Mark and I saw each other only twice, and in the past twenty years we've not seen each other much at all. I feel lucky to have been able to hear so many stories this week from people who knew him well during the years that I missed. My brother Mark meant something different to each of us. To some he was a co-worker, fishing buddy, neighbor, Masonic brother, or friend. To others of us he was an uncle, sibling, cousin, father or son. What I can tell you about Mark is what he was like as a big brother. I am proud of the fact that, as the youngest in the family, I'm the only person in the world lucky enough to be able to call him big brother.

If you'll excuse me, I'll tell you something embarrassing about myself that will tell you a little about Mark as a big brother. When I was a little girl, sometimes I would wet the bed in the night. When that would happen, I wouldn't wake my parents because my daddy had to get up so early for work. Instead, I'd wake Mark. We're eight years apart, so he'd have been in junior high then. I remember that he'd always get up and help me get into clean pajamas, then let me sleep in his warm, dry bed with him. I'd lie there staring for the longest time at his clock radio glowing orange light until I'd gradually fall asleep to the sounds of the radio playing low, mixed with his heavy breathing.

Once, Mark broke his leg and was housebound for a while. I shamelessly took advantage of the situation by forcing him to play "wedding" with me. I wore a white nightgown like a cape, with a lovely hot pink feathered swim cap on my head to be the bride. He was my groom with a big white cast. Somewhere there is a silly picture of us that day, and it always makes me smile to think of it.

Now as an adult, I can appreciate how unusual it was for a boy his age to care to spend so much time with a little kid. But he did. He'd play games with me (Trouble was our favorite), read me comic books, and tease and tickle me. I adored him.

Oh, don't get me wrong. He knew it was in the big brother job description to torture his little sister with teasing, fighting, and doing all sorts of gross big brotherly things to me. And he certainly did the job well. Those of you who know what a "Dutch oven" is may understand what I mean. He also used to pin me down and rub my nose in his armpit and yell, "smell my roses!" I remember trying to swing at him while he held my head away from him with his long arm, keeping me just far enough away not to be able to hit him.

I also remember how, during a road trip to California in 1977, I had pestered him to play "go fish" with me so long that he finally got mad and grabbed my Donald Duck playing cards and threw them out the car window while we were speeding down the highway. I didn't forgive that one for a long time.
He didn't particularly enjoy babysitting me, either, but he did sometimes. When he did he'd always say, "I am your elder. You must do what I say." Once he even spanked me, which was probably the last time Mama ever let him babysit me.

But then there were the times too, like when he woke me in the middle of the night to give me a giant stuffed pink poodle that he had won for me at the county fair. Mama fussed at him for getting me up, but he was so excited that he couldn't wait. He always did love arcade games, and he'd often win things for me. Another time he won a giant Winnie the Pooh for me at Circus Circus in Las Vegas.

I remember so well the teenage Mark who fretted in front of the mirror for ages feathering his hair and deciding whether or not he looked cool in his bell bottom jeans. He did, of course. He was always cool, and the girls loved him. I remember his rock collection and his arrowheads. I remember the Charlie's Angels posters on his bedroom wall. It seems like yesterday.

Some of my favorite times were when he would let me watch him draw in his sketch book. He must have been influenced heavily by our granddaddy's art because he liked to draw dogs, guns, shrimp boats and hunting scenes. I always told him, even as an adult, how good I thought his drawing was. But he never would believe me.

I think that maybe, like so many of us, Mark didn't always love himself as much as everyone else loved him. Of course, that may have been impossible since we all loved him so much.

I feel so blessed that, at the very least, last week I got a sudden urge to touch base with him over the internet. I just let him know that I missed and loved him. He wrote a few sweet lines back to me in response, and his very last words to me were "I love you."

When I dig past all of the years that we spent growing apart, that is something that has never changed. In the end it is all that really matters. I'll always love my big brother and I know that he loved me back. And if I am to honor his life, I have to be grateful for the miracle of each breath and each heartbeat that kept him with us for forty-five years. He touched so many lives. He had a big heart. And I'm proud to announce that even though he's gone, his big heart will keep beating. He donated his organs and a transplant recipient was found for his heart just before he left us. That is such a comfort. A miracle, really. Mark would be so glad to know that even in death he's still helping somebody.

I'm thrilled to think of Mark in heaven, fishing with our granddaddy, running barefoot (as he always loved to be) with old hunting dogs, eating gumbo with our grandmother, Dee Dee, and looking down and blessing each of us. I know that when my time comes to join him, he'll greet me with open arms. That brings me peace. I can't wait to see him again.