Rite of passage

This is the road not taken, the eulogy not delivered, the public statement of comradeship and respect kept private. My brother-in-law Burt died in late October, and my sister Mary Jo, her son Ben, and her step-daughters Suzie and Sheryl have absorbed a major loss. I don't have special insights into Burt's life. His brothers know him better than I do, yet he was like a big brother to me, and I am richer for having known him, so I want to mark this rite of passage.

Burt really liked to play. Volleyball at the farm, throwing the frisbee anywhere, hiking up to Droll Knoll, or passing the pineapple like a football while dodging trees on the way back down the mountain. Let's see how many puns we can pack into one long run-on sentence. He had strong political opinions, and if you're game for a good argument, go for it.

He was an ally and an advocate. When my friend Scott and I were traveling around the country following Hank Aaron's quest for his 715th home run, Burt and Mary Jo took us in, put us up, and cheered us on. When Scott and I were held up at gunpoint outside the old Fulton County stadium, a couple of street characters took our wallets and Scott's car, so we were stuck for a few days. But we were resourceful, so we hitch-hiked to Florida and hung out with friends in Gainesville. Meanwhile Burt called up the Braves' PR man, Bob Hope, told him our story, and procured complementary tickets to replace the ones that were stolen along all our money and Scott's Vega.

We got the car back with minimal damage done, and we watched Hank Aaron break the record the following April. My account of that adventure was never published in Rolling Stone because I never wrote it. The many other adventures not recorded for posterity will also have to run the course of oral history, fragments of memoirs, tales for grandchildren, and stories between friends.

It was two years and several trips later that Burt and Mary Jo introduced me to my wife. I had emigrated from Michigan to their farm in north Georgia and was spending a weekend in the city helping them move to a house closer to their work. A beautiful young yoga teacher who also worked there was also helping them move. Thereafter, nothing would ever be the same.

It was several years later that Burt and I worked together at his counseling office on North Decatur Road, and in between confirming appointments and answering the phone, I helped him put together a little manual called the Wellness Workbook. Show of hands: how many of you know what the Four Cornerstones are? [Answer: fitness, nutrition, stress reduction, and spirituality]

I decided not to get up and speak at the Burt Bradley Memorial celebration in the Emory University Hotel and Conference Center last weekend. Burt's best friend Dr. Frank Asbury from Kentucky spoke; his friend Dr. Dick Stewart from Atlanta, who incidentally provided prenatal care for Jessi and Zelda Golly and consulted with their midwives, got up and spoke; Danny Joe Bradley, Burt's younger brother, spoke tellingly, movingly, eloquently; Father Bruce Schultz, our mutual friend and Dominican priest, was the emcee for the evening.

Basically the assembled survivors filled a hotel meeting room, got something to eat and drink, talked among themselves, and listened as a line of gray-haired men spoke about their connections and their memories of another gray-haired man who was close to them. I was glad to be present and a member of the club, to talk to each of them one-to-one, and to re-connect with many other family members and friends who were present.

I already had a privileged position in the events without having to tell my stories in front of a microphone. A 22-year-old version of me was in one of the photos in a slide show during the memorial event, along with photos of Burt as a child, Burt with his parents, brothers, cousins, wives, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, colleagues, and friends. If the purpose is to set aside time to celebrate some shared experiences, like climbing Stone Mountain with my sister, her husband, and my friend Scott from Detroit on a beautiful day in 1973, then it was a success.

During intermission, I chatted with Burt's brothers, the voluble Danny and the taciturn Phil. Then a second series of speakers spoke: former clients, students, employees, and workshop graduates who had learned how to lose weight, quit smoking, overcome fear of flying, or manage relationships, anxiety, or stress. With the exception of our mutual friend Bob, a minister turned carpenter, these speakers tended to be half the age of the septuagenarians who spoke earlier and spoke twice as long, but maybe they needed to talk it out one last time, since their counselor was gone.

After the second wave, I joined my siblings and their spouses upstairs in the hotel bar for more conversation before calling it a night. This was the posse that had earlier convened at Everybody's Pizza, an institution across the street from the Emory campus, and would reconvene at Burt's condo the next morning for breakfast of sausage gravy and biscuits cooked by Mary Jo and Gven. It was a pleasant, peaceful morning spent with a convivial group. I took a walk around the block with Mary Jo and my 90-year-old mother admiring the gardens of neighbors in Decatur and enjoying the warm autumn weather.