This week my 'guy' is a little different. Obviously this photo is not of someone who lived over 100 years ago, though you might notice a resemblance to the kind of men who are in the dags I buy. This is my brother, Mark Alan Cummins. Forty years ago, on September 8th, 1968, he was killed in a car accident. Though I am not one to set my emotions by days or dates, this year I seem to be thinking of him quite a lot. I thought I would share his picture and a little bit about him with everyone who views the blog.
Mark was born November 21, 1951. He was a big kid, over 6' 3" at seventeen. (He stole all that height, there was none left for me who topped out at 5' 3".) Mark was an unusual kid, and I don't say that just because he was my brother. At fourteen he was begging my mother to let him go march with Martin Luther King Jr. By 17 he had decided he wanted to enter the Peace Corp. and then go on to become a prison chaplain. Mark's faith was strong and he was ready, which was a good thing since God took him so soon. He was facing the draft as most young men were at that time, and was not willing to kill. He didn't know what he was going to do - go to prison, go to Canada, or something else - but he was preparing his defense for the Draft Board when he was killed. Mark was also busy applying for MENSA at that time. His IQ was somewhere up there around 190 (something else he took the lion's share of from his sister! ).
I remember him mostly as a beloved older brother who was ornery at times, and very funny. Though he tends to look very serious in his photos, I remember him laughing a lot. Unfortunately he lived in the age before video cameras were affordable for any but the rich, so there are no recordings of him speaking, no video of him moving. He lives now only in my memory.
When I was a teen, I wrote a lot of poetry (don't we all?) I don't have a copy of the one I wrote about Mark at hand, but remember a few lines. I'll end with them. In explanation, one of the few things I had left of Mark's was a model of an 18th century sailing ship.
'How can I explain the loss,
A brother's life buried in a box?
And how do I express the unspoken fear
That the music of his voice has left my ear?
See the ship with its tiny masts
It was meant to last.
Not so he, for all eternity
His ship has passed."
Even though Judith proved shy (she decided lattes were not for her) and Marla attended instead, the books signing was successful. I had a great day and sold a fair amount of books. The best part of the sales were the ones to total strangers. I love my friends for buying, but when someone you have never met and have no contact with comes up to you and requests a certain book, you know that all those hours on Facebook and your writers' sites have meant something. Someone knows your books are out there, and knows your name.
