In Loving Memory, a little tribute to my brother
I was barely four years old but I remember the day my brother was born. Although we always called him David, he was formally named Richard David after uncles on both sides. On the day David was born my brother Ron and I were at our maternal grandparents house. I remember trying to take a nap, at least that is what we were supposed to be doing. But instead the house was filled with anxious excitement as we awaited news of the birth. His life was never easy. Before he was two, David and I were living with my paternal grandparents while my mother and Ron lived with a friend. My parents were getting a divorce. My mother, at the young age of 22, with three kids under the age of 5, was determined to build a better life for her and her kids. That better life never really transpired. David was the third child in our family, preceded by me, the oldest, and Ron who was born 14 months after me. Our youngest brother, Don, was born five years after David, a second marriage ...