MEMORIES OF Bill Pfordresher

THIS POST, part of a longer work, honors my brother Bill, who died on January 6th. We were a family of 4, my mother and her three children, our father dying at 45 when Bill was only three months old.

But we were blessed with an amazing mother, (SHE in the text) and thus, we thrived.  

 John, Beth and Bill. Three years between each of us. But when a salesman or an older woman selling potholders comes to our door, She won’t by, has an excuse, tells them she is “just a widow with three kids.”

But every night at the dinner table, as the years stretch on, there is laughter or we argue about who will wash the dishes, or we watch Bill try to tell a joke, then fall on the floor laughing and rolling around. Then much later, we will sink into bed, sleep coming quickly, because we are safe, have no fears. At least the three of us feel that way. We don’t think to ask how it is for Her.

But if the nature of a complete family is the presence of that taller male figure with the deep voice, Bill, for a long time, has no framework for such a concept, and instead he has fears.

Bill is afraid of the egg man, the milkman. He hangs on his mother’s skirts when they come to the back door. He also needs the security of his baby bottle for so long, that he is able to open the refrigerator door and take one out. But don’t chastise Her for this. Such decisions are called survival, they being nature’s way, as time passes and Bill grows. Then She buys him a trike with a rubber cowboy saddle over the seat. I like his saddle, I don’t have one. Bill is beginning to see the wider world, make friends in the neighborhood. He is also beginning to ask questions: “Would my daddy fix my bike? Would he come home every night?” She never ignores these questions…answers them truthfully.  

At the age of three, then four, Bill is thin, pale so that some neighbors make comments: poor Jinni, she must be struggling, not feeding him enough. Oh, She feeds him! We never lack for anything! Genetically, Bill is thin—but loved, so loved by all of us. 

Bill and I are buddies, but being 3 years older, sometimes I take over. I tease him or John and I gang up on him. Bill is thin, and so blonde and fair that he’s like a shaft of sunlight. And for a while, he has a spate of bloody noses, his nasal membranes sensitive to dry air. This problems is discussed at the dinner table, anyone’s health being common knowledge in our family. But then a mean rhyme appears, one that slips off the tongue—alliterates well: boney, bloody, blue-nosed, bow-legged, bats-in-the-belfry, Boston baked bean Billy. And yes, Bill cries when we chant it. So, we keep it up. We have kid-power over this beautiful child who we all love. But when She walks into the room, tell us to “Cut it out” we do. 

As I grow, so does Bill, and “boys” come into the yard, Bill’s friends, some older boys. They play baseball till there’s no grass near our apple tree. But I am on my swing, so I ignore them, swinging and singing, watching the sky as I float back and forth, back and forth, my head held straight along my body, an arrow hurtling upwards.

But one day when I look down, the Darche boys are fighting in the yard. They roll in the dirt, hitting with fists, hitting on backs and stomachs..Bill runs into the house. Then one of the Darche boys starts to cry; another says, “I’ll beat the shit out of you.” But I stay on my swing, reaching higher and higher, away from them, until finally they leave, and I sing a last song, until my feet can touch the ground. Yes, I am forced to solid earth, where clouds are harder to see, where winds don’t move as quickly through my hair.

Then one day, when standing in the gravel driveway, I look up at Bill’s bedroom window. It has a little roof right below it, like a terrace that is really the top of the dining room bay. The two of us talk about walking out on it, like having a fancy balcony. But She warns us that it won’t hold our weight, we’d fall, get hurt or worse. And it’s now Bill’s room, that back bedroom at the very end of the hallway, the one that was the nursery, that we used to share, the room that holds the sound of my voice, my crying, my growing up.

But Bill and I will always be buddies, though being older, I sometimes I let that role take over. I tease him or our brother John and I gang up on him, bait him. Bill is thin, blonde and fair, he’s like a shaft of light. And for a while, he has a spate of bloody noses, his nasal membranes sensitive to dry air. And because family problems are discussed, a rhyme is created, something that slips off the tongue—alliterates so well: boney, bloody, blue-nosed, bow-legged, bats-in-the-belfry, Boston baked bean Billy. And yes, he cries when we chant it. So, we keep it up. We have kid-power over this beautiful child who we all love. But then She walks into the room, tells us to “Cut it out.” And we do. 

From childhood on, Bill will keep his smile, his ability to accept our teasing. Because Bill knows how to love, to forgive, to believe in his talents and where they will take him. The friendships he forms will often help make his way in the world. His openness, his smile and laughter, his love of people are truly Bill….someone that people want to know, hang out with, to love.   

I MISS HIM SO MUCH!!