Remembering Duncan: Mexico, Summer of 1988

A recollection by Susan Holm:


I am starting this memory piece on Fathers’ Day of 2010, the first Fathers’ Day that Duncan Brown, father of Ella and Charlotte Brown, will not be physically present in his daughters’ lives. Duncan loved his daughters so much. No story, no one story, and not even all the stories in the world, can make up for his absence, but I hope this memory will, in its own way, color his absence enough to make his daughters laugh (he would love that), and make them want to know more about their father, his history, and what sort of a person he was.

In 1988, I was planning to travel to Mexico to do some research. A colleague thought he might go with me, but it turned out he was afraid – afraid of foreign countries and afraid of traveling. I thought my sons might go with me, but they were lining up jobs for the summer. Then Duncan and his mother learned about my trip and it was decided that Duncan would go with me! I was delighted! When my son Eric learned that his cousin and good friend Duncan planned to go, he decided to go, too! I told Duncan and Eric that if they would put up with my researching, if they would help me look for records and sources, and if they could entertain themselves during some occasions while I was interviewing, then I would take them to the beach for several days at the end of the trip. They agreed, and we were off on our adventure.

From the beginning the trip turned out to be more fun than I could have imagined, thanks to Duncan and Eric, and it was also filled with learning in ways I hadn’t foreseen. In our first few minutes on the ground in Mexico, as we were traveling in the taxi from the Mexico City airport to our hotel, Duncan, staring at everything out the window of the cab, said, “Now I know what it feels like to be the minority.” I was stunned, and thrilled at his remark. It was such an open-minded, wise and perceptive observation. Many – maybe most – citizens of the U.S., seeing Mexico for the first time, comment on Mexico’s strangeness, or its poverty. These people are looking at Mexico from a limited point of view – their own. I have been that kind of person. It took me a long time to understand what Duncan’s generous spirit recognized immediately. Duncan saw himself as a small part of a larger reality. The reality was new to him, but already he understood that he had a place within that new context, instead of judging it as if his own life and culture were the center of the world, the norm, the place from which to find other cultural realities strange, and to pity them.

A lot of our adventures that summer grew directly from Duncan’s and Eric’s presence, and their influence. For example, I discovered that two handsome teenage boys trailing me provoked many Mexican mothers to approach me and introduce themselves. “I have daughters,” said one mother. A couple mothers issued invitations to their homes; unfortunately, the invitations came at times we couldn’t accept them (e.g. we were on a bus headed somewhere and couldn’t stop to get off and spend the afternoon with an unknown, albeit hospitable, family).

Then there was the boat trip down the Grijalva River in the Sumidero Canyon in Chiapas. The Grijalva, part of the larger Usumacinta watercourse that flows both between and in Guatemala and Mexico, had recently been dammed, making the turbulent river much deeper and more safely navigable for small boats from Chiapa de Corzo down to the dam. As we walked along the riverside in the small village of Chiapa de Corzo, several boatmen offered to sell us boat rides down to the dam and back. “Ni manera (no way),” I said. There were no life jackets, and I wasn’t risking my son’s and my nephew’s lives (not to mention my own life) on a boat trip without life jackets. Eric and Duncan began working on me, trying to persuade me that it was the chance of a lifetime. They could both swim. They wouldn’t rock the boat. It was a river, not an ocean. On and on. We ate lunch outside under an umbrella at a small riverside restaurant while they pleaded and cajoled. At the outdoor restaurant we were sitting ducks for the boatmen. Finally I relented. The boys were right. It was the adventure of a lifetime. The jungle spread out on either side of the river, and we could glimpse smaller streams flowing into the main watercourse. Indian children swam and bathed and fished on these smaller streams. On one riverbank we saw a couple caymans, which, our guide told us, were disappearing because their habitat, the river banks, were disappearing in the flooding caused by the dam. As we progressed, canyon walls grew above us, thousands of feet high, with waterfalls, trees, and mossy formations growing from the rock surfaces. It was an unforgettable adventure, and I would never have embarked on such an opportunity without the persuasive powers of Duncan and Eric.

We were all presented with many challenges – physical, emotional, and intellectual – the day we journeyed up the mountain from San Cristobal de las Casas to the indigenous village of San Juan Chamula. The Chamulans had been so abused by European-descended invaders and others that visits by outsiders to the village were strictly regulated and limited by the villagers themselves. Even Roman Catholic priests were no longer allowed into the village to conduct any religious ceremonies. Photographs were absolutely forbidden. “We’re not even taking our cameras,” I warned the boys. “Tourists have been killed for trying to sneak a photograph,” I cited the guidebook.

We traveled to the village on a minibus from San Cristobal. These vehicles were plentiful and made the trip frequently. We stayed in the village several hours, starting at the municipal office where we got permission to visit the church and environs, then visiting the church, and the village garden plots, and the cemetery. But getting a return minibus with room for all three of us at once proved to be almost impossible. All the minibuses back to San Cristobal seemed to be filled to capacity with Chamulans going into the city to buy and sell at the market there. Two or more hours of looking went by without our securing transport. As it got to be later and later, I couldn’t figure out why the villagers would still be going to the city. The sun began to descend toward the horizon, and I got more and more worried. Only because I insisted on it did we finally get into a minibus for the return trip. But Duncan had to ride in the back section (no seats) with a whole group of Chamulan men, while Eric and I rode squeezed into the seats. This arrangement occurred, if I remember correctly, because I was older and a woman, and Eric’s legs were exceedingly long and took up too much room in the back. So Duncan was called upon to endure the down-the-mountain ride with not a few others. He crawled out at the end of the trip, and stretched his cramped limbs. It was the only time on that trip that I knew he was not happy, but he didn’t grouse or complain at length. After a few sardonic observations (I believe he had been offered something – tobacco? homebrew? – which he’d refused), he settled into a stride as we walked back to our hotel.

Three or four years later, in his college application essay, Duncan recalled the visit to San Juan Chamula, and especially the visit to the church. Reading the essay, I was again struck by Duncan’s capacity for open-minded processing of everything that he observed, and he observed in great detail.
From Duncan’s essay:

As I moved through the church I noticed I was walking on a blanket of pine needles covering the floor. There were no pews and no priests, only a congregation of villagers kneeling on the ground, some bowing their heads, others reaching upward. The space was silent except for the low murmur of prayers. Every villager who kneeled lit a handful of candles in front of him, creating a layer of light along the floor which allowed me to see the funniest thing in the world. The Indians were offering Pepsi to their God. ... How convenient, I thought, for any thirsty deity to have easy access to the soft drink preferred by 76% of all gods! ... In the following years I often thought back to that incident in the cathedral, and tried to make sense of it. ... Three and a half years later I think I am beginning to understand: now that I better see my position in the world and the world’s position in the universe, that little village doesn’t seem so far away, and the villagers with their Pepsis don’t seem so distant. If they are crazy, then they are only crazy in a crazy world. I have read and enjoyed Arthur Miller’s The Crucible; not once did I find it odd that Paris, the deceitful town minister, demanded gold candlesticks from the townspeople – more to glorify himself than God. Why, then, should it seem so odd that a group of villagers, in honest devotion, sought to honor their God with soft drinks? Why should wine be an acceptable form of libation but not Pepsi? I guess it took me a while to get over my impulsive judgements and discover that people are only as strange as we make them. ... It is this understanding that I am trying to explain – the understanding that there are as many realities as there are people in the world. There is as much to learn within every single person you meet as there is in all the books you could ever read. Whether it is my father, my mother, my best friend, or a villager in San Juan Chamula with his offering of Pepsi, I will never again laugh at that which I don’t, at first, understand.

Dearest Duncan, you were a rare and precious person and we were blessed to know you. Your accompanying me to Mexico in 1988 was fortunate for me and for Eric in many ways, and I will always treasure the memories of that adventure. We love you.

Aunt Sue

Fishing at McAlpine Locks

A few words...

My name is Michael or as Duncan dubbed me many years ago "Peg Leg." Duncan was my dear friend who I happened to become his brother-in-law. Aimee had asked me to speak briefly about who he was. I have so many fond memories of Duncan:

-Fishing down on the river
-Enjoying summertime picnics
-Going to concerts
-Cooking
-Working on various projects at someone's house or cabin
-Melting cheese
-Discussing anything from politics to David Hasslehoff
-Building sand castles and water canyons
-Playing with the girls
-Gardening
-Discussing Kenny's penchant for dusting under the rocks of his front yard
-Texas
-Sitting around a campfire
-Partying
-Riding in police cars
-Blowing out birthday candles

One thing in particular that I will always miss is what had become a Christmas tradition. After all the buckeyes were made, me and Aimee and Brett and Erin would take the leftover chocolate and begin dipping and covering various items for Duncan to taste, eat and then guess the identity. Those items over the years included: brussel sprouts, olives, sardines, coctail onions, horseradish balls, jalepenos, pickles, capers and Vienna sausage. As gross as I'm sure it was, he was always willing and smiling at the end as he would inevitably have everyone laughing out loud. That was Duncan to me, the truest of gentlemen, always willing to sacrifice himself for another person's joy or comfort.

It is impossible for me to pick just a couple stories to describe Duncan, so in his own words, I would like to read about him from his Info tab on Facebook...

Erin and I have a wedding photograph hanging in our dining room that was signed by people who attended our wedding. There is a quotation from Sophocles written small in the bottom right corner and I know for a fact that Duncan put it there. I have recited these words over and over in my head since Saturday night and they seem so fitting now.

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in the world; and that word is Love."

We all love you and miss you Duncan Stewart Brown. Godspeed my friend and R.I.P.

Witchy Woman

Among the songs Duncan loved to dance to as a small lad was the Eagles delightfully devilishly enticing "Witchy Woman." I wonder if that is what is playing in that photo where Duncan and I have our hands are in the air and some dance is going on. Duncan chose that photo for his senior page at Greenhill. Interestingly, Don Henley is now a Greenhill dad.

trivia quiz

I was thinking about the sign that was on Duncan's bedroom door back in the mid-'80s. It said, "Welcome to the Domain of Duncan Stewart Brown," and then there were several descriptors under that, including "where OP's are in style" and (I think) "Home of the Whopper." Does anyone else remember anything about that sign?

Lexi's eulogy for Duncan

Duncan Brown’s Eulogy

As part of the last paper he wrote in college—for his major in psychology—Duncan set out (in his own words) to “examine the various nuances of my personality.”

Duncan, we—your family and friends—are gathered here to remember and to celebrate those nuances as part of our very difficult good-bye to you.

First—that smile. So many things seemed to bring him joy—and you could see it emerge in that wacky, exuberant, loving smile. Among the family pictures on the wall behind the sofa in Vicki and Kenny’s living room, you may find a perfect example—Duncan with Michael, grinning infectiously in one of their shared-birthday moments. Duncan was born with mirth in his soul.

And next—well, he was smart! As a toddler, Duncan sat every morning in his blue wooden high chair, eating cheerios and watching a TV journalist whose unusual name was Hughes Rudd. “Mommy,” he liked to ask me, “is that Hughes?” One day he asked me twice, “Is that Hughes?” “Is that Hughes, Mommy?” “Yes,” I assured him. “That is Hughes, Duncan.” “No, Mommy, he replied in as cautionary a voice as he could muster. That’s one Hugh.” I thought he was so smart!

Next—well, every one who knew him might agree that Duncan was spacey. When he was about five years old, he played on a kindergarten soccer team. I was always in the stands cheering, although to my recollection they never won a game. At the end of one such game, which they had lost badly, Duncan came running up to me in the stands. He looked up with great optimism and asked enthusiastically, “Did we win?” “No, you didn’t, Duncan I said gently.” Then with quite a puzzled look, he threw up his hands and asked, “Then . . . .who did ?”

Next—there’s a quality I’ve been trying hard to put my finger on—to find a name for. Self-effacing? Perhaps. Duncan just never bought into that social competitiveness so prevalent in middle school. One day I was driving car-pool, and a round of social one-upsmanship began. So-and-so was having a party. “Are you going to the party?” “Have you been invited to the party?” When this question got round to Duncan, who had been listening with active interest, he responded with such kind and genuine enthusiasm, “No, I’m not invited, but it sounds like fun and I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” He was a sweetheart who really cared that others would be happy.

Finally, Duncan was creative—painting, cooking, gardening, and writing—his imagination took fire in so many ways. Recently, he was adding captions to old family photos. On one of him at age three, sitting on a spring horse at his preschool playground—Duncan has written, “I tamed that wild bronco ‘cause that’s what real men in Texas do.”

Duncan’s imagination flourished in his role as a father. Just two days ago, Aimee commented that, when he played with Ella and Charlotte, Duncan wasn’t just going through the motions, he was right there PLAYING with them.

Many of you remember the eulogies he wrote for Pappy and for Grandpa Wolf. Some of you were planning that he would write yours! Duncan’s creative gifts have brightened many, many lives.

I have really been a lucky mom because, when Duncan married Aimee, he was blessed, not only with a wonderful wife, but also a whole new family that loved him and cared for him as their own, and with a community that just simply embraced him. What more could we want for our son? Vicky and Kenny—and all family and friends gathered here to honor Duncan, thank you. Here in Louisville, Duncan found a home—and with Aimee they began their own new home and family. And so, although this day is one of closure, it is also one of continuity.

It is hard to say goodbye. When Duncan was born, we asked in his birth announcement for all to “Rejoice with us in bidding welcome to the family of man, Duncan Stewart Brown.”

Now that we must let him go, I cannot help but to think of the Biblical story of Hannah in First Samuel, who prayed fervently to God for a son—and promised the Lord that, if He sent her one, she would give him back. “I will name him Samuel,” she said, “for he is lent to me from God.”

Well, Duncan, like Hannah’s Samuel, you were lent to us for 37 short years, and now we must give you back.

I believe God blessed me last Sunday morning, as I packed for this difficult journey, for on the radio I heard this old Welsh lullaby and hymn played, and I knew these must be my closing words of farewell:

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber steeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing
Clear through the night
Thou, my love, art heavenward winging
Home through the night
Earthly dust from off thee shaken
Soul immortal shalt thou awaken
With thy last dim journey taken
Home through the night

I forgot to add... there's also an "Andrew & Gavin Show" on one of the tapes - the one about Gavin throwing a baseball.

caught on cassette

I'm in the process of reviewing the contents of some old cassettes to see if there are any recordings of Duncan. I'm pleased to report that so far it's been fruitful. Among my findings...

1) A recording of Duncan and Eric (and a little bit of Gavin) hanging out in the living room in Monmouth, sometime in the summer of 1986.
2) An earlier recording of Eric describing his trip to England - which was originally intended to be mailed to the Browns.
3) Recordings of us hanging out in Richardson on Christmas Eve of 1987.
4) Possibly the worst version of "Mony, Mony" ever recorded.
5) An even worse version of "Louie Louie".
6) "Madness" - an instrumental song written by Duncan, performed by me and him.

There are a couple old cassettes I still need to survey. They are broken, so I'm hoping that someone can splice-repair them. They may have more good content.

After that the next step will be to get them in some kind of digital form - after which I'll be able to post them online for anyone interested to listen to.

What's better to a kid than a cool lunchbox?

already out there

In my immediate family it was a popular pastime to talk about what we’d do when the rich millionaire uncle we’d never met died and left us a fortune. I remember sharing this with Duncan once – we may have been 9 or 10 – and talking about the cars I’d buy or the trips I’d take with the money. Duncan said, “I’d give up the money to have the uncle back.”

I’d give about any amount of money to have back those tapes we made in the summer of 1985 and the winter of 1986. One was just a recording of the four of us – Andrew, me, Duncan and Gavin – hanging out in the living room of 1211 Mulvane. At one point I announced the date: June 29, 1985. So it was about a week before we moved from Topeka to Monmouth. I played that tape to death during the years I lived in Monmouth. That was a time of transition and confusion (adolescence, a new and not always friendly town), and the tape was a reminder of one of the most stable parts of our life, our cousins, people who would always accept us. I’m being kind of obnoxious on the tape, and Duncan, who’s trying to play a song on the piano (he was quite good), is getting frustrated, and at one point begins singing some improvised lyrics about his frustration. When he sings “I am getting mad, to the point where I can not … be … happy,” we all break up laughing.

The other was a tape of Andrew, Duncan and me, with occasional contributions from Gavin, making serious attempts to record songs as a sort of band. This was in the TV room of 1115 Morningstar Trail. Andrew had his electric bass, Duncan was playing his keyboard, and I was singing, not because I could sing but because I couldn’t play an instrument. The song I’d most like to hear is our cover of The Honeydrippers’ “Rockin’ at Midnight,” which had been a minor hit the year before. Near the end of the song, Duncan got up from his keyboard, ran across the room, and sang a campy and hilarious solo right into the portable stereo we’d been recording with – “Yeah, yeah, rock, rock, rock, rockin’ at midnight, or maybe afternoon, oh rockin’, rockin’, how ’bout two o’clock tomorrow morning? Rock rock rockin’ rockin’ without Andrew!” I think a small part of us wanted to be mad at him for sabotaging the song we’d just worked hard to play well and record, but the whole thing was so funny and unexpected that we just sat their cracking up. Then we played the tape and cracked up again. It was an important lesson in not taking ourselves too seriously, the kind of lesson Duncan was good at teaching. Interestingly, that song contains the lyric “Hear the news about Ella Brown?” It may actually be “Ellis Brown” or “Ellard Brown,” since it seems to be referring to a “he.” But it sounds unambiguously like “Ella Brown,” and that’s how I always heard it, long before I knew anyone by that name.

For years and years I thought – and I told Duncan this – that the single happiest memory I had was of waking up on the first morning of our first Christmas on Jekyll Island, looking out the sliding door of our motel room, and seeing Duncan running by on the little playground. The beach was the backdrop. It was a memory that seemed to contain everything good in life: newness and familiarity, adventure and security, family, Christmas, love and possibility as far as the eye could see. Duncan was already out there. All we had to do was get dressed and go join him.

he was

My 7-year-old son, Evan, and I were looking at photos of Duncan on Facebook. I was trying to explain to him who Duncan was and why his death had made me so sad. After about 20 pictures, Evan said, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but he looks like a funner dad than you."