Last year, I lost my brother, and the news reached me months later, as we had been somewhat estranged. Instead of burying my emotions, I acknowledged them and saved my tears for a more suitable moment. I felt no rush; “time is on our side,” I thought. “Isn’t that the truth!” he used to say with his distinctive Langlie laugh, which, though not as loud as Dad’s, certainly made its presence known, much like Grandpa’s. While we weren’t particularly close as adults, our childhood together painted a different picture.
Carl Jr, or “JR” as we affectionately called him, and I spent our summers growing up side by side. During the school year, he lived with his mother, and we reunited during those precious summer months when he stayed with our father and my second mom. You could almost picture it as a Brady Bunch scenario with Mike and Carol having a new addition to the family – that would be me. JR and I shared a room during our early years and occasionally bunked together as we got older.
In my recollection, JR was the perfect partner in crime. Being the closest in age, we spent our childhood exploring our suburban surroundings and causing mischief. We had fun under supervision and when left to our own devices. Our first trip to Disneyland was courtesy of our grandparents, back when navigating the park was a breeze, and “E-Tickets” ruled the day. We both reveled in the same things: thrilling rides, science fiction, cars, baseball, and, of course, G.I. Joe.
JR and I embarked on various unsupervised adventures, including investigating the dead body we thought was in a “haunted” house down the street, which was nothing more than a rolled-up carpet – much to everyone’s relief. JR had a peculiar fascination with fire, which got us into trouble several times. We learned a valuable lesson about chimney flues when Dad insisted we boil hamburgers instead of frying them after one fiery mishap. We both shared a fascination with the supernatural, as evidenced by our nighttime Ouija board escapades. You could say that magical thinking ran in the Langlie family, and JR would heartily agree with that sentiment.
The summer of 1974 marked the start of a dubious criminal operation between JR and me, which eventually landed us in hot water. The scheme was quite simple: after a refreshing visit to the public pool, we would stop by Moo-Mart, casually lay down our towels, pretend to peruse the soft drinks, decide not to buy a Coke, and slyly pick up our towels and candy bars stashed underneath, before sauntering out. Our seven-year-old minds marveled at the idea of “free candy.” It was ingenious but also blatant, and the law didn’t take kindly to it. They promptly called Dad.
The punishment we endured drew us closer together through shared battles and shared defeats. Years later, Dad would apologize to us for those trying times, and neither of us found it hard to forgive. After my parents’ divorce, our blended family scenario, much like the Brady Bunch, unraveled, and our relationship and three other siblings never quite recovered.
I primarily learned about JR’s life through a few direct conversations with him and weekly chats with Dad. JR and I shared the same religion – we both worshipped our father. We often spoke to him, frequently engaging in heated arguments. Dad’s passing shook my world, so when I heard of JR’s passing, I couldn’t help but think, “I bet he died from a broken heart.”
JR was deeply cherished by our family, and he tried to stay in touch with as many relatives as possible. He took immense pride in being a Langlie, a sentiment that sometimes made me roll my eyes, but I understood its significance to him. Our family’s heritage, history, and traditions meant much to him – even the quirkiest ones like Lefsa. “Seriously? Lefsa? Are we proud of this?” I’d tease. “Oh, Markie! You love the pickled herring!” Even in our 40s, he never stopped calling me “Markie.”
I was glad to learn that JR had experienced love a few times in his life, even though I never had the chance to meet any of his girlfriends. I saw him as a big-hearted soul who cared deeply about everyone he encountered. He was a devoted caretaker to our grandmother and our uncle, a man adorned with numerous tattoos and a commanding presence, often seen riding his Harley.
Just before Dad’s health took a downturn, JR and I had one of our typical arguments in the garage while he was working on his motorcycle. He mentioned that he had stopped taking his medication and was learning to manage the voices without heavy drugs. “You probably think that’s nonsense, huh?” he asked. Then, I decided to set aside my judgment and genuinely listen to him. I let him share his experiences in dealing with his unique challenges. “Are you happy?” I inquired. He was, and he was triumphing over many life’s challenges, including his battle with schizophrenia. At that moment, I felt a deep love and respect for him, regretting that I hadn’t been more present during his journey. From that day forward, I was genuinely happy for him and the fulfilling life he had built.
Our last encounter was far from our best moment, as we bickered while Dad’s health deteriorated. It certainly didn’t reflect the 50-year relationship we had shared.
As I had anticipated, I eventually broke down and cried for JR. I consider myself fortunate to have known this man, spent my formative years alongside him, and have had the privilege of calling him my brother.
Today, I would give almost anything to hear this man’s massive voice and “langlie laugh” or even to listen to him call me “Markie” one more time.
Mark Langlie 