From: Ron Osterberg and Holly Coppersmith
Sent: Thu, May 18, 2017 8:41 am
Subject: Happy 110th Birthday to Brun Osterberg
Sent: Thu, May 18, 2017 8:41 am
Subject: Happy 110th Birthday to Brun Osterberg
Happy Birthday Dad,
Much sadness since our last letter. Aunt Rhoda, the baby of your family, died. You gave her a rhythmic nickname which I forgot. That’s too bad. No one left alive knows it or even heard of it; so it’s lost forever in the ether of time. Uncle Ralph died last year and Rhonda’s husband, Dave, a couple years before that. Leo left us a few years ago and, last I heard, Aunt Eileen is hanging on. She’s the last of your filial family.
Tragically, Butch died last year from sclerosis after he relapsed with the booze. He was old enough and smart enough and should have known better. I suspect that’s why he wished that you could have known each other as adults. You and he might have talked the way adults do when they share a tragic problem. Both of you went back to drinking. Or, maybe he just wanted to know you better the way sons often do. Whatever the reason, you’d be proud of him. He was a pioneer in micro programming and had many interesting stories.
And I also miss you. I remember our entire conversation, almost word for word, the afternoon you told me that you had inoperable cancer. Neuroscientists tell us that strong emotions improve the memory wonderfully. I argued with you until you gave up talking. I guess I was the poster child for the word hubris. I knew absolutely that all you needed were better doctors and I told you how to find them. Imagine that? I argued with you about dying. On the other hand, after thinking about our conversation often over the years, it was probably more my inability to believe that we’d be losing you so soon.
Kookums has Parkinson’s Disease. It’s bad, but Parkinson’s is not the tragedy it was a couple years ago. She goes to therapy sessions and is doing remarkably well. Bob watches over her like all good husbands do. You’d like him dad. Like you, he works hard and he works smart. Uncle Ralph was like that too. Maybe that’s why Uncle Ralph and Bob got along so well. On the positive side of the disease, Sally stopped drinking beer entirely after the diagnosis. In the end, of course, she will always be my big sister who knows everything.
Coky is the same as he was five, ten or twenty years ago. He leads a low profile life. Naturally he’s had his share of distress. Who hasn’t? But he faces them down, one problem at a time. He doesn’t run from trouble, nor does Barbie. Coky knows a lot because he reads a lot. You were like that. Mom talked often about the pile of books you carted home from the library when you and she first met. Coky’s love of books must be in his genes.
I wish I could write more about your five youngest daughters, Karen, Patricia, Lynn, Wendy and Jill. I saw Jill at Bruce’s memorial service and she’s doing well, but I was overwhelmed trying to talk with so many people and didn’t spend as much time with her as I wanted. You’d like your second set of children; they’re all smart and all are older than you when you died. At one time or another, each has talked about being cheated by your too early death. I’m sure it pleases you to know that they all have your habit of looking at the serious side of life.
You’d like Happy Holly, the lady I married. She smiles easily and often which is just what I need at this time in my life. Together we’re learning better how to be happy. The world can solve its own problems. Holly and I have much laughing to do.
Happy 110th Birthday Dad, you left too soon and we miss you. With Love, Quirt
Sally - Kookums
Ronnie - Quirt
Bruce - Butch
Kenneth - Coky
