Within a year of losing my sister-in-law, I have now lost my brother-in-law.  Both of my siblings are widowed, and the weight of that reality is heavy.

So what it was like having Terry as a brother-in-law?

I can’t recall the first time I saw him.  In the early years of Debra and Terry’s nearly 60-year relationship, I didn’t see him at all.

But I heard him.

It was the revving of his 1967 Chevy II Nova as he cruised past our house, his way of letting my sister know he came by.  He was shy and had a healthy fear of our father so not until Debra moved out to live with Terry did the family finally meet him.

Being seven years older than me, on the surface we had little in common—I, a teenager, and he in his 20’s—making conversations short.  

As the years passed, I got to know Terry as the family’s handyman.   I grew up ignorant on how to fix anything except putting mayonnaise on my bacon sandwiches, so to have someone who could make your car work better, make your house look better and, in turn, make your life better was a treasure not to take for granted.

One thing was clear:  Terry was a man of few words, preferring to speak with his actions.

I always felt guilty asking for his help so each time I needed his expertise, I’d call Debra.

“Ask Terry what he thinks I should do about this dent in my car.”

Debra, shouting at Terry, “Brian wants to know what to do about a dent in his car.”

Terry, in the background, “Tell him to bring it over.”

Other times when we needed something, there’d be a text from Debra, “We’re on our way.”

No hesitation.  Terry was pleased to help family, friends and neighbors. 

Every day he needed a project to work on, so if you needed anything fixed, he gladly came to the rescue, arriving with more tools in his SUV than a local hardware store.

Still, I made a point not to overuse the Terry hotline every time I needed help.  I didn’t want him to think I was leaning on him too much.  And the rare times when I could do handy work myself, such as disassembling and reassembling a toilet tank (thanks YouTube), I made sure to share my success with him so that he would think more highly of me. 

In later years, Terry and I grew closer.  I would make a point to not just say a quick “hi” to him when I visited but to engage with him in conversation.  I especially enjoyed making him laugh whenever I could.

It’s impossible to list everything he did for us over the past decades, but his handiwork is evidenced by those with whom he helped.  When I admire the white vinyl fence he erected along the length of our backyard, he’s still with us.

Terry’s love for driving and working on sports and vintage cars, winning several awards in contests, is why when our two sons (and their cousin) were in the Cub Scouts, my wife asked him to carve their Pinewood Derby cars and, not surprisingly, every car won First Place.  Terry was our secret sauce.

And as soon as he completed the job, he disappeared like a superhero.  No need to thank him because that’s just who he was—a helper.

Mr. Rogers once said that the world needs helpers.  Terry won first place in that department, too. 

His concern for those in his life had no limitations. He’d be there for them.  It was his way of showing his love.

Terry chose not to have the spotlight on himself which is why he felt uncomfortable with celebrations of his birthday.  He was just fine sitting on the couch watching old Westerns while others chatted elsewhere. 

In fact, if he were here reading this tribute, he would have walked to the den to watch “The Rifleman.”

Something else about Terry:  he never complained about the lousy health he was given.  At age 12 he was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, in his 40’s he had a double-transplant and more recently too many ailments to count.  I never once heard him whine or complain about his situation which is why others may have wrongly thought that he was healthy when he wasn’t.  As unlucky as he was with health, he got lucky with my sister, and having the love of friends and family. 

He’s left a void that can never be filled. In moments like this, I’m reminded of the saying: Don’t be sad that he’s gone—be grateful that we had him for as long as we did.