by Paul Abbott

“Not only had my brother disappeared, but–and bear with me here–a part of my very being had gone with him. Stories about us could, from them on, be told from only one perspective. Memories could be told but not shared.”
John Corey Whaley – Where Things Come Back

On Monday, October 3, 2016, we lost Paul’s older brother David in his short, but hard fought battle with cancer. The following is the eulogy Paul delivered at his memorial service. Now the stories about them can only be told – not shared.  And we are coming to grips with that loss.

All the world really was a stage for my brother and, at least in our backyard, neither Errol Flynn’s Captain Blood nor Fess Parker’s Davy Crockett could hold a candle to David Abbott. I know. I was there. I was his first audience and, for a time, his best supporting actor.

David was the firstborn in a cast of siblings that eventually grew to nine. Our little clan grew up in the fifties and early sixties, doing all the kid things every kid did back then. Through it all, David was the producer, director and always the star of the show. If he didn’t want to play,  then no one wanted to play. It just wasn’t the same without him.

Our dad was a pastor as was our grandfather before him, so life revolved around church. It was sort of the family business. The first stage David ever performed on was at a small, country church. As much as anything in his childhood, it was the church that molded and marked him and made him who he was.

The life of the theatre that was David’s passion as a man may seem far removed from the church-centered life of his childhood, but church and theatre share a common thread. Both are about the power of story. Done well, both tell stories that remind us why we are here, that tell us our lives have meaning and purpose, stories that anticipate days like this day.

David was really smart, so smart he taught himself to read. Before he spent a day in school, he could read the Sunday funnies or the minutiae on the back of a can of string beans. He was always the smartest guy in the room. He always knew the answer, knew the right way to do things, and never hesitated to share this with his siblings. He was, after all, the director and he didn’t just run the show, he ran our lives.

His direction for me often employed the word idiot. He may not have always actually said it, but even when he didn’t you could hear it in his voice. When I was delighted at the prospect of a trip to see Santa, he enlightened me, how could the guy possibly get to every house in one night?  He’s a fake . . . you idiot. Around maybe eleven or so, I was trying to sort out the mysteries of sex, but just couldn’t imagine: mom and dad?  Doing the dishes one night – we two always did the supper dishes, he washed, I dried, always – I tentatively expressed my dismay at the thought of mom and dad and sex to the one guy I knew I could trust to set me straight. Where do you think this house full of kids came from? You idiot. At sixteen, David gave me my first driving lesson in our faded green ’53 Chevy.  As I swerved perilously close to a neighbor’s mailbox, Left! Left! You idiot! Watch where you’re going.

As the firstborn, the leader of our troupe, David was always first: first to lose a tooth or learn to ride a bike, first to get a driver’s license and go on a date, first to kiss a girl, first to go to college, get married, have a child. And now the first to leave the stage. It won’t be the same without him. We who share his name and his blood won’t be the same without him.  Our grief is the price we pay for love, and make no mistake, we did love.

If he were here to direct me now, I think he’d say, Enough. You’ve said enough, little brother.  You can sit down now.