He is not really gone; He just off on some great high adventure drinking a good stout Scotch or a good honey Meade with a bonnie fine lass on his arm to fill his hours. Riding motorcycles and roaming eternity as that one soul that Heaven just could not keep within its pearly gates.
It is a certainty that he and ole Saint Peter were bantering back and forth about where he should go and what he should be doing. With Alex being Alex with a twinkle in his eye knowing he had won as Saint Peter was sighing a deep sigh and giving in and letting Alex go where he wants. And if you listen closely you can still hear the Devil roaring with laughter at the sight of it and delighting in it..and saying under his breath thank GOD he went there First.
Somewhere in the night sky in the heavens above there is star that burns just a bit brighter than all the rest for it holds the spark that we all knew and who we loved; that force of nature Called Alex Cameron
The Chief is dead Long live the Chief
Good Bye Alex we all will miss you
A writer and Alex's Sister
Last week I found out that my oldest brother died. Three years ago.
Ok, so we hadn’t kept in touch. Still, he was my hero—my protector.
Think Bruce Willis always 15 years older than me.
He was the one who almost caught Santa’s sleigh, and was the voice behind the elf in the linen closet. He taught me to ice skate and pushed me scary high on the swing. He swam pulling our stranded sailboat to shore with the rope tied around his waist. He sang Big Girls Don’t Cry better than Frankie Valli.
He worked on motorcycles and hot rods and I was always right there with him, his go-fer, his greasy apprentice. I learned the difference between a wrench and a hammer, and to stay out of his way if he started to swear.
He established a motorcycle club in Pontiac, Michigan—the Matadors. He was a gifted artist and designed the club colors. I watched in awe. He had his own cycle shop, Iron Horse Cycles, both in Michigan and in Florida, specialized in Triumphs, BSAs, European bikes. He did the design and air-brushing as well as custom work.
I used to babysit when they went on long rides. He and a dozen or so guys would pick me up from school on their bikes—roaring into the parking lot and handing me his wife’s fur covered helmet. It was a dream. I was the girl with the badass brother. Several times he had come to my rescue, picked me up from a bad date, searched the premises when I thought I heard something. He carried a whip and was good with it.
He was a looker. Had a swagger—a sly smile—a twinkle in his eye. He shaved his head rather than go bald, before it was ever cool. Wouldn’t smoke or do drugs but he loved to drink. Loved the ladies. Was married seven times last I knew. 11 kids? I’m not sure. He moved to Florida to escape child support and changed his name.
I heard stories over the years, some from him, some from strangers. He was well known, and respected if not feared. He exploited the Scottish side of our heritage demonstrating mid-evil weaponry and telling tall tales at Renaissance fairs. He captained a charter boat for a while, was a bounty hunter too. When I asked if he had ever shot or killed anyone, he just smiled then said:
“Well, there was one guy, I didn’t kill him, it was the fall from the 4th story window…”
Several years went by, then I heard from him when our father had a cerebral hemorrhage and was paralyzed. He couldn’t come back to Michigan. Not long after that his youngest daughter was killed in a car accident. He was distraught, we had words, nothing unforgivable, but he didn’t sound like the brother I knew and we just never spoke again.
One of his sons looked me up, suggested his dad wanted to meet up. I chose to leave it alone. Our lives were so different and I didn’t want to find out anything that would tarnish his image, my memories of him had become larger than life and I enjoyed the fantasy.
My initial reaction when I heard of his passing was complete vulnerability. I always felt like I was his favorite and that he would be there for me if I ever really needed him, that he would show up on my doorstep like old times. Having him in your corner was like having a gun on the closet shelf, the security of just knowing he was out there somewhere was powerful and comforting.
Once the nausea wained, I searched for additional information, for something more than an obituary with dates of birth and death, more than a website that said simply, “he retired.” And I’ve started to think, what if…what if he isn’t really gone at all. What if he has just changed his name again and moved on?
I’m not going to look for the gun on the shelf, but Wes, if you’re reading this, I love ya man