My brother, Ira, has this disgusting habit. It's something he may have done when we were kids, but I don't remember it. And when I say it's disgusting, I'm not using the term lightly. This thing clears rooms.
When we were kids, our parents encouraged the complete opposite of what my brother does. A loud one here, an SBD one there; every time we tooted, laughter ensued. It was the kind of parental lesson kids love. Dad farts freely, well, then I can too. Who cares what's socially acceptable or not. Worked for the Fosco Family.
When I was in sixth grade, I was picked as captain of the kickball team during recess. It was an unusually warm fall day, so Mr. Kropp offered an impromptu/unscheduled recess. However, everyone had to play. After teams were picked, we had to come up with a suitable name. Some kid yelled, "How about the Fosco Farts!" Everyone laughed, including me. I was actually proud of the suggestion. Much to our surprise, Mr. Kropp approved the team name. Briefly. It wasn't until everyone on the team, including the girls, were making fart noises. With their mouths, with their hands cupped over their mouths, with their hands and armpits, and yes, some even with their fart instruments. We tested Mr. Kropp's patience, and lost. The only thing that came out of it was that it confirmed my reputation as a farter.
My brother has a reputation too. As a burper. Before our father was in the hospital for six weeks, I didn't get the opportunity to spend a lot of time with Ira. Of course, there were the occasional family dinners, but nothing remotely as close as watching a family member die. To help break the tension/sadness (so I thought), Ira would quietly belch, and then blow. After a moment, the area in which we were sitting would begin to sour. Ira would begin to giggle. Like a teenager. Like a schoolgirl. Like a man barely able to contain himself. It brought so much amusement to him that he proceeded to do it, repeatedly. No matter how many times you would beg him to stop. I honestly thought it was just something to keep his spirits up during the trying time we all faced. And maybe that's what happened here, with this last particular incident. At his mother-in-law's Shiva.
In the Jewish religion, after a person dies, the grieving family "sits Shiva." In many cases, Shiva lasts for several days. In this case, it was two. Since Cyndi and the kids did not attend the funeral with me, and did not get to the chance to express their condolences to our extended family, we attended last night's Shiva.
Toward the end of the evening--more specifically, toward the end of our evening--Ira began his shenanigans again. If I thought the smell was bad 2+ years ago, I was wrong. That was brown sugar and cinnamon compared to what was coming out of his body last night. I'm starting to think he's either got something seriously wrong with him medically, or he's swallowing dead animals. As I wrote, he cleared the room; cleared this side of the Fosco's, at least.
While this may not be the most flattering portrayal of my brother, he's really an admirable guy. He's a giving man. And so is his wife. They often put other people's needs before their own. When someone needs help, Ira and Amy never think twice about offering what they can. Including their home. It began with Merle, Amy's mom, nearly ten years ago. When my mom needed shelter, a permanent place was made. When it was discovered that a man from their synagogue, who has been down on his luck for quite some time, was living in a tent, Ira and Amy made room for them. And it's not like they don't have a busy and active life. They've got three kids to boot. Giving.
At Mass this morning, the pastor talked about giving. He talked about not only giving money, but our talents and our time. Behind every "give" there is love. In Ira's case (Amy too), it's more like LOVE.
While Ira may know how to clear a room, it's very apparent that he also knows how to fill one up.
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