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Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry’s standard.
BLOG #1 TO MY BROTHER HARRY
PART 1: HARRY IN ENGLAND
This first blog, in which I hope to promote my book, is dedicated to my little brother, who a lot later, became a man of total mystery to me. But while we worked together in the US he was loyal, efficient, caring and absolutely knowledgeable. Or was he? You will meet him as “Harry” in Part One of my autobiographical “Tales of an English Contrabandista”.
Our young lives together were not in the least bit pleasant, however, much less brotherly. My father’s son, yes, in other words the son of an honourable and distinguished (yet much beleaguered) gentleman, as I was; but also the son of a monster. My father’s second wife was powerfully influential in everyone’s life, especially her son’s, but in the process became an absolute, unrelenting tyrant who terrorised the three other, innocent, lives around her: my sister’s, my father’s and my own. This occurred daily during most of the 1950s and first half of the 60s. Harry though, was treated as the family Prince, and the poor boy never knew any different.
That was how it started then. That was how we could never enjoy a proper, sibling relationship. He never treated me badly; didn’t need to as his mother Pearl had all the bases covered. Indeed, he could be kind, loving and caring towards our sister, even more despicably treated by Pearl than I was; but with me there was a sort of oddly-neutral non-relationship with Harry. It was like ships in the night. What he thought of me in private I never knew; what I thought of him amounted only to a mildly irritating irrelevance.
That was when we were growing up. Then I left the family “home” early in 1964, and never wished to look back. At the start of the 1970s Harry left too, for University to study medicine as he was very brainy indeed, and ambitious. Two or three years later we reconnected, although on reflection this was almost certainly with a view to looking for help from me as he had fallen into a serious rut, which he had evidently dug for himself. Something had gone badly wrong with his studies, the result of which led to his expulsion. Sadly, both his personal and professional life went south so he began to struggle. Including more than a passing interest in hash.
Trying to help him find a way back I offered to share my home with him in 1974, after recently leaving and then divorcing my first wife. This was in a comfortable house in a lovely southwestern suburb of London. We got along well, which came as a bit of a surprise to me, just as if those indifferent years of our childhood had never happened. But I could plainly see back then he was a highly troubled young man. I also tried to help introduce him to the same business I was beginning to make a real success of, street trading in London’s West End. To his credit he did try it, but wasn’t cut out for its rough and tumble way of life. I was though, just one of many glaring differences between us; I think he was grateful for the opportunity, but chose to return home to his parents instead.
By the late 1970s he dedicated himself to fully liaising with our father in exploring new and often innovative ways to make a living. I think his mother was tired by then of still working as an office secretary, and it seems to me she was of the old fashioned view that the husband should be the one bringing home the bacon. So Harry became his main assistant, often “accomplice” in this. Eventually they hit on the shady scheme of manufacturing “spook tapes” since my dad had long been influenced (genuinely I think) by all things spiritual, especially in the realm of spiritual healing. That had dominated his life during the mid-60s onwards, having had his own abysmal eyesight “healed” by a well-known “spirit doctor”, Dr Lang.
So they embarked on this new venture, with the US as their preferred potentially major market. The 1980s were just starting by now, that turbulent decade that dictated so much both in my own life and my brother’s. And my sister’s as well. Three main events took place in 1981 alone! That was the extra-special year in which my own (foreign) adventures were kickstarted by going to live in Miami with my new wife. It forms the opening chapter of my book: and I call it: 1981, In the Beginning.
So the first of the three significant incidents was my initial involvement in the unsavoury business that forms the backbone of my entire book, my introduction to blatant law-breaking I mean. The next was a month later in the March: my sister Marion’s marriage to her excellent Israeli boyfriend, Danny. So the first was explosive while the second highly joyous. But the third was tragic.
In the May my father died suddenly from a massive heart attack. Maryann, my wife, and I were on a plane back to London the following day. Needless to say, the whole family was distraught beyond words. When Marion phoned me in Miami to inform me I just sank to my knees in grief. My wife proved herself a true rock back then, just as she did during my dangerous “career” that developed soon after. What I hadn’t really expected though, was the extent of grief that overcame my brother: all his hopes and dreams seemed dashed to pieces, quite apart from losing his own rock. Pearl appeared equally dismayed and, frankly, lost. So Harry found himself in the dark all over again; what could the poor fellow do now?
PART 2: HARRY IN AMERICA
As I gradually became embroiled in what I euphemistically called “the Colombian business” – as no less than a professional coke smuggler – I also gave some thought to my brother’s dire predicament. I’m not entirely sure if he continued with the “spook tapes” idea, but if so nothing specific came of it. The one thing I could do for him in those early days was invite him to spend Christmas with us in 1981, mainly to “test the water” to see if he liked the US, Miami being distinctly un-American notwithstanding. I’ve given Part One of my book its particular name for a specific reason: American Dream. While I was to develop my version of it, Harry had nurtured it for most of his life. It really was his main dream. And I helped him realise it.
While growing up his great-Aunt Cissie who had lived in Massachusetts since the War was always sending us bits and pieces of American life, especially the scandal-rag, the National Enquirer. So there was always something from the US with us, and this made a big impact on Harry. So he loved it from the start; I could clearly see how he completely unwound during that first Christmas. And we introduced him to Maryann’s best friend there, the elegant Nicaraguan Nora – who made such an impression that they got married the following year!
During 1982 we developed the notion of he and his mother actually putting their house on the market and moving Stateside. I also toyed with the idea of Harry working with me, and eventually realised how best to do that by Easter 1983, when a terrifying incident put an end to the way I was running the “business” – although another door was to open, in which I could visualise my brother joining me. On top of these important developments between 1982 & 83, our adored daughter was born in Miami … so my life seemed complete, including both my sons taking turns at coming to live with us for about six months each. And I was beginning to truly enjoy Miami life, despite being against it from the start, for certain psychological and lifestyle reasons.
Due to my major change of working style in early 83 I finally made Harry my offer, as in the manner of the Godfather, deliberately not going into much detail while enough to paint an honest picture to him of what I was expecting from him. Which was basically to assist me in driving the 6,000 mile route to LA and back “home” to Miami. He duly agreed. So the idea that had been a mere notion in 1981 now became a firm plan. I had the necessary vehicle, I had it expertly “doctored” with its costly but brilliant hidey-hole (or caleta) built into it … and now had my co-driver too. I discovered early on that I couldn’t have made a success out of this enterprise without a trusted and competent co-pilot, and in fact Harry proved ideal.
By then, in the May of 83, they had sold their house in the village where they lived on the Sussex south coast of England, not far from Brighton. Harry arrived first, Pearl following a couple of weeks after as she spent some time with her beloved Aunt in Springfield, Mass. We helped them, along obviously with Nora, to find a suitable apartment just a few blocks from us, in that delightful southwestern sector of Miami called Kendall. Our particular slice of heaven was known as the Crossings.
In the June we were finally ready to rock’n’roll as we made our way early one morning across the main Kendall Drive nearby and straight onto the Florida Turnpike. Our fabulous objective lay 3,000 miles away, and took us about 66 hours. We soon perfected that fascinating route, kind of made it “our own” and during the course of nearly a year must have made that trip around seven or eight times. In addition, we delivered in New York (for different people) around five times, plus also up to Providence Rhode Island on three occasions or so. So we kept ourselves incredibly busy – and I had plenty of additional work in Miami besides. My brother and I must have covered about 70,000 miles of those American highways and byways in total – in just eleven months.
But nothing lasts forever. What brought it to a close then? The inevitable consequences, that’s what. They occurred with a sharp rap on our front door on 12th May 1984. Talk about the “day the music died” – that was the day our American Dream died. Three stern-looking FBI agents stood there, in order to come inside to “put some questions” to me. That was how it started – and forty months later it ended. I have described this period in detail in my book’s Part Two called The System. Welcome to the Federal System, in other words.
Naturally, this sudden blow felled Harry as well. So once again he seemed left with nothing – although with the passage of time he resurrected his ambitions in the US with his usual determination, I must give him that. But his opinion of me, for going and getting myself arrested, and subsequently jailed, took a severe dive. Not only was he naturally concerned and agitated for his own freedom but he made it quite clear, a lot later on, that he now had no need of his big brother any more; no time for me at all in fact. As I heard from our dear old friend Nora only this year, forty years after the event, I “fucked his life up” to quote his very words to her, which I recently heard for the first time. In other words, he blamed me for bringing his life into ugly uncertainty and potential disrepute. Yet I had assured him and heartily reassured him frequently that he had nothing at all to fear; only I had dealt with my business contacts, not a soul even knew who he was. But he still seemed full of fear and resentment; although writing a few letters and chatting occasionally on the phone, as his mother did, neither ever bothered to visit. Not ever. I understood this in the circumstances, but it didn’t make it any better.
Eventually, just before getting released from prison in Kentucky in August 1987 to a short-term deportation centre in Louisiana, Harry informed me they were moving and would send a new address later on. In the meantime he supplied me with a Post Office Box number. I duly wrote to him there, and got a reply. Then a couple of months later I wrote to him again there from back in England. But never ever got a reply. His own obvious and underhand plan had worked: he had moved and at the same time knocked me clean out of his life. As he also did to Marion. He must have intended this for some time, well before the deportation judge pronounced me “persona non grata”, and even perhaps from the moment I was no longer of any use to him in May 84? I don’t like thinking this way, but it has sadly become all too obvious.
Over the ensuing years I remained quite bewildered by his treatment of me; this turned into anger and resentment in time. I naturally felt disrespected, by a plainly ungrateful so and so. By 2002 though, and in spite of all those negative feelings, I was still of an open mind. When Marion expressed increasing sorrow at losing her younger brother and requesting me to try to get in touch somehow, I heard of a website on the relatively new and incredible internet, called Intellius, which connected long-lost individuals in the US – for free back then. It was a simple process; I put it into motion early in 2002 and found both Harry’s address and phone number. Still in the Miami area, and apparently living with a certain lady named Kathryn – plus Pearl. That was how informative the website was. So I called. And he answered – but in a moderate American style and pretending not to be my brother. I couldn’t be 100% sure it was actually him but was more or less convinced. The evidence was too overwhelming.
No more came if it, and I was then more resolved to call time on it, and at least try to respect his wishes to cut off his own family. But Marion never gave up the ghost. Around a decade later she asked a cousin who lived in California and who was about to visit Florida on holiday, to go to Harry’s address and try to connect with him. She did – but reported back to Marion how rudely Harry had treated her. One new thing she did find out was that Pearl had recently died. I implored my sister to just accept the status quo regarding Harry – but she wouldn’t, or couldn’t. She continued sending all kinds of correspondence, especially cards, in which she often included her phone number, and on a very few even persuaded my to add a few words of my own. All to no avail though.
And then finally the logjam broke. By a most unexpected – and TRAGIC event, at the end of 2023.
From around when Pearl died up till December 23 my sister and I discussed our long-lost bro frequently. I was still angry but at the same time fully resigned to the situation; but Marion never abandoned her love for her younger brother and faith in an eventual reunion. And then came a thoroughly unexpected phone call. Marion received it from a certain Kathryn in Florida. Next thing was that my sister implored me to phone this American lady, regarding of course our brother, since Kathryn turned out to be his second wife – as we were aware a long time before from Nora that their marriage hit the rocks – probably around 1990 I would guess. The problem was that my phone had broken just before Christmas 2023, and I didn’t have a new one until the end of December.
So I finally called the US a whole week later. The American lady sounded a kindly and friendly type – but what she needed to say was off the scale. I had imagined Harry had fallen on terrible times and wanted or needed to make amends. I was wrong. My younger bro was dead. The moment I heard the awful news all manner of negative thoughts and feelings to do with him evaporated in an instant. I felt deep sorrow, especially because of the incredibly poor state of health my bro had fallen into over two or three years. He was full of diabetes for a start. Many ailments combined to produce finally a definitive heart attack. Kathryn had nursed him for a very long time – but evidently his card was marked a good while before finally passing away. Our sister was grief-stricken and still is even now, as of course is Kathryn – with whom I have had a number of interesting, though often quite sad, phone calls.
She has realised that after 29 years together with Harry she now regards him, as I do too, as a man of Mystery. He kept from her almost everything to do with his former life, mainly to do with his siblings. Kathryn has told us she was only able to call Marion to announce Harry’s passing because she, not he, had made it a point to keep Marion’s phone number. It was therefore entirely thanks to her diligence that we learned about our bro’s untimely demise.
This then brings me to the end of my dedication to my little “bruv” as we say in England, by way of this blog. As I mentioned much later on in the book, obviously before hearing the terrible news, I wrote “Thanks for the memories bro” … but did so in a rather ironic way. Now I repeat them, but not ironically at all but respectfully – and truly gratefully. We shared a great many highly memorable occasions together Stateside, although sad to say not really in England earlier in life. In addition to this tribute, I was very pleased to hear from Kathryn how he used to share some of his erstwhile travelling adventures with her, although probably only to a limited extent. If only we could have become reconciled to savour those times together once more.
And perhaps also to discuss my book, though I don’t really think he would have taken too kindly to it. It would probably have filled him with dread all over again, despite my many reassurances not to worry unduly over it. But all of this is speculative wishful thinking. So what’s left to say then? I can only think of those words, already in the book, “Thanks for the memories bro!” And RIP as well. I say this with love, forgiveness and understanding. Harry, though complex, was a good guy at heart!
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