Well, before I can attempt to get him out of this cult, I have to try to understand it. I’m already sensing attraction for Hugh. Soccer seems to have its biggest following down in South America, huge crowds there attend games and just go bonkers over it. I’m sure Hugh likes fact that all those people are so passionately into sport, and he also appreciates fact that those South Americans like to play free and easy with rules. I guess you would say its kinda like Ric Flair soccer. If game is going badly, coach just makes up a few new rules, distracts ref, and then gets his team back into game. Hugh would appreciate that kind of sportsmanship, in fact, he and his sons have been going to school recently in order to learn to how to referee soccer games. That way, Hugh, Will, and Ross can not only play but they can also take bribes and skim off coaches of other teams as well. This little gambit could end up being so lucrative for Hugh that he might end up retiring from his job and devoting himself full-time to pari-mutuel soccer. Only in America, you know.

Well, it’s my duty to get Hugh out of this cult - he’s starting to kick his dirty underwear around house, and just other day he spent twenty minutes telling me about how much a soccer ball should weigh. It’s just too much, and I’m puzzled as to how to handle it. So please, loyal readers, for Hugh’s sake and for preservation of Brotherhood, I humbly ask you for your help. Please send Hugh an email at: hfoskey@cox.net

...tell him that you love him, and remind him that Ray and I miss him here in Brotherhood. Perhaps, if enough expressions of love and kindness find their way to him, he’ll come to his senses, and then go with Ray and I to wherever Amazonian women hang out in order for us to beg them to come out to another soccer game...

I also told him of our traditions. With few exceptions, we had coffee at Mom’s house on Monday mornings and lunch at Hometown Buffet (same table) on Wednesdays.

He understood all of this, and emptiness that goes along with it. He said he, also, still had times when he thought as if his mom had not passed, and then he came back to reality.

As we talked, I repeatedly thought, “I know how he feels. He knows how I feel.” Twenty-five years difference in age didn’t matter. What mattered were a shared experience and its benefits.

Sadly, we can’t bring our moms back. But, we can go on as better people. Individuals with greater understanding for suffering and loss of others and a deeper appreciation for lives of those we see daily. Especially should this be true regarding our loved ones.

Dad’s death several years ago hurt, but was expected. He’d been terminally ill as a COPD patient for so long. Mom, though, was not supposed to die so soon. Yet, such could be said of many others we’ve all known.

Though I’m comforted in spiritual convictions Mom and I shared, and that she and Dad instilled in me, I also take consolation in countless pleasant hours we spent together.

BARBER-OSOPHY: When it comes time for loved ones to be separated by death, no one ever says, “I sure wish we had spent less time together.”