John McDonald – October 14, 1944 – December 20, 2022
December 23, 2022
I have felt compelled to sit down and write these last few days – ever since my brother died. I try to remember the John of my childhood and I draw many blanks. He was eight years older and to a child that’s a huge chasm. We certainly didn’t hang out together; play together or have many meaningful conversations together.
I do remember all of us crowded into the tiny cottage in Maine on rainy, foggy days and John reading the Courier Gazette in a Maine accent. We’d be in stitches, laughing so hard it hurt. Little did any of us know that would become a career for John – entertaining people, telling stories in that Maine accent he perfected.
In high school, when it was time to renew my eye glass prescription, I got round horn-rimmed glasses, at John’s urging. My T.S. Elliott glasses, he called them. I was, at first, embarrassed to wear them at school, but, with all of his positive attention, I finally got past that; feeling so with it, as no one else in my school sported such cool eyewear.
When I was in high school, John was working, but also acting. He got a part in Twelfth Night, a Trinity Square production. We were all terribly impressed – Trinity Square was renowned in Rhode Island; their actors exceptional! Through John, I was able to usher for that production – I got to see it umpteen times, never tiring of it; John’s acting having a profound impression on me. I wanted to do that too, I decided.
I was 17 when John and Ann got married in Maryland – the same weekend as Woodstock. I felt I was missing something terribly important, not that there was a hope in hell I would have been allowed to go. I was 18 when Josh was born. For the occasion of his baptism, I did a painting – a picture for a child’s room. Though I can’t even remember what it was, I was thrilled beyond measure when John opened the wrapped picture and said, ‘Now I know this is from Jean.’ He was surprised and impressed that it was my creation. His praise made me ridiculously happy.
I had completed my first year at Lesley, when, in the summer, John and Ann and Joshua packed up their belongings and moved from Rhode Island to Maine – 1971. They invited me along to spend the summer, to help out with Josh as they settled into a whole new lifestyle in Cherryfield. John opened a gift shop in Milbridge, a slightly larger town a short distance away. The Great North American Gift Company was the modest name he gave the little shop. He ordered gifts from various places, and took in consigned items. The Cherryfield potters elevated the shop to a level of sophistication John had not anticipated. The gift shop was a nice addition to the town and a moderately successful one too.
I loved spending that summer with them. The Cherryfield house needed a lot of work (to put it mildly) – there was no indoor plumbing, at least no bathroom. Our living conditions were pretty primitive, but at the same time – (for me) it was a fun adventure!
That summer cemented a relationship with my brother that never would have otherwise developed. And for that I am eternally grateful. It wasn’t just John I got to know, but his beautiful wife, Ann too. And I truly believe a bond with Josh grew from that time as well. I was 19, but I loved it when, while babysitting him, people thought he was my baby – we shared a lot of giggles and stories and songs. The summer of 1971 was and forever will remain a happy memory for me.
I followed John into acting. I began to write about that time I taught on Matinicus Island, encouraged by John all along the way. I got into storytelling, but not the kind that John did. As children’s librarian, I looked up old nursery stories, memorized them and told them in libraries and classrooms, satisfying that thespian spirit. Never got into radio, but our interests and pursuits, John’s and mine, ran along a similar vein. I always looked to him with admiration.
Now my brother is gone and there’s a hole in my heart – one of many holes that have formed there, through the death of loved ones. It’s not a time to be morbid though, this is right about the time John would tell a funny story.
Love you and miss you, big brother…