Walking 10,000 steps a day takes TIME and allows for a lot of solitary reflection. Occasionally on my outside laps, I’ll see runners or joggers go speeding past the front gate. I suspect that’s a way of getting the exercise job done faster. I also suspect that, long term, jogging is a lot harder on knees and ankles than plain-Jane walking is, but maybe that’s just me.

My walking reflections take many forms.  I keep track of the progress and health of the cactus we planted last fall.  I watch out for signs of wildlife. (Yes, the coyote has indeed returned and is using the same latrine he used before.) I like how the local hummingbird has adjusted to my presence and doesn’t bother flying away when I pass within six feet or so of him.

At the moment, I’m deep in writing a book.  Yesterday, while I was walking past the row of oleanders alongside the driveway, I remembered a piece of a scene that I had meant to include in the previous day’s chapter. As soon as I “got my ten,” I came inside and installed the necessary additions and corrections.

But on those occasions when I see joggers and runners, I often spend the rest of the walk thinking about my brother, Jim—James Andrew as he was officially named and what our mother called him when he was in deep doo-doo which was … well … often. Earlier this week, while sorting through some photos here in Tucson, I saw a photo of Jim, my father, and me at an insurance company function in the late seventies.  That may be part of the reason I’m on today’s particular tangent.

In a family of seven kids, I was, again as our mother, Evie, phrased things, “the youngest one of the third batch” which consisted of the three girls who were born in South Dakota before the family move to Bisbee.  The “second batch” consisted of three boys and finally an additional girl who were all born in Bisbee.  Jim, six years younger than I, was “the second one of the second batch.”

Let’s just say he and I were never pals.  It was more oil and water than anything else.  Jim was smart as a whip, arrogant, and  … well … short.  Five seven or maybe five eight?  The fact that, from junior high on, I was a beanpole six-one may have contributed to our ongoing case of sibling rivalry.

Jim went off to college but dropped out in short order.  After joining the army and serving in Vietnam, he came home and spent some time doing sales–auto parts and insurance–before eventually returning to our hometown to become a firefighter. As far as I can tell, he was a great father and a loyal friend.  He was an outdoors-man who loved hunting with a bow and arrow.  And, of our whole family, he was by far the most physically fit.  He ran for miles almost every day.  When it came to lifting weights, he could put the younger firefighters in the station to shame every single time.

I remember being in Bisbee on a visit and driving past him as he and his dog jogged along Border Road near Bisbee Junction.  He was newly married at the time, and I remember wondering what his new wife thought about the hours he spent away from home on those long daily runs.

He was Fireman of the Year twice, once for rescuing a man who had electrocuted himself on one of the radio towers on Juniper Flats and once for saving a young boy in Naco, Sonora, Mexico, who had caught his arm in a sump pump.  (For that he had to negotiate permission from the governors two states, one in Arizona and the other in Sonora, in order to take life-saving equipment across the international border.)

In May of 2001, weeks after Jim’s 50th birthday, he took his new family on a vacation trip to California.  While swimming in the Pacific Ocean off Hermosa Beach, he suffered a heart attack.  A lifeguard noticed he was in trouble and hauled him out of the water.  The irony, of course, is that the guy who had saved so many others could not be revived.

An autopsy revealed that he had died of an undiagnosed heart ailment. The only place in town large enough for the funeral, the high school auditorium which holds 800, was filled to capacity. His graveside fallen officer memorial, complete with the “Last Call,” was the first one of those I ever attended. Remembering it just now and writing about it put goosebumps on my legs.

And so I often think about Jim during my walks these days.  I think about the fact that I’ve had an extra two decades on this planet—decades that he missed. I’m sorry about that.  I think he’d be proud of me for being out there, “getting my rear in gear,” as it were.  I’m glad he missed the devastation of 9/11 that occurred only months after his death.  I can’t imagine that wild horses would have kept him from going to NYC to do his bit.

There was a lot of singing in our house while we were growing up.  Our mother was a catalog of lyrics, and she taught all of us to sing in harmony.  Nowadays, when one of those old songs surfaces in someone’s memory, that person is bound to send out a group-grope email to the whole crew, reminding us of those good old days.  When I look at the names on the recipients’ or senders’ lines, I’m always struck by the fact that Jim’s name isn’t there along with all the others.

Jim and I may not have been the best of friends when we were younger, but I’m pretty sure we would be now.

It’s Wednesday.  Having written this week’s blog, it’s time for me to go walk.  I probably won’t be thinking about Jim Busk today while I’m out doing my laps today. After all, been there; done that; got the tee-shirt.

RIP, little bro.  All I can say is, I wish we’d had more time.