702: One Last Thing Before I Go

Ira Glass

Andrew Thomas Norway lives in St. Paul, but he's one of those doctors and nurses who flew to New York to help with flood of COVID patients who filled New York hospitals. He's actually at the hospital at Columbia University, where he went to medical school a quarter century ago. At night, after his 12-hour shifts, he sleeps in his old dormitory, literally in the dorm room he had when he was 23. The hospital has scratched out all kinds of extra space for COVID patients, converting 24 operating rooms into intensive care units. But the strangest thing to him?

Ira Glass

Most of them are unconscious, in medically-induced comas, because it's easier to survive on a ventilator that way. But because they're unconscious, it means that the gap between these COVID patients and their families is even more profound, because they don't talk on the phone or FaceTime or anything. So Andrew suggested to the nurses that maybe they should take notes each day, little things they notice about each patient to share with the families if the patient dies. I asked him to read a few.

Ira Glass

I talked to a few of the nurses who are writing these notes, and they said that, because the patients are unconscious, their interactions are pretty basic, so figuring out what to write can be tricky. Dr. Thomas sees that for sure.

Ira Glass

So they gather details about the people laying in front of them, knowing that there's something like an 80% chance that, if they're on a ventilator with COVID, they won't live. Those are the numbers in New York. Those two things are so different in size, writing down a few tiny observations measured against the enormity of death and what that means. But sometimes, I think that's all you can do. And today on our program, we have two stories where ordinary people rise to this exact task. They look at death standing there-- gigantic, horrifying-- and they say something. And in these stories, truly amazing things happen. From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

Act One, Really Long Distance. So remember that tsunami that hit Japan? March 2011, giant black waves more than 30 feet tall hit Japan. A guy in a little town called Otsuchi shot this video. You can hear him yelling. All the houses are washing away.

Ira Glass

Otsuchi had been there for 100 years, and in 30 minutes, it was gone, almost totally flattened. The tsunami and the earthquake that went with it killed six times more people than died in 9/11, over 19,000 people. Another 2,500 are still missing. In the aftermath, of course, families struggled to figure out how they were going to move forward without the people they loved.

And in that town of Otsuchi, it led to this new-- I don't know, ritual is not exactly the right word for this, but it's something close to that-- this thing that people invented to stay connected to the dead. One of our producers, Miki Meek, has family in Japan, and she grew up going back and forth between there and here. And she watched this documentary about this thing people were doing in Otsuchi on the Japanese News Channel NHK, and got permission for us to play you some excerpts. Here's Miki.

Miki Meek

Of all the areas in Japan affected by the tsunami, Otsuchi has one of the highest numbers of missing people, 421. Today, it's still partly in ruins, and partly a construction site, as they try to rebuild the town on higher ground. But a year before the tsunami happened, this guy named Itaru Sasaki, he was already dealing with a loss. His cousin had just died, and Itaru was having a hard time figuring out how to talk about it.

So he did something pretty ingenious. He went out and bought an old-fashioned phone booth and stuck it in his garden. It looks like an old English-style one. It's square and painted white, and has these glass window panes. Inside is a black rotary phone rusting on a wood shelf. This phone connected to nowhere. It didn't work at all. But that didn't matter to Itaru. He just needed a place where he felt like he could talk to his cousin, a place where he could air out his grief. And so putting an old phone booth in his garden, which sits on this little windy hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean, it felt like a perfect solution.

Miki Meek

He's saying, because my thoughts could not be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried on the wind.

Miki Meek

So I named it the Wind Telephone, [JAPANESE]. The idea of keeping up a relationship with the dead is not such a strange one in Japan. The line between our world and their world is thin. Lots of families keep a Buddhist altar for their dead relatives in the living room. My uncle has one for our family. There are photos on a little platform, and every day he leaves fresh fruit and rice for them, lights incense, and rings a bell. It's a way to stay in touch, to let them know that there's still a big part of our family.

So after the tsunami and earthquake happened, word got out about Itaru's special Wind Telephone, that he was using it as another way to stay connected to the dead. Soon, people started showing up randomly on his property and walking right into the phone booth. This has been going on for five years now. Itaru estimates that thousands of people from all over Japan have come to use his phone. A TV station asked Itaru and the people who come to use his phone if they could videotape their calls from a distance and put an audio recorder in the phone booth. They wanted to get a sense of how people are still grieving.

I watched their documentary after the fifth anniversary of the tsunami back in March. That whole week, all the news programs in Japan were airing memorial programs. But I found the calls in this particular program remarkable and moving for just how simple they were. One woman from Otsuchi, named Sachiko Okawa, showed up one afternoon. She's 71 years old, and lost her husband in the tsunami. She regularly brings her two young grandsons to the phone booth, and you can tell by how casually they talked to him on the phone. They squish into the phone booth with their grandma, wearing matching blue and black striped shirts. Sachiko starts the call by picking up the receiver and saying hello.

Miki Meek

Her oldest grandson quickly jumps in.

Miki Meek

Hi, Grandpa.

Miki Meek

How are you?

Miki Meek

I'll be in fourth grade next semester. Wasn't that fast?

Miki Meek

Daina, my younger brother, he'll be in second grade next year. Then Sachiko corrects him. She says, no, Daina will be in second grade this year, not next.

Miki Meek

Yeah, yeah, this year. A lot of calls were just like this, straightforward updates about life, the kind of quick highlights reel you might give to any family member you were catching up with on the phone. The boy, he then tells his grandpa--

Miki Meek

Grandma is fine, too.

Miki Meek

I'm giving the phone to Daina now. Daina, his little brother, grabs the phone.

Miki Meek

Grandpa, I finished all my homework. Sachiko urges him to keep talking.

Miki Meek

He says, everyone is doing fine. Then he hangs up. They all say goodbye.

[INTERPOSING VOICES]

Miki Meek

As they're walking out of the booth, Daina says--

Miki Meek

Maybe Grandpa will say he heard us.

In another call, a woman in a puffy winter jacket with a fur-lined hood shows up at the booth by herself. Her name is Kikue Hirano, and she's 66. She used to live in Otsuchi, but she moved away after she lost her house and her husband in the tsunami. Her husband was a deep sea fisherman. His name was Miyoji and they used to talk and drink sake together at night. Now, Kikue lives alone, about 50 miles away. But sometimes Kikue finds herself driving back to Otsuchi, and to this booth. I watched her do this thing that a lot of callers seemed to do. You hear Kikue actually dialing the rotary phone, saying some numbers to herself.

Miki Meek

4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 4. She's dialing the phone number for her old house in Otsuchi, the last place she knew to reach her husband. Then Kikue just stands in the booth in silence, holding the phone to her ear.

Sometimes she fidgets around, and tilts her head up and concentrates on the ceiling, the same way I do when I want to cry but I'm trying hard not to. It doesn't work. Kikue brushes some tears off her face. Eventually, she hangs up. She lingers in the booth a little longer, hands clasped together in front of her, staring at the phone booth floor. She walks out.

One pattern that the owner of the phone booth, Itaru, has noticed over the years is that more men than women come to use it. Not surprisingly, this is not a demographic that's known for sharing their feelings, especially the older farmers. They already have a reputation for not talking much. In one of the phone calls recorded in winter, a man with gray hair and a little towel hanging around his neck walks into the garden. This kind of towel is part of the uniform of Japanese farmers. They use them to wipe away sweat and clean their hands. This man opens the telephone booth door, and under his breath, you hear him say--

Miki Meek

Huh, so this is the Wind Telephone. This appears to be his very first visit to the phone booth. He lost his oldest son in the tsunami. His son's name was Nobuyuki. He also lost his house and had to move into temporary housing with his wife. And recently, she got sick and also passed away. He calls her okaasan. It means mom in Japanese. It's what everyone in the family calls a female head of the house, even the husband. It's a very intimate, loving term.

[ROTARY DIALING]

Miki Meek

Hello?

Miki Meek

Nobuyuki.

Miki Meek

Is Mom with you?

Miki Meek

Sorry to ask this, but take care of her, and your grandma and grandpa, too.

Miki Meek

Mom?

Miki Meek

I'll come again, OK?

Miki Meek

Mom--

Miki Meek

--I'll be back.

Miki Meek

Bye.

He uses the towel around his neck to wipe his eyes.

One of the things that makes these calls so poignant to me is all the understated ways that people are actually saying I love you and I miss you. I'd never say something so direct like that in Japanese. It's just not done. I've only seen people say it in the soap operas. [JAPANESE]. Even saying that right now feels weird. I've never said that to my mom or my grandparents.

[CREAKING]

Take this call. It's winter. The phone booth is surrounded by snow.

[ROTARY DIALING]

Miki Meek

Hello?

Miki Meek

Mom?

Miki Meek

Where are you? He's an older man wearing a baseball cap. He also calls his wife Mom. His wife, daughter and mother, they all went missing in the tsunami.

Miki Meek

It's so cold, but you're not getting cold, are you?

Miki Meek

Are grandma and our daughter Miyuki with you, too?

Miki Meek

Come back soon.

Miki Meek

Be found soon. Everyone is waiting for you.

Miki Meek

OK?

Miki Meek

Be found soon. Hurry home, OK?

Miki Meek

I'll build a house in the same place.

Miki Meek

Eat something, anything.

Miki Meek

Just be alive. Somewhere, anywhere.

Miki Meek

I'm so lonely.

He never says I love you directly. Real feelings are communicated through small gestures, especially ones of concern, like when he asks his wife, are you staying warm? Are you eating? And then promising, I'll build a house for us. These are total heartfelt declarations of love.

For other men, the phone booth is a place where they can finally say their complicated feelings out loud. They can voice their regrets. Anyone who's had someone close to them die knows this feeling. Like, I've kept having the same one-way conversation with my dad in my head ever since he passed away last year. I just keep telling him all the situations where I wish I had been kinder, more patient. One call I watched was from a young father with rectangle glasses and a long black jacket. He lost his family, both parents, his wife-- her name was Mine-- and a one-year-old son named Issei.

[ROTARY DIALING]

Miki Meek

Dad?

Miki Meek

Mom?

Miki Meek

Mine.

Miki Meek

Issei.

Miki Meek

It's already been five years since the disaster.

Miki Meek

If this voice reaches you, please listen.

Miki Meek

Sometimes I don't know what I'm living for.

Miki Meek

Issei, please let me hear you call me Papa.

Miki Meek

Even though I built a new house--

Miki Meek

--Dad, Mom--

Miki Meek

--Mine and Issei--

Miki Meek

--without all of you, it's meaningless.

Miki Meek

I want to hear your reply, but I can't hear anything.

He hangs up the phone, takes off his glasses, and covers his eyes with his hands.

Miki Meek

I'm sorry.

Miki Meek

I'm so sorry I couldn't save you.

[CREAKING]

[DOOR SHUTTING]

There's a couple of phrases I heard callers tell the dead again and again-- [JAPANESE], don't worry about us, and [JAPANESE], which basically means I'm doing my very best. I'm enduring. In Japan, [JAPANESE] is a catch-all slogan for slogging through life's many challenges, no matter how tiny or big. From trying to pass a test at school to grieving, you hear it all the time, for everything. In the phone booth, [JAPANESE] and [JAPANESE], these are key phrases to reassure the dead that the living, the people left behind, they're doing OK, even if they're not.

People don't want to worry or burden their loved ones, even dead loved ones, because most Japanese are Buddhist, and generally believe that, when someone dies, they're not suddenly relieved of all their earthly concerns. They're not automatically in heaven, happy and carefree. Many people believe that, if the dead see a family member suffering, they can't let go of their earthly life. They hesitate to cross to the other side, and end up stuck in a no man's land.

I heard these reassurances in a call from a 15-year-old kid named Ren Kozaki to his dad. He arrived at the phone booth after spending four hours on public transportation by himself. Ren lives in a city much farther north that wasn't affected as much by the tsunami, but his dad was a truck driver who drove all over Japan, and in a last-minute schedule change, he got sent on a route that took him along the coast when the tsunami hit. He's been missing ever since. Ren went into the phone booth wearing a red backpack. And what he does in his call, you hear him signaling to his dad that it's OK, he should keep moving on into the afterworld.

Miki Meek

Dad?

Miki Meek

The four of us are doing fine.

Miki Meek

We're [JAPANESE].

Miki Meek

You don't need to worry about us. [JAPANESE].

Miki Meek

Dad, are you doing OK?

Miki Meek

I do have one question I want to ask you.

Miki Meek

Why did you die?

Miki Meek

Why did it have to be you, Dad?

Miki Meek

Why just me?

Miki Meek

I've always wondered--

Miki Meek

--why am I the only one who is--

Miki Meek

--different from everyone else. Anyways--

Miki Meek

--please be found quickly.

Miki Meek

Where are you now?

Miki Meek

They never found anything of you.

Miki Meek

I wanted to talk with you again.

Miki Meek

Ren left the booth. In late February, he came back with his entire family-- his mom, younger brother, and sister. They all drove down to Otsuchi together. And when they got to the phone booth, at first they kind of awkwardly hung out in front of it. So to break the ice, Ren walks in and places the first call to their dad. He tells him--

Miki Meek

--I brought everyone with me today.

Miki Meek

Bye.

When Ren walks out, his family laughs. They say--

Miki Meek

That was so fast. Ren shoots back--

Miki Meek

--it was just a quick report to dad that I brought everyone with me today. Next up are Ren's little brother and sister, who are 12 and 14 years old. They go into the booth together, and the sister is talking and laughing nervously.

Miki Meek

What am I supposed to say? What should I tell them?

Miki Meek

Wait, wait, wait. Don't leave me alone in here. The sister picks up the phone. And let me just say, the mom told the film crew that this is a girl who has not said a single word about her dad to anyone since he went missing five years ago. So she picks up the phone and starts to cry.

Miki Meek

She asks her brother again, what should I talk to him about? Her little brother's name is Riku, and he tells her--

Miki Meek

Say what you wanted to tell him.

Miki Meek

She says, are you trying to make me laugh, Riku? Riku says--

Miki Meek

--no, I'm not. Then she finally starts talking to her dad. The conversation is all over the place. And she's crying so hard she can barely talk.

Miki Meek

Dad, I'm so sorry I always used to say you were stinky. What happened to your promise to buy me a violin? Now I'll have to buy one myself.

Her little brother who sticks close to her, he encourages her to keep going. He says, what else? So she tells her dad--

Miki Meek

I started tennis in junior high school. I'm not in the top eight. I want to be in the top eight in our last tournament. Please cheer for me.

I got hooked on this boy band, The Johnnys, when I was in my first year of junior high. I'm still hooked. They both say--

Miki Meek

--goodbye. They come out of the booth together. Now it's their mom's turn. Her kids tell her itterasshai.

Miki Meek

Have a good trip. Good luck. Ren, the oldest, he bows and waves to her. She walks in, picks up the phone, and lets out a big sigh.

Miki Meek

Where should I start?

Miki Meek

I feel like you're still alive somewhere. We had so many things we wanted to do together.

Miki Meek

Over the phone we always said to each other, are you alive? Yes, I'm alive. It was our password between the two of us, wasn't it? I can't ask you that anymore.

Miki Meek

Come back. We, all four of us together, we will be waiting. Bye.

[PHONE HANGING UP]

After she comes out, the family lingers outside the phone booth for a while.

[SPEAKING JAPANESE]

This was literally the first time they'd all talked about their dad together since the tsunami happened five years ago. The youngest, Riku, he sat quietly on a bench with his head in his hands. The night before his dad disappeared, they went to a public bath together. His mom and older siblings tell him--

Miki Meek

--Riku, you don't need to keep your feelings in. Go ahead and cry when you want to. Ren, the oldest, gently teases him. He says--

Miki Meek

--see, he can't stop crying. Mom says yeah, but he held back until now. It's OK because you held back. You endured until now.

The sister then hands Riku her handkerchief. The mom says to her kids, we were all about to fall apart. We were so broken. We didn't think we could make it through. And maybe that's why we never talked about Dad until now. But talking to him on the phone today, it changed something.

Ira Glass

Miki Meek is one of the producers of our program. Thanks to Tomohiko Yokoyama and NHK Sendai, who recorded all this and shared it with us. Today's show is mostly a rerun. We checked this week, and the wind phone is still in operation, though not many visitors right now because of COVID. The Japanese government is asking people to stay home.

Coming up, two brothers in their 80s have a last chance to talk to each other before they die, and neither wants to take it. That's in a minute from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues.

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Today's program, One Last Thing Before I Go, stories that are about-- well, they're about what power do words have in the face of death?

Ira Glass

We've arrived at Act Two of our program-- Act Two, Uncle's Keeper.

So in the first act of our program, people kind of defy death by making small talk and some talk that was not so small with their dead relatives. In this act, somebody wants to do something very similar, make a connection that seemed impossible between people. Except in this story, all the relatives are alive, which you'd think would make it super easy. The story comes from Jonathan Goldstein.

Jonathan Goldstein

This is my father, Buzz. I'm calling him at his home in Montreal. And the reason we're talking crazy talk is because it's Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, which seems as good a day as any to talk with him about forgiveness.

Jonathan Goldstein

My father, Buzz, is 80, and his brother, Sheldon, his only sibling, is 85. And for the past 40 years, they've pretty much been on the outs. My father lives in Montreal, and Sheldon lives in Florida. And the last time they saw each other, over 20 years ago, was at their mother's funeral when they had a fight over the details of the arrangement. Since then, they've hardly spoken.

It worries me because there's not a lot of time left, and I don't want my father to have regrets. And my father has a profound capacity for regret. My mother gave up trying to reunite them years ago after many attempts. So I know that if I don't push him, no one else will.

Jonathan Goldstein

This kind of tit for tat accounting is what always gets in the way.

Jonathan Goldstein

The most complicated question, the one I keep coming back to, is how did the bad blood begin? And there are many versions-- an ill-fated trip to Montreal where Sheldon felt slighted about having to stay in my father's basement, an ill-fated trip to New York where my father felt slighted about having to stay in Sheldon's attic, rude words spoken to each other's wives. In one version of the story, Sheldon's refusal to bring a table to my bris almost resulted in my being circumcised on an ironing board. But in the version being told today, my father was asked by Sheldon to pay more than his fair share for their mother's funeral.

Jonathan Goldstein

OK, quick sidebar-- anytime I've ever raised the prospect of visiting Sheldon, no matter how hypothetical the scenario, my father always makes a point of insisting how no matter what he would not stay in Sheldon's house, even if he was invited to, which, I should point out, he never is.

Jonathan Goldstein

Sheldon now lives outside of Fort Lauderdale, but my few memories of him are from when he lived in upstate New York. I remember he lived in a trailer. I remember that he worked at a local prison, that he smoked cigars, that he looked a little like my father, but was hunched like the world was weighing down on him. And he always wore this expression on his face that seemed to say, you got to be kidding me.

Jonathan Goldstein

Tit, meet tat.

Jonathan Goldstein

My dad and I meet up at the Fort Lauderdale Airport. I flew from New York and my dad from Montreal. My father's all dressed up, wearing a faux suede sports jacket that I've never seen him in. We grab our airport rental and prepare for the two-hour drive to Sheldon. In the 90-degree heat, it's immediately made clear that faux suede might not have been the best fashion choice.

Jonathan Goldstein

On the road to Sheldon's, my father will experience a spectrum of feelings. As we first set out, there's excitement.

Jonathan Goldstein

A half an hour in and there's bitterness.

Jonathan Goldstein

An hour in and how is Buzz feeling?

A half an hour to Sheldon's.

10 minutes to Sheldon's and Buzz is feeling--

Sheldon lives in the corner house on a quiet, suburban street.

Jonathan Goldstein

After all the years, and the worry, and the dread, things seem to be going swimmingly. We sit down at Sheldon's kitchen table, and my father gets right into it.

Jonathan Goldstein

The dead are a good place to begin. As a subject, they're easily agreed upon and not likely to spark a fight.

Even though they're in their 80s, Sheldon and Buzz still possess voices and temperaments suited to shouting out Brooklyn tenement windows, while my voice--

--is best suited to asking a waitress if there will be a sharing charge.

Case in point, this is Sheldon accidentally swiping a portable microphone receiver off the kitchen table and me trying to smooth things over.

Jonathan Goldstein

Over the next two days, my testes will flee like frightened cockroaches upward, ascending to heights not seen since the bar mitzvah that Sheldon was not attending. While it's fun watching them reminisce, I'd say that about 80% of my Uncle Sheldon's stories about the good old days are filthy enough to make them virtually unbroadcastable. But here's one specially selected and beeped for your delicate ears.

Jonathan Goldstein

Over the years, I've seen my father in the role of husband, uncle, and grandfather, but I've never really seen him in the role of younger brother. How odd to see it now at 80. He sits beside Sheldon with this expression I've never seen on his face. It's wide-eyed, sweet, and deferential. But as the day wears on, Sheldon and Buzz begin to squabble over their memories, fighting over every little detail.

Jonathan Goldstein

They even argue over the death of their grandmother.

Jonathan Goldstein

The whole afternoon is like this. Every subject, even their dead grandmother, somehow becomes fodder for another pissing match. They're burning up all this time with small talk when what they need is some big talk. In particular, they need to address a story that I know holds a great deal of meaning for my father. It took place in 1939 on the day their mother left them. I've only ever heard the story from my father, never from Sheldon.

Jonathan Goldstein

What happened after this, in my father's telling, is that his mother returned soon after she left with a policeman in tow.

Jonathan Goldstein

This is the point of the story for my father. It proves once and for all how his mother loved Sheldon more than she loved him. Sheldon didn't move out with her. And after a year, their mother returned. And together Buzz and Sheldon grew up under the same roof, in the same bedroom, often sleeping under the same blanket, each knowing who the mother had chosen, and each having to do their best to carry on and live life with the burden of that knowledge.

A couple times during the day, I asked them why they haven't spoken in so long. And they both insist, maybe out of embarrassment, that they do talk, just not often. But it isn't true.

In fact, my father learned of Sheldon's wife's death many years after the fact and then only from me. Sheldon's daughter got in touch through Facebook, and we made a phone date where she caught me up on her life and Sheldon's. And a few nights later while over at my parents' for dinner, I told my father of his sister-in-law's death. There was a terrible look that fell across his face, one of sadness, but something else too, maybe shock over just how far he and Sheldon had drifted.

Jonathan Goldstein

For dinner, Sheldon takes us to a local Outback Steakhouse. As people walk by, he provides a running commentary of an elderly couple--

Jonathan Goldstein

--of an overweight couple.

Jonathan Goldstein

It's as though he's sharpening his wit, readying it for the main event, teasing my dad about Canada.

Jonathan Goldstein

For my father, I know this is a touchy subject, believing, as he always has, that Sheldon looks down on him for the dinkiness of his Canadian life and home. It's like a constant reminder of just who is second best. Later, my father will repeat Sheldon's words. You're still living in that same place, he'll say, for how many years? But just then, I watched my father clench and unclench his jaw, as he does when he is brooding. I know he's trying to take the high road, trying not to ruin the evening.

Jonathan Goldstein

Sheldon invites us back to his place for cookies, but my father says he isn't up for it.

Jonathan Goldstein

As we walk through the restaurant parking lot to the car, my father is silent. I find myself feeling protective of him, like maybe encouraging this trip had been a bad idea, only making things worse. After midnight, lying awake in our hotel-- my father insisted we stay at one-- I lay in bed thinking about that day in 1939 when my grandmother came back for Sheldon, not my father. For my father, not only did it push him away from Sheldon, making him feel jealous and resentful, but it also cast a shadow over the rest of his life, causing him to always feel passed over. He's mellowed with age, but as a kid I saw it come out in all kinds of ways-- always sensitive to slights, ready for a fight at the smallest perceived offense.

I wonder if there's a different way for my father to see things. If there is, the only living person in this world who can help is Sheldon. When their mom left, Sheldon was nine, my father five. Sheldon would have understood a lot more than my father.

Yesterday, Buzz and Sheldon talked like a couple of kids who used to play stickball in the old neighborhood. Today, if me and my big fat meddling yap have any sway, they'll have a chance to talk as men, as brothers even. Because if not now, when? Day two.

Jonathan Goldstein

Despite the difficulties of last night, the coin is flipped back to the good side. Sheldon offers my father a cigar and with the cigar some cigar talk, some pretty foul cigar talk.

Eager to prove to my Uncle Sheldon that in spite of the fact I'm wearing my wife's travel deodorant, I am indeed not a broad. I allow them to return to more pressing matters, their prostates.

It feels like I'm getting a taste of what growing up with Sheldon might have been like. So again, I make my move.

At this point, Sheldon's face suddenly softens.

Jonathan Goldstein

In Buzz's telling, their father was always a more or less benign, childish figure incapable of expressing his feelings and so given to temper tantrums. For Buzz, it was their mother who was the manipulator, the woman who played the brothers off each other. But hearing Sheldon's take, it sounds like maybe their mother didn't come to take Sheldon because she loved him best, but simply because he needed more protecting from their father.

For the first time during our trip, I can see my father considering Sheldon's point of view, actually taking it in. I know it's intense for him because he can't even meet Sheldon's eyes. Instead, he looks at me, addresses his comments to me.

Jonathan Goldstein

The last time my father saw my grandfather in full health, my dad was visiting from Canada. My grandfather asked my father to drive him to the cemetery to visit his parents' grave. And once there, my grandfather wept inconsolably. Later that day, he would succumb to a stroke and shortly after be moved to a nursing home. With Sheldon being more local, the burden of my grandfather's care fell mainly to Sheldon. It seems like a lot of the family's burdens fell to Sheldon.

Jonathan Goldstein

As my father speaks, as per his brother's example, dropping F bombs like he's in a Guy Ritchie film, Sheldon keeps his arms crossed and his eyes shut tight. He's quiet for several seconds, and then he reaches out to pet his cat.

Jonathan Goldstein

When it's time to leave, Sheldon walks us outside. But before we get into the rental, he points across the lawn to his neighbor's house. He tells my father that it's for sale, and then he tells him the asking price. And my father says that doesn't sound bad at all. And Sheldon says that, what, with Canada being so bloody cold, my father should consider moving to Florida. And my father says maybe he will.

Jonathan Goldstein

They don't get too emotional. They don't even hug goodbye. They just shake hands. And with that, it feels like Buzz has forgiven Sheldon and Sheldon has forgiven Buzz.

Ira Glass

Jonathan Goldstein. This story was produced by Wendy Dorr with some help from Chris Neary for Jonathan's podcast, Heavyweight. If you have never heard Heavyweight and don't know where to get started, I have to say, it is such an utterly original program. And Jonathan has put together a playlist of his favorite episodes. Just search Heavyweight Starter Kit on Spotify. Jonathan, by the way, says his dad and Sheldon are doing fine under lockdown. Sheldon says that he's happy with the peace and quiet.

[MUSIC - THE BAMBOOS, "BEFORE I GO"]

(SINGING) I still wonder how we got to this, how we pretend not to notice.

Ira Glass

When today's program was first broadcast four years ago, produced by Robyn Semien. Our staff for this episode-- Elna Baker, Susan Burton, Zoe Chace, Dan Chivvis, Sean Cole, Neil Drumming, Karen Duffin, Emmanuel Dzotsi, Stephanie Foo, Chana Joffe Walt, David Kestenbaum, Miki Meek, Jonathan Menjivar, Christopher Swetala, Matt Tierney, and Nancy Updike. Production help for this rerun from Noor Gill, Katherine Rae Mondo, and Stowe Nelson. Our translator for the wind phone was Kiku Matsuo. Special thanks today to Emily Engle-Young, Brittany [INAUDIBLE], Dragana Novakovic, Helen Garey, Yuki Zaizen, Noriko Meek, Karin Jeffrey, John Matthews, Christine Fellows, Haley Shaw, and Lawrence Tassone.

Our website, thisamericanlife.org, where during lockdown or during your commute to your essential job you can listen to 700 episodes of our show for absolutely free. This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. Thanks, as always, to our program's co-founder, Mr. Torey Malatia. Presidential debates are coming up later this year. He tells everybody he knows why I'm never chosen to ask questions at the presidential debates.

Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass, back next week with more stories of This American Life.

[MUSIC - THE BAMBOOS, "BEFORE I GO"]

(SINGING) Before I go, before I go, before I go. Before I go, before I go, before I go.