It’s been two years since my brother Doug died.

As a writer, I usually pour emotions into words to help process my grief. Although I wrote a prose poem to share at his celebration of life gathering, the rest of the story has gone unwritten. It’s been too hard, too raw. For some reason, he’d been on my mind the last few days. Then I remembered, of course—it’s the anniversary of his death. My spirit knew before my mind.

Doug was killed when his ancient tractor flipped over as he attempted to pull a two-ton boulder out of a creek on his property in Lawrence, Kansas. We believe his death was immediate. He was 61.

You never expect your youngest sibling to die first.

He worked alone that morning. No one knew he was attempting to dislodge the boulder, and the reason remains a mystery. I just know he had plans for that rock, a flat surface with a hole all the way through. A table? A piece of art set up on his land? Who could know the mind of this creative genius? One neighbor who loaned Doug the chain he attached to the rock cried out in pain after hearing the news, “Why didn’t he call me for help?” Their neighborhood was close-knit, with each member always there for the other.

Doug was the youngest of four siblings in the DuBois clan. Dalene was the oldest sister; Marjean, the second-born daughter; Dwight, the first son; and Doug, the baby of the family. As adults, we weren’t the kind of family who talked often, but we were connected by an invisible bond. In the last few years, we four siblings walked through the death of both parents—together. We were a formidable team, hard-working, talented and accomplished. If one didn’t know how to accomplish a task, another one did.

Ten months earlier, our mother died during the beginning of the pandemic. She was one of the first in her nursing home to do so. And, as Doug lived closest to the cemetery and Covid-19 restrictions were rigid at that time, he was the only one able to go to her sparsely attended graveside service. A touch of irony, this. To some degree Doug had felt different from us and said once that we didn’t share anything in common. (We, however, never felt that way about him.) In a way, the community had become his family. It appeared he didn’t mention us to his friends; they were surprised to learn Doug had a sister, much less two sisters, a brother and two parents. Because of his absence in most of our gatherings for decades, we three older siblings seemed to represent the family.

And now, he was the one representing all of us at Mom’s burial.

He played the autoharp upright, with fingerpicks on his right hand and his dog, Wyatt, by his feet. My siblings and I watched the service on our computers in quiet grief, secluded in our homes across several states.[Grief, Interrupted by COVID-19]

In the last few years, Doug had received help in processing and working through painful emotions from the past. We were beginning to reconnect in meaningful ways, and I especially was grateful for this relationship renewal. He held a special place in my heart as I was a second mommy during his childhood.

Right before his death, Doug was helping me tweak and perfect a photo of a grandchild to frame. My brother Dwight had scheduled a date for Doug to help install cabinets he’d custom made for Dalene’s home office. And through the decades, it was my sister Dalene who kept in touch with Doug the most and drew him into family activities.

It was she who found him that terrible morning.

Dalene and her friend Sandy traveled from Kansas City to Lawrence to see Doug’s new solar-powered camper that he’d built on the chassis of an old trailer. A gray teardrop mini camper, it was constructed with ingenuity in every detail: A bed, big enough for two and his dog. Shelving in every possible nook and cranny. Runner lighting illuminating the ceiling, which opened for air and a skylight. A solar panel that only he could decipher. A canopy that attached to the frame to create an open-air porch. He researched and designed every aspect of this incredible project.

The camper was set up on his five-acre property next to the barn where he lived. That morning, he recreated the scene so they could see how it functioned on a campsite. But he was nowhere to be found. Dalene assumed he’d gone to help a neighbor. His cell phone was plugged into an outlet in the camper, but she didn’t think it odd he hadn’t taken it with him. She and her friend decided to go to lunch. When they returned an hour later, there was still no sign of Doug.

Worried now that Doug was more than three hours late for their appointment, Dalene and Sandy began an anxious search of the property.

They found Doug under his overturned tractor with his glasses intact and his hat still on.

Even after experiencing the hours of stress and trauma, Dalene felt it was a positive thing that she found him so quickly; if she hadn’t, he could have lain there alone much longer. Discovering him and getting help was the last thing she could do for him.

Shock waves reverberated through our family and the community. Besides being a beloved brother and uncle, he was a much-loved figure in the Lawrence area for more than 40 years. The neighbors had watched him construct his red pole barn almost single-handedly. Recently, Beautiful Music Shop employed him to expertly repair instruments and to facilitate a weekly Friday night jam session. He began and curated a permaculture group, bringing in speakers and hosting meetings at his barn before enjoying an evening of music, dance and food. A self-taught musician and a songwriter, Doug played seven instruments with the fiddle being his specialty. He had been a part of, and had begun, several bands through the years. He even designed and built instruments in his workshop that took up the first floor of the barn. Though he chose not to attend college, he was a true Renaissance man. His brilliance shone through everything he touched.

At the time of his death, Doug was unmarried with no children, so we three siblings began the arduous task of deconstructing his life and everything he had built through the years.

American Pickers would’ve had a heyday in the barn and on his property. Layers upon layers of artifacts, artwork, collections and curiosities lay under a thick blanket of dust from years of woodworking and creativity. Every time we walked in, we noticed something new. We each discovered treasures to take home or give to family members. I chose a beautiful gold-etched black autoharp hanging on his wall, a fiddle he made from a wooden cigar box and a replica of an 1858 Remington revolver created entirely from ebony, satinwood and walnut. Dwight chose the tool chest with screwdrivers, hole saws and paint brushes. His son David was grateful to inherit an expensive band saw, and daughter Anna rejoiced in owning and playing the electric fiddle. My son Jonathan, who favored Doug in uncanny ways, received his best guitar and the honor of owning the camper. (Sadly, Doug only got to use it on one trip.) Dalene was thrilled to uncover an original oil painting on glass by our artist and cousin, Lisa Lala.

As an artisan and woodworker, Doug built and piloted a replica of an early Piper Cub airplane. On viewing the wings of the ultralight, a friend said his seams and perfect angles would’ve made any craftsman jealous; he hated for Doug to cover the work of art with canvas. Because of this, I rescued a miniature hand-carved airplane hanging from a beam covered in wood shavings and gave it to my youngest grandsons as a legacy. Busts of nude body plaster art he created from live models were tucked in corners. His musical instruments overflowed on two tables; the latest hand-built washtub bass leaned nearby. His collection of t-shirts from former concerts hung on a wire along with his volunteer fire-fighting jackets and gear.

We offered the collection of instruments to his friends and band members. Neighbors gladly received yard machinery, a bicycle, a chest freezer and tools; they also picked favorite shirts to remember him by. One young woman, whom he often took paddling, asked if she could have the canoe that had been in our family for 60 years. She said it would remind her of him every time she used it. His beloved canine companion, Wyatt, lives with his close friend, Caroline.

It took us months of hard work; brother and sisters and mates, along with nieces and nephews and neighbors pitching in, working in tangent to honor his life and give away his possessions. His closest friend, Jule, did more than we could possibly list to help organize and clean out the barn and property. Doug called him “my brother from another mother,” and we couldn’t have asked for a more disciplined worker or caring, honorary brother.

Before it was sold, it was time to bring the barn to life once more by hosting a Celebration of Life on a June evening, reminiscent of the hoedowns Doug hosted each year. Four months after his death, fourteen musicians and groups came from across the country to play once again under the covered porch while friends danced on the deck. We set up a memorabilia table in the barn, replete with photos, buttons from concerts and a collection of his driver’s licenses through the decades, encouraging others to take whatever they wanted. Our family provided a BBQ dinner while attendees brought side dishes, many made from homegrown ingredients. His boss and friend, JJ, made a Rolodex of Doug’s chord progressions of old-time fiddle tunes for the musicians. He also designed commemorative t-shirts, screen-pressed with Doug’s latest photo. Doug’s beloved band member, Reva, handed them out to all attendees.

It was an old-fashioned hoedown that would’ve humbled Doug and made him extremely proud. During an intermission, each sibling gave a tribute to our brother to those who had gathered 100 strong to show their love. Friends and neighbors took their turns at the mic with stories only they could tell.

At the beginning of the evening, his friends played a recording of Doug in his twenties, singing a song about one’s body being recycled into the earth. His young, clear voice rang out over the countryside and the humorous ditty brought both laughter and tears. In the middle of the late-evening jamming circle, we set up a wooden chair with his fiddle and favorite cap on it. The musicians played well past midnight, fiddling and strumming and tapping out their grief in the darkness as a campfire burned nearby.

As they left, family and friends took turns throwing sunflowers on the place where he died; the boulder forever remaining in the creek.

Earlier that day, the family gathered to bury some of his ashes on his property, near the fateful scene.We spoke parts of the Native American Prayer to the Four Directions that I rewrote for this time. Each sibling, and Jule, placed a small amount of ashes in the north, south, east and west position around his campfire after each prayer was read. As we played a haunting Native American ballad, a single hawk circled the scene in the sunny Kansan sky.

I knew Doug was there in spirit as well.

POST NOTE: The tractor was taken off the property and destroyed.

Doug’s ashes are buried at Vinland Cemetery near his good friend, Jim Brothers. A headstone has been erected since this writing.

WE ARE THRILLED to announce that Doug was recently inducted into the Kansas Music Hall of Fame.

After Doug’s affairs were settled, our family set up the Doug DuBois Harmony Fund to benefit causes close to his heart. So far, grants have been given to the Kansas State Fiddling and Picking Championship, the Lawrence Barn Dance Association, The Heartland Song Network, the Kansas Permaculture Institute and the City of Agra, Kansas, for a community project where our parents grew up.