Like most of you, I entered 2021 with an optimistic outlook, seeking a respite from the garbage that 2020 hurled relentlessly. The hope was that the New Year wouldn’t be a clone of its predecessor, even though I should’ve known better. After all, momentum doesn’t shift with the Gregorian calendar, as if on cue.
It only took six days for that to become apparent. I watched the events in Washington, D.C., for about 45 minutes before turning off the television. It was ridiculous, unnecessary, unproductive and a number of other un-s that you can conjure up. I’d add unbelievable as well, with a choice NSFW word tacked in the middle of un and believable.
January was just getting started, especially within the comfy confines of my own world. Within the month, my brother would be dead of a heart attack at age 59.
Mark Cagle and I shared the same parents, but little else outside of our childhood love of G.I. Joe action figures and accessories. He was a hardscrabble man by the age of 12 and once threatened to knock his seventh-grade science teacher’s head through the (NSFW) wall. Mark had the distinction of losing his driver’s license before he actually had his license, the penalty for driving a dirt bike on a local street. He made the same threat to the local police that he had offered his teacher. It was the 1970s, though, a time when “boys will be boys” still ruled, and the threat was ignored. But it delayed his ability to get licensed for six months. Mark, of course, ignored it and kept riding the bike. Fortunately for him, the police looked the other way.
Mark smoked Kools starting around the age of 11 or 12, a habit he wouldn’t kick until reaching his 50s when his doctor warned it could significantly shorten his life. He’d send me to the local store with a dollar to buy the smokes, and I would usually get to keep the change. That helped fund my own habit: baseball cards. One day, I came home from school to find five packs of 1978 Topps waiting for me on the kitchen table, courtesy of Mark. I can still see those packs and remember the excitement of opening them that awaited me.
Fighting Spirit
He would’ve made for an interesting psychological study. Never have I encountered a person who was so quick to anger. Mark’s childhood and early 20s were pockmarked by fistfights—school battles and barroom brawls. An intensity brewed within him just under the surface. He could “get the drop” on anyone and be ready to tangle at a moment’s notice.
Mark had the distinction of getting into a fight at a wedding. A fracas had ensued that involved one of my other brothers, and Mark dove into the fray. Literally…he dove into a pile of people and started throwing punches. Everyone feared him, myself included, and he angered many. One man came after him at a local bar with a shotgun; apparently, this irate fellow accused Mark of spending time with his wife. Fortunately, none of the shots landed.
And while I feared my brother, I couldn’t have asked for a better champion. When a local bully had me (circa age 11) pinned against a wall, Mark sprang to the rescue, running out the back door of our house before corralling the goon by the scruff of his shift. Mark was on crutches at the time after having broken his leg in a dirt bike mishap, making the effort more impressive.
Attending school was not his priority, and he actually needed an extra year to finish. However, for those things that mattered most in his life, including automobiles, he was a veritable genius and eventually owned a garage. And I’d never known someone who was so mechanically inclined. Mark put a roof on my first house, despite having never done a roofing job before. Nearly 20 years later, I drove by the old homestead, and the roof still looks completely flawless.
He worked insanely long hours throughout life. At the time of his passing, Mark had cultivated a nice lifestyle business as a commercial landscaper. He wouldn’t dare call himself an artist, but he managed to create beautiful drawings of cars and people. Between that and his beautifully-manicured landscaping efforts, Mark’s artistic flair was undeniable.
Laughing at Death
It could be said that Mark didn’t fear life or death; while his famous temper eventually waned, he still attacked every day the only way he knew how, with a steely intensity. While clearing snow from a commercial business one winter’s night 10 years ago—a common offseason vocation for landscapers—his snowplow was struck by a train. The force of the collision threw him from the cab, leaving his vehicle a tangled, mangled mess. Mark lost 50% use of his one arm, but incredibly, his life was spared only because he neglected to wear a seat belt. Yes, he survived because he didn’t follow that one safety precaution we all take for granted.
To commemorate the event, Mark got a chest tattoo of a train, surrounded by clouds, with the Grim Reaper peering over the clouds, clutching his scythe. Every Christmas, he would retell the story to my children during our annual family gathering. They never tired of hearing it, only because he had a charismatic and loud style that was singularly unique.
Mark’s wife of 30 years probably merits sainthood; I’ll never know how she stuck with him, as it could not have been easy. They had two children: a son followed in his footsteps and became a mechanic while their daughter became a psychologist and works with mentally challenged adults. We often joked that he was her inspiration, but it didn’t faze Mark. He was comfortable in his own skin, warts and all.
Mark is my second brother to pass in his 50s, joining our older brother, Mike. My mother died at age 64 and my father at 57. All four succumbed to heart ailments. I am 54, and while I have not experienced the same physical challenges they endured, it’s tough to not think of myself as on the clock. Still, coming to grips with my own mortality is not the takeaway here.
His story is not one to be romanticized. Mark had many flaws and demons. He made many questionable choices, some extremely regrettable. And he caused headaches and heartache for those in his life. But while it sometimes seemed he didn’t learn from his mistakes, he didn’t dwell on them, either. Whether he was bouncing off trains, punches or the pavement, Mark picked himself back up and kept rolling, hard and fast. Mark never said that he loved life, but he did live it to the fullest. And he certainly wouldn’t get all bent out of shape because a bunch of people stormed the U.S. Capitol…he’d shrug and say, “People do dumb sh*t…can’t worry about it.”
Maybe that’s the side of him to be considered heroic and worthy of emulating. Mark lived life on his own terms and only concerned himself with the things that were in his control, even when they became out of control. And when Mark’s heart finally caused him to do a clutch and fall, one from which he finally could not bounce back, I’m sure the Angel of Death looked upon his tattoo and uttered, “Sweet ink, brother.”
Wishing you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving!
