My Brother / Our Times - in Four Acts
What’s in a name?
Paul: the given name of our mother’s maternal great grandfather, her favorite ancestor.
Ebner: the middle name of our father’s beloved younger brother, their mother’s maiden name.
Gartz: the surname of our paterfamilias ancestors.
PAUL EBNER GARTZ
July 17, 1946 - October 28, 2022
Act 1: Childhood – The 50s and 60s
Paul was conceived within days of our uncle Frank Ebner’s death after the war while serving in the Army Air Corp. The loss caused our grandparents and parents tremendous grief for years, which probably effected Paul as he was a very sensitive being. Paul eventually believed his uncle’s spirit inhabited him. Born in Chicago in 1946, the first year of the Baby Boomers, under the water sign Cancer, Paul was seven years older than I, another water sign – Scorpio. Our deep emotional connection was like a slinky-dog that pulled us together and pushed us apart, over the decades. But because of the age difference, we had very little interaction during this first Act… except normal sibling torture.
In our shared bedroom during the late 50s Paul built plastic model airplanes that I thought could fly – instead they crashed and broke, much to his aggravation. He joined the Boy Scouts where he advanced through six levels and checked off the 21 required merit badges, and then some, to become an Eagle Scout in the early 60s. In high school Paul joined the ROTC, probably influenced by his namesake uncle.
I remember him snapping salutes in his crisp uniform adorned with braids, the web belt assiduously shortened so only the 1/2” brass ferrule was exposed beyond the buckle, the black tie tucked neatly between two buttons, and the melted shoe wax on the toe box polished to a mirror finish. He was also the first of us siblings to attend a prom, graduate from H.S., and go to college.
These accomplishments and his attention to detail would be a hallmark throughout his life; and an influential road map for me. But Paul was also a teenager and could be manic in addition to disciplined. Being much younger, he related to me as only one thing... a punching bag.
Note: Paul is almost the tallest, standing behind me, the smallest. After returning home from some manly marching, he’d approach me and, like a Kung fu movie, thrust a side kick to my chest, and send my little body flying to a heap. The worst was he’d then get me in a scissor-hold between his legs and, while jumping up and down, squeeze until I’d almost puke while crying and laughing.
Act 2: Pulled together – The 70s and 80s
Our relationship, and my life, profoundly changed in 1970 because of Paul. After graduating from the Illinois Institute of Technology as a Double E (Electrical Engineer) the year before, he was feted by corporations and flown around the US for interviews. He accepted an offer from Bell Labs in New Jersey, the era’s premier tech innovation company. They sponsored his master’s degree at Stanford University that fall. Paul’s year in California at the end of the sixties changed him in ways our parents didn’t understand, but I was drawn to. He grew his hair out from ROTC days; wore hiking boots, a bandana, and a floppy leather hat; and told me about adventures in the mountains.
In spring 1970 he suggested I join him after graduation to drive from the Bay area to New Jersey. Being sixteen I really didn’t think much about his new engagement, nor its potential impact.
We drove six weeks and 9000 miles from San Francisco to Canada, down through multiple western National Parks to Mexico, across the South, and up the Appalachians to his new home on the East Coast.
At his encouragement we also visited the University of Washington in Seattle. I fell in love with the Pacific Northwest and decided to finish college here. Between that cross-country drive and my move in 1973 we met for annual adventures. I drove to Colorado for a week-long backpacking trip in the Rockies,
to New Hampshire for a multi-day winter ascent of two peaks in the White Mountains,
and to New York to sail on the Hudson.
He also influenced me with books: “Backpacking One Step at a Time”, the first primer on the emerging sport, “Everest the West Ridge,” the first ascent by Americans in ‘63, and “Dove”, the true story of a teenager my age sailing solo around the world in his eponymous 23’ boat. He sowed the seeds for a love of travel, adventure, and the outdoors that stayed with me forever.
During his years in New Jersey Paul had a successful career at Bell Labs, moved in with a girlfriend, and traveled New England to buy antiques.
However, in 1974 he quit his job for mental health reasons and moved to Southern California for two years. To finance his therapy, he worked hourly as a laborer for construction and moving companies. He visited me twice in Seattle for more adventures before returning to the east coast and his girlfriend.
He said he wasn’t ready yet to get back to the “stifling world of engineering”. So, in 1976 he encouraged his girlfriend to buy dilapidated Victorian house that he wanted to renovate. Paul could be very persuasive. I graduated in pre-architecture that same year and, at his request, moved in with them to work on it. He tried to get me to stay on after three months, but I resisted and return to start my career.
During the next two years he finished the house and broke up with his girlfriend. In fall of 1978 he was financially broke as well. He moved to Seattle so we could be close. For two years we did almost everything together. We went on hiking, climbing, and sailing adventures,
and had long philosophical discussions about art, will vs destiny, spirituality, and other uncertain answers to big questions. Both being unattached, we were best buddies.
In 1980, I was accepted to Grad School in the mid-west. We decided to celebrate our time together with one last adventure - skydiving.
It was scheduled the day before I was to leave. However, after we landed Paul knew he injured his ankle. I drove onto the field and took him to the ER. While we waited for the x-ray result, we decided not to let this “mere flesh wound” interfere with our celebration. I left the hospital, bought a pizza and six pack, and snuck it into the emergency room. With beer cans open and him about to bite into a slice the Dr. came in and barked “take that out of your mouth”, slammed the x-ray onto the light box and said, “you shattered your ankle, and your fibula has a separated spiral fracture; we have to operate tonight”.
Sheepishly, Paul confessed that he’d already had some beer. The Dr. was pissed. They couldn’t give him anesthesia with any alcohol, and in a day the leg would swell too much to close with stiches. Paul had to defer the operation several days for the swelling to subside. I deferred leaving until his bones were plated and screwed together again.
After graduating in 1983 I returned to Seattle with my new love Amy, whom I met through Paul and his dance group before I left.
The last half of the eighties I was focused on remodeling our new house, extended hiking/climbing trips, and my career. Paul was focused on dancing, sailing, and reigniting his engineering career, now at Boeing. Our different priorities and busy lives left little time for joint activities. Our different opinions on politics and economics during the Reagan era also became a strain in our conversations. Although often passionate, the dialogue was never mean or personally insulting. We often had these discussions while soaking in a hot tub. When Amy’s father heard about this he said, “you guys are weird, I’d never take a bath with my brother”.
Act 3: Pushed and Pulled – The 90s and Aughts
After my marriage in 1990, he told me that it had a profound impact on him. A year later he had an instant family with two stepchildren. In a long letter to me before his wedding in 1993 he opined “There is nothing sadder than a Cancerian without a family”. He believed that being married with children “saved his life”. I had heard these fatalistic expressions before. It was a recurring sign of other issues.
In this letter he also wrote that our lack of time together, caused him a lot of pain because he felt rejected by me. I tried to explain it wasn’t rejection but evolving life choices. But Paul was very sensitive and took things personally. I’m not sure he ever accepted my explanation, and I am saddened he believed it.
He and his stepson drove cross-country, perhaps to bond as our trip did. We shared Thanksgivings and Christmases together. He’d go over the top to emulate the holiday spirit our father provided when we were young. He also went into debt to help the kids through challenges from their parent’s divorce.
After a vulnerable conversation we pulled together again in the early aughts. In 2001 he wrote a long letter entitled “Cracking Open the Closet Door” in which he revealed his decades of mental health challenges that caused him internal torment. His metaphor was that he had a “terrorist inside”.
Later he got divorced; a few years after me. Our careers were now in full swing, though on different paths and in different professions. He chose the technical path in engineering, and I management and marketing in commercial architecture. He was involved in the first fully digitally designed airplane, the 767, and the next generation 777 and 787.
Our discussions were now about the similarity of multiple systems integration in aeronautical engineering and architecture, and the differences of manufacturing vs construction. Paul was also elected president of two chapters of IEEE, the world’s largest professional union. He was a frequent speaker on GEOSS and System of Systems engineering at their conferences worldwide.
In 2007 Paul was to be a speaker at a conference in Italy. He wanted me to meet him and travel together. I encouraged we go to our paternal grandparents’ homeland, now in Romania. With the previous generations now dead, I suggested we invite our sister so we would explore our roots together. During the trip Paul increasingly struggled with pain and fatigue. He said he had fasciitis and believed he had gotten Lyme’s disease while hiking in New England in the 70s.
Romania with cousin Maria - 2007
The same year, one of Paul’s dance teachers, Ed Long, passed away. Paul sent the widow, who taught with Ed, condolences, and flowers. They corresponded for several months and then went on a date. Understandably, she needed time to move past her grief. But Paul was a romantic, and persistently wooed her. They eventually married. Yu San is the best thing to happen to Paul. Each of us then in new relationships after our divorce, we continued to share the holidays. He was much better at buying pink and sparkly gifts for my chick house than I was.
Act 4: Pushed Apart, again – The 10s
In 2012 I arranged another gathering for my siblings, this time with our significant others. I borrowed a partner’s waterfront home on San Juan Island. Sadly, instead of a bonding weekend, too much wine, clash of opinions, and history of feeling misunderstood Paul felt very wounded and left early the first morning. Despite reaching out to mitigate the event, Paul was adamant he no longer wanted to engage us.
During our ten years of estrangement, Yu San kept us appraised of their activities and, after a few years, Paul’s increasingly inexplicable behaviors and health issues.
She is remarkable for her compassion, tolerance, and faith. She adapted to Paul’s confused and sometimes demanding requirements, while still seeking his best care. I can’t appreciate and admire her character enough.
Epilogue – Pulled together; the last time
In summer 2022 Yu San advised that Paul needed a hospital bed on their ground floor as he could no longer go up the stairs. He hadn’t left the house since 2019, and his reality was increasingly more fractured. He was under hospice care and no longer eating. In late July I asked Yu San if I could visit, but I didn’t want to agitate him, or make things difficult for her.
We arranged a strategy for her to step out while the nurse and social worker were there for plausible deniability. I arrived “unannounced”, approached the bed, and stood by him.
He looked up confused and said “I think I know you... but why do you look like me”. I chuckled and replied, “That’s because I am your brother”. The social worker wept for our reunion.
We proceeded to have a halting and respectful “question and answer” conversation for an hour, with thoughtful pauses between. He asked about my past career, and I asked if he remembered activities we did together – which he did. On leaving I asked if I could see him again, and he said yes. I visited twice more.
The last time he was mostly asleep, but I whispered in his ear before leaving “I love you Paul”. He didn’t reply, but with eyes closed, nodded affirmation. We pulled together for the last time.
For my birthday at the end of 1979, Paul created a hand-made photo album of our previous year together. He signed it “All my love, and part of my soul!” …
Back at you Bro! Rest in peace now.
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