There's this moment during the Cuban Missile Crisis that's so incredible, it doesn't sound real. But we have confirmed this with people who were there. Victor Gilinsky wrote about this for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. He said, basically, nuclear war seemed so imminent that the underground headquarters of the Strategic Air Command in Nebraska went into lock down. Nobody was allowed to enter or leave. He said the General in charge told the staff he expected an order to launch nuclear missiles any moment, and also expected that they would all die from a Soviet counterattack. And everybody was allowed to make one phone call home to their family. But in that call, they were not allowed to say why they were calling. What do you say in that situation? Gilinsky writes, "The conversations were about scraped kids' knees and sick dogs. It was a scene straight out of Dr. Strangelove." And of course, right? What can words do when you're staring death in the face? Well, today on our program, we have two stories where ordinary people rise to this exact task. They see death standing there, and they open their mouths. And truly amazing things happen. We have two stories for you today. And to say anything else about these stories, I think, would be a spoiler. Also, I want to give every possible second to these stories. From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. And let's just get to it with the first act of our show. So remember that tsunami that hit Japan five years ago, 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. Otsuchi had been there for 100 years. 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. And 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 lead 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 are doing Otsuchi, on the Japanese news channel, NHK, and got permission for us to play you some excerpts. Here's Miki. Of all the areas in Japan affected by that 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 that 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, resting 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. He's saying, because my thoughts could not be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried on the wind. So I named it the wind telephone-- kaze no denwa. 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 they're 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 of 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 talk 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. Moshi moshi. Moshi, moshi. Her oldest grandson quickly jumps in. Hi grandpa. How are you? I'll be in fourth grade next semester. Wasn't that fast? 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. Yeah, this year. A lot of calls were just like this, straightforward updates about life. The kind of a 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-- Grandma's fine too. I'm giving the phone to Daina now. Daina, his little brother, grabs the phone. Grandpa, I finished all my homework. Sachiko urges him to keep talking. He says, everyone is doing fine. Then he hangs up. They all say goodbye. Bye, Bye. As they're walking out of the booth, Daina says-- 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, into this booth. I watched her do this thing that a lot of callers seem to do. You hear Kikue actually dialing the rotary phone-- --saying some numbers to herself. 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, 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 the female head of the house, even the husband. It's a very intimate, loving term. Moshi, moshi? Hello? Nobuyuki? Is mom with you? Sorry to ask this, but take care of her, and your grandma and grandpa too. Mom? I'll come again, OK? Mom, I'll be back. 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, it feels weird. I've never said that to my mom or my grandparents. Take this call. It's winter. The phone booth is surrounded by snow. Moshi, moshi? Hello? Mom? 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. It's so cold. But you're not getting cold, are you? Are grandma and our daughter, Miyuki, with you too? Come back soon. Be found soon. Everyone is waiting for you. I'll build the house in the same place. Eat something-- anything. Just be alive, somewhere, anywhere. 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 asked 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 one-year-old son, named Issei. Dad? Mom? Mine? Issei? Issei? It's already been five years since the disaster. If this voice reaches you, please listen. Sometimes I don't know what I'm living for. (CRYING) Issei, [JAPANESE] Issei, please let me hear you call me Papa. (CRYING) Papa, [JAPANESE] Even though I built a new house-- Dad? Mom? Mine and Issei. --without all of you, it's meaningless. 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. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. There's a couple phrases I heard callers tell the dead, again and again. Shinpai shina, don't worry about us. And ganbatteiru, which basically means, I'm doing my very best. I'm enduring. In Japan, ganbatteiru-- it's a catchall 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, ganbatteiru, and shinpai shina-- 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 after world. Dad? The four of us are doing fine. We're ganbatteiru. You don't need to worry about us. Shinpai shina. Dad, are you doing OK? I do have one question I want to ask you. Why did you die? Why did it have to be you, dad? Why just me? I've always wondered-- Why am I the only one who is different from everyone else? Anyways, please be found quickly. Where are you now? They never found anything of you. I wanted to talk with you again. 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-- I brought everyone with me today. Bye. When Ren walks out, his family laughs. They say-- --that was so fast. Ren shoots back-- 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. What am I supposed to say? What should I tell them? 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. She asks her brother again, when should I talk to him about? Her little brother's name is Riku, and he tells her-- Say what you wanted to tell him. She says-- Are you trying to make me laugh, Riku? Riku says-- 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. Dad, I'm so sorry I always used to say you were stinky. What happen 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-- I started tennis in junior high school. I'm not in the top eight. I want to be in the top eight 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-- --goodbye. They come out of the booth together. Now it's their mom's turn. Her kids tell her, itterashai. Itterashai. Have a good trip. Itterashai. Good luck. Ren, the oldest, he bows and waves to her. She walks in, picks up the phone, and lets out a big sigh. Where should I start? I feel like you're still alive-- somewhere. We had so many things we wanted to do together. 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. Come back. We, all four of us together, we will be waiting. Bye. After she comes out, the family lingers outside the phone booth for a while. 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-- 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-- 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 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. Miki Meek is one of the producers of our program. Thanks to NHK Sendai, who recorded all this, and shared it with us. 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? 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 defied 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. This story comes from Jonathan Goldstein. Hello? Hey, Dad? Hi, Jonny. Hey, how you doing? Good, you? Good, good. Gut Yontif. Shana tova. Chag Sameach. Chag Sameach. What's that mean? I'm not sure. Oh, oh. 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. So I wanted to-- Yes. I wanted to ask you something. And I just wanted to gauge your interest. Yeah. How-- how would you feel about paying your brother Sheldon a visit? I have no feelings about it. I'm not really interested. You're not? No. 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, where they had a fight over the details of the arrangements. 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. I'm not surprised that you're not jumping at the idea. But I'm a little surprised-- No. -- that you're as against the idea. Yeah, time's passed. He hasn't shown much interest. So I'm respecting that, and I leave him alone. What he did do, was he called you on your 80th birthday, not so long ago. Yeah. Yeah. And you felt good about that. Yeah, because I called him on his 80th birthday. This kind of tit-for-tat accounting is what always gets in the way. You know what it is at this point, with him? I'll tell you what it is. I don't think it's even anger. He's past anger, and he's past any feelings of animosity. He's past that. He just doesn't care. Yeah. You know, that's apathy. I mean, sometimes-- at least hate or love, they're emotions. Apathy is nothing. Yeah. But you know what? Jonny, as a child, even when I was 10, when I was 9 and 8, I was crazy about him. We had a great-- you know, I loved him. He was the older brother. He was-- hello? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm listening. You know, I just looked up to him. And he had all the friends. Sometimes he'd take me along with him. And he was [AUDIO OUT]. [INAUDIBLE]. Somebody tried-- is somebody to call here, binging me here? 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. And I said, you're always working some kind of an angle. So he got furious. He got furious. He started screaming into the phone, go to hell. Drop dead, bah, bah, bah. He was-- that was how that ended. But I feel he's the kind of guy, that he has angles like that, you know? He has angles. I always felt I was on the up-and-up with him, and he wasn't with me. If you got a stronger sense that he was interested in seeing you, then would you-- Yes. Yes. You would be more inclined to see him? I wouldn't stay at his house though, that's out of the question. 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. I wouldn't stay at his house. How come you-- [LAUGHS] I wouldn't stay there. I mean, it's not my thing. How come you always bring that up? Because I don't feel comfortable. Normally, when someone goes to visit someone that they haven't seen in decades, they'll stay at a hotel, you know? [LAUGHS] I would stay at a motel or somewhere near his place. [LAUGHS] A motel. Yeah, no, we'd get a place with an ice machine and-- you know. Why, you're interested in making a trip? I'm interested-- [SIGHS] Do you think that there's anything to be gained in seeing him? Hmm, I guess there's something. You share your common experience, and you talk about the old days. There are things that only he and I can remember. You know? Yeah. What you could do is, you could call him. Yeah. And see what his attitude is. You know? It depends on how you feel, what kind of reception you get. Yeah, I mean I would be happy to do that. My concern is that-- I like your initial suggestion, that you call and feel him out. See what he's like. OK, I didn't suggest that, but-- you-- [LAUGHS] you suggested that. Yeah, I like that. Because you'll give me an honest reaction. I'm happy to do it. But, I mean, what are you looking for? What do you want to hear from him? I miss my brother, I would like to see him. That's all. You understand? And you come back on me with an honest evaluation. Hello? Sheldon? Yes, speaking. Hi. That was quite a shock, getting your phone call. You said, Jon, and my hearing is not that great. And when I heard the first message, I'm saying, who the heck is that? I don't know anybody by that name. 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. You're keeping OK? You're keeping occupied? Yeah, I read a lot. I go to the gym. I go shopping. You know, here and there, little things here and there. So how often do you go to the gym? Three times a week. My father also goes to the gym. That's a part of his routine also. He was happy to hear from you on his 80th birthday. Yeah, well, he didn't call me on my 85th though. Tit, meet tat. To be honest with you, in the last few years, I've been a loner. Uh huh. You would basically almost call me a recluse. I don't socialize with many people. And I really don't give a damn what anybody thinks. Yeah. And contrary to popular belief, I like being alone, by myself. I get along with myself very well. Yeah. Look, I don't want to be rude or anything, but I want to go have my lunch. Oh, yeah, yeah, that's fine. Yeah. It's fine. Sheldon, I appreciate your talking to me. And you would be amenable to spending some time? Why not? We are brothers. I mean, we're not close or anything. But you know, we're not going to have a chance to see each other much in the future. Yeah. Is that anything that you think about? Not much, no. Press where to, then type. Do you have an address? Yeah, I do. 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. It's like we're on a safari here. On the road to Sheldon's, my father will experience a spectrum of feelings. As we first set out, there's excitement. My brother was funny in a lot of ways. I could laugh. We're going to have laughs with him. He's a very funny man. A half an hour in, and there's bitterness. We invited him to your bar mitzvah. And he returned a very cold card. Sorry, we will not be attending. It was so mean. You know what I mean? Even the writing. An hour in, and how was Buzz feeling? I'm relaxed. Oh, good. Kind of old to get anxious, you know what I mean? Yeah. A half an hour to Sheldon's. A little bit apprehensive now. Yeah. 10 minutes to Sheldon's, and Buzz is feeling-- I'm all right. Yeah? Yeah. Yeah? You feeling a little-- Oh, it's going to be strange. Yeah. It's going to be very strange. I mean, the man is a stranger to me now. And yet, he's my brother. You understand? It's a very strange feeling. Yeah. I wonder if he's getting nervous? Maybe. Cause he's waiting for us, right? Yeah. Sheldon lives in the corner house on a quiet suburban street. Ring the bell. I guess. Is this his door? I'll double check. Oh, here he is. Hi! Hello. Hey! There's an [INAUDIBLE] It's good to see you. And this is Jonathan? Good to see-- Nice to meet you. Come in. Thank you. Lately I've become a monk-- me and my pussycat. Oh, you got a cat. Oh, come here. What? 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. Now there's things I want to know. You said that Rainy died? Yeah, she died. She did die. The dead are a good place to begin. As a subject, they're easily agreed upon, and not likely to spark a fight. Yankel died. Yankel died? He was the youngest brother. Oh, he died long ago. He died, eh? Oh, you know who died? Who? Hoffman. Hoffman? A real prick. [LAUGHS] Yeah, I didn't know him that well. What a prick. Yeah, yeah. Kanish. [INAUDIBLE] Oh, that's shocking. Yeah, he was fat. He was fat. Redhead. Redhead, right. Yeah. Kanish. Yeah, remember Johnny? Johnny was a sex maniac. Johnny-- oh, he would [BLEEP] a dog on the street. If he saw the dog, he'd try to [BLEEP] the dog. [LAUGHS] Can I get you guys a cold beer? I'd like a beer. Yeah, sure. How about you? I'll have a beer. Thank you. 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-- (VOICE CRACKS) Yeah, sure, I'll have a beer-- Is best suited to asking a waitress if there will be a sharing charge. I defined-- Oh, whoa. [BLEEP] forgot about that. Sorry. Case in point-- this is Sheldon accidentally swiping a portable microphone receiver off the kitchen table, and me trying to smooth things over. Take this off, will you? It's annoying. Here, just put it in your pocket there. Just take it off, would you please? Thank you. Thank you. All right. 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. Wally Rosen. Wonder whatever became of him. He was a bum. Me and Wally Rosen were joining the weightlifting club. So you had to be tested for a rupture. I remember he put his hand [BLEEP]. I started laughing so hard, I [BLEEP] right in his [BLEEP]. [LAUGHS] Ay yay yay. 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. Remember the hullabaloo we had with hair dyer, that heavy-set girl? She was a manicurist. She was a hair dyer. Manicurist. No, she was a hair dyer. Here's what happened. She went over to Irving's-- They even argue over the death of their grandmother. I found her body. I did. I opened the door. No. I did. No, my mother was across the street, at [INAUDIBLE]. I remember walking in-- I walked in on her. And I knew she was dead, soon as I saw her. I never saw a dead body in my life, but I knew she was dead. Sure. So wait, so you found her, or you found her? I remember looking in on her room to see how she was doing. She was awfully quiet. [INTERPOSING VOICES] [INAUDIBLE]. I found her, but let him take the credit. No, I'm not. [LAUGHS] Some credit. 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. I wanted to ask what you remember. What your perspective-- Well, I remember that time was when Pop was smacking her around, and she ran out in the hall. And her slip-- Fighting in the hall. And he was smacking her around. Yeah, smacking her around. She ran out. So what happened the next morning? The next morning? Yeah. Looked in her closet. Her clothes were gone. She left. Ah. What happened after this, in my father's telling, is that his mother returned soon after she left, with a policeman in tow. And they came back to try to get you. They wanted you to come back with them. And where were you? I was there, but they were trying to drag you out of the house. [LAUGHS] They weren't trying to grab you out? No, no, no. I guess they want my father and grandmother. 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 blankets, 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 ask 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. I found out about Judy-- about her death. Who? Your wife. I didn't know about it, either until you told me. Yeah. Didn't I tell you? No. You didn't know about it? No? We didn't know. Hmm? We didn't know. She was sick about two years there, Judy. [SIGH] Too bad. Well, when she got the diagnosis, she was already stage IV. What did I know about cancer? I didn't. The surgeon-- so I says, well, doctor, how did the surgery go? Oh, he said, it went very well. But the cancer's in her liver now. [INAUDIBLE]. Oh, it spread. I said, it's in her liver? I said, what? You know where I usually eat, when I come here by myself? By the bar. They've got a waitress there who always waits on me, and she takes good care of me. For dinner, Sheldon takes us to a local Outback Steakhouse. As people walk by, he provides a running commentary-- of an elderly couple-- Don't get like that couple, whatever you do. It's time for the execution. --of an overweight couple-- Boy, are they fat. People are fat today. Woo! It's as though he's sharpening his wit, readying it for the main event, teasing my dad about Canada. I don't know how you could take Canada all year around. You know why? Because we've got nice neighbors. It's nice. It's OK. Uh, what was I going to say? You're living in the same place for how many years? Oh, about-- over 35, 38 years, something like that. I'm happy here. Yeah. Yeah. 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-- (IMITATING SHELDON) "You're still living in that same place?" He'll say, "For how many years?" But just then, I watch 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. What? $200.30? Are they kidding? Sheldon invites us back to his place for cookies. But my father says he isn't up for it. Goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight. It's getting cold. 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 from 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 stick ball 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. This is a damn good cigar. He sent me-- Oh, Dominican Republic? They make a damn good cigar in the Dominican Republic. What are you talking about? Despite the difficulties of last night, the coin is flipped back to the good side. Sheldon offers my father a cigar. And with a cigar, some cigar talk-- some pretty foul cigar talk. We're riding on Queens Boulevard. Johnny's in the backseat with The Who. He's got his naked ass up in the air. And he's humping-- Well, the funny thing is, we had to stop for a light. And there's a truck driver, sitting in the cab up high, who-- God, that was funny. Have you guys missed each other? What? Do you miss each other? You know, he asks the weirdest questions. What is he, a broad? I don't know. 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. The guy says, Jesus. He says, your prostate feels like the moon craters in there, he said. I said, thank you, doctor. He was complimenting me. So if I could steer this away from the prostates-- so if my father said that it's significant it to him, to have come. What do you say? I agree with whatever he said. But what about you? I said, I agree with whatever he said. Do you want a written contract? No, I'm happy for that. It feels like I'm getting a taste of what growing up with Sheldon might've been like. So again, I make my move. So I have some questions just about-- because the stories that I know are from my father, but I'm curious what your take is, because you were older. Do you remember what was going on when your mother left, originally? Like why, and what was going on? Didn't you cover this ground before yesterday? But from my family's perspective, the way I understood it was always you were the favorite. Did you feel that way? At this point, Sheldon's face suddenly softens. I always felt that I got the short end of the stick. [LAUGH] Yeah, but you were kind of a favorite with my mom. Yeah, maybe with Mom because maybe temperamentally we were closer than I was with my father. My father never gave me spit. Did you ever get any money from my father? I can't remember. [INAUDIBLE]. You never got a dime. No. Can't remember. No. You remember, one time I sprained my ankle so bad. Oh, I'll never forget that. That was terrible. I laid in that bed. And he says to me, you lazy bum. Man, he went off on me that time. Yeah. He took Sheldon once. Sheldon happened to say the word [BLEEP]. He came in with that [BLEEP] strap swinging, with the buckle. And you know, I can understand leaving a feeling level of resentment and dislike. That was his way of communicating with us. Jesus, what a way. Smack, and then-- What a way. Was he easier on you, do you think? He wasn't that easy, but he was tough on Sheldon. I know you were closer to him than I was. Yeah. And a lot of things that went on, and you didn't understand really, what was going on. No, I did not. See, you had a different take. Why, are you surprised? But I was a kid. I didn't understand it. But you didn't know that Sheldon was getting it so bad? No. 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. You know, it's sad that my father had such a negative impact on him, you know? Just awful. Because he had so much going for him. He was a wonderful son. He worked hard. He was a good boy. You're talking like I'm a failure in life. No, you weren't a failure. That's the thing that I'm saying, that you weren't a failure. All I'm saying, is that emotionally, he left an impact on you. It took a long time for me to get out of that emotion. And now, I'm at peace with myself. I can talk about him and laugh about him. Now I want peace, quiet. I'm happy living by myself. Are you lonely, Sheldon? No. No? 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. They put a lot of the responsibility on him, that my dad should have been taking that responsibility. And he shouldered that. Who was going to take care of you? Who is going to take you to school? [INAUDIBLE]. I remember one time I was late or something. You stood outside that school. You were crying. Screaming-- sure. I was-- yeah. Yeah. I said, [INAUDIBLE], I'm here. I'm here. He was good to me. A lot of times, he was good to me. A lot of times I was mean to you. Mean? You know, you were my older brother. You used to knock the [BLEEP] out of me sometimes. But you know, that's the way it is. We're brothers. Well, I was good in some ways. Some ways, I was mean. Well, who is not? Who is not? Who is not? So if you feel like you were compelled to see each other now, because you knew that it's a now-or-never thing, then it means that it was important to you both, right, to see each other? You want to take that? Sure. Go ahead. It's an easy answer, yes. Yes, because we're not getting any younger. What's down the road? I'm 80, he's 85. I mean, because there was a lot of water under the bridge, and we want to close that bridge now. I want to feel easy now. I want to say, now he's going to be 86, I want to call him on his birthday and say happy birthday to him now. I'm going to stand in any [BLEEP] ceremonies anymore. As my father speaks, as per his brother's example, dropping f-bombs like he's in it 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. Should I leave you the cat in my will if anything happens? If anything happens, I'll take care of the cat. I'll take care of the cat. I'm happy I came to see you. That I am. I'm happy you came. That's good, very good. Well, if you want to buy a house, that one is for sale over there. 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. All right, you take care of yourself. Water under the bridge. Take care of yourself. You hear? Take care. You too. Safe trip, both of you's. Thank you. Thank you. We'll speak. We'll speak. 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. Turn right on Northwest Bedford Drive. Oh my god, I feel so different now. You know that? I feel different, Jonny. I just feel so different. This has taken a lot off my shoulders. You know? Jonathan Goldstein. This story was produced by Wendy Dorr, with some help Chris Neary. If you liked that story, there is more where that came from this week. Jonathan is launching his new podcast. It is called Heavyweight, from Gimlet Media. I am super excited for this show. Jonathan used to be one of our producers here. He hosted the show Wire Tap for years. If you are ready for this to become your new favorite podcast, you can download a new episode and a longer version of this story, right now, on iTunes, or wherever it is that you get your podcasts. Our program was produced today by Robyn Semien. Our program is made by Elna Baker, Susan Burton, Zoe Chace, Dan Chivvis, Sean Cole, Neil Drumming, Karen Duffin, Emmanuel Dzotsi, Stephanie Foo, Damien Graef, Chana Joffe Walt, David Kestenbaum, Miki Meek, Jonathan Menjivar, Christopher Swetala, Matt Tierney, and Nancy Updike. Special thanks today to Kiku Matsuo, Yuki Zaizen, Noriko Meek, Karin Jeffrey, John Matthews, Christine Fellows, Haley Shaw, and Lawrence Tassone. Our website, thisamericanlife.org. 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. He tells everybody he knows why I'm never chosen to ask questions at the presidential debates. You know, he asks the weirdest questions. I'm Ira Glass. What is he, a broad? Back next week, with more stories of This American Life. (SINGING) Before I die, before I die, before I die-- Before I die, before I die, before I die. Before I go, before I go, before I die-- Before I go-- Before I die--