The Greatest Loss Imaginable

This is the post I hoped I would never have to write

There are no words. But there must be words.

My little brother, my only sibling, my beautiful little brother, Bill Hodgson, Jr., died last week. He lost his long battle with alcoholism. It was a battle he fought hard and desperately wanted to overcome. That’s the only thing I will write about his disease. He fought it with every fiber of his being to the bitter end. He wanted to win.

Bill was born when I was three. He arrived two days before Easter that year. Family legend says that I visited him in the hospital and then immediately demanded that my mother “leave that baby here and come home with me.” In truth, I don’t think my transition from being an only child to an older sister was all that difficult for me.

My earliest memories of Bill were of us physically fighting each other as little kids. It wasn’t that we disliked each other. I think this was pure mammalian child behavior. Being older and bigger, I usually won, sending Bill crying to my parents to tell on me. One day, we looked at each other and decided to stop fighting. Instead, we became best friends, teammates on a quest against the discipline and rules set by our parents. We couldn’t understand why we had to clean up our messes, sit still, or be quiet. There was a world full of adventures to explore.

Our childhood was filled with so many amazing memories. Bill would be better at describing them as he had a photographic memory. He could tell me what color shirt I wore to my dance recital in May 1993. He never forgot a detail. I have no idea how he had room to hold all of those things in his mind.

In the summers, we spent every weekend at Lake Martin. I was a skier, but Bill was into the up-and-coming sport of wakeboarding. Before fancy boats threw massive wakes, he could jump so high in the air on his board. We spent hours pulling him behind the boat to practice. We also had adventures traveling up the dirt road to visit the neighbors, playing paintball in their yard, and hiking to the back of the creek. Lake Martin is still my favorite place on Earth, and it was Bill’s as well.

Every spring break, we took a family trip out west to go snow skiing, as we Southerners call it. Bill was a speed demon on skis and never missed a chance to ski off in the trees and find jump spots. I remember a time he fell in deep powder next to a tree, and we had to rescue him by digging him out. In his early adult years, Bill spent an entire season in Big Sky, Montana, working as a bellhop at one of the resorts. It was then that he became a truly expert skier. I wish I could have seen him ski like that.

During my last year of high school, my dad took on a new hobby that soon became a family hobby: deep-sea fishing. Our first trip was on a charter boat where we were immediately hooked. Pulling red snapper, grouper, and Amberjack out of the Gulf of Mexico was a thrill we had no idea we were missing. Dad eventually bought a small boat, and our family odyssey began. First, we explored every public fishing reef on the map. Later, we obtained the coordinates of private reefs shared among friends. The boats got bigger, and our trips went farther. June became our annual pilgrimage to the Gulf at the start of red snapper season.

Bill loved those fishing trips. I never asked him, but I imagine he felt at peace out there on the ocean with no land in sight. I certainly did. What I would give to go fishing with Bill one more time.

Bill introduced me to my husband. They were fraternity brothers at Ole Miss. My husband was literally assigned to be Bill’s big brother in the group. In that way, I owe literally everything I have, my family, my children, to Bill. Bill loved being an uncle, and he loved my children, his niece and nephew, more than anything. He was my son’s godfather, a testament to how much I believed in him.

Bill loved to cook for people. He also loved good food. He was always taking photos of his plate at restaurants. He wanted to remember his favorite dishes. Bill took immense pride in grilling meat for the perfect amount of time at the ideal temperature, with the perfect blend of seasoning. I noticed that he only did this at times when he had a crowd to cook for. It was one of the many ways he showed his love.

Several years ago, Bill helped us start a new family tradition in the form of an Easter crawfish boil. Not a native Louisianan, Bill studied the recipes and techniques for achieving the perfect boil. The stakes were high with a crowd of locals, and Bill nailed it. He has served as the unofficial host of the Easter crawfish boil every year, putting in countless hours to the preparations, execution, and clean-up.

Bill loved his family more than anything. He wanted to be with his family for every birthday and holiday, even the small ones like Memorial Day and Labor Day. He couldn’t stand to miss one. He remembered to call or text every family member, even aunts, uncles, and cousins, on their birthdays and anniversaries. He was always better at keeping in touch than I was.

There could never be enough words to do Bill justice. He had a heart of gold and an immeasurable amount of love to give. With him, a part of me has also died. His life, our relationship, and now his memory are among my greatest blessings. Thank you, Bill, for everything.