This weekend is the July 4 holiday and for so many it is filled with family, fireworks, and fun. The pinnacle of summer, with barbecues, parties and an extra day off.

For me it brings bittersweet memories from a year ago. But those memories also bring me one of my favorite stories of my late cousin Kirby Brown, who left this world entirely too early, but who gave us 38 years of life and love and energy that will forever be unmatched.

So the story. It goes something like this:

Kirby’s baby sister Jean was getting married on July 4 and the grand reception would be in her parents’ backyard. Months of preparation went into the event from landscaping to logistics, it was a wonderfully complicated event. What nobody planned on was a rainy June – a month in which rain was recorded more than 20 of the 30 days.

The yard was a swamp.

As I was helping my cousin’s fiancée string lights between two trees, Kirby was in full Kirby mode. She was assessing the swampyness under the dinner tent, literally scratching her head. “If we had some hay and wood chips,” the tent guy philosophized, “We would probably be okay.”

“Well did we try to get some,” she asked. Upon hearing a negative answer, she said “Well fuckin’ A, let’s get this done.”

That’s when I heard “Tommy – get in the truck. We’re taking a ride.”

Now you have to understand, when Kirby said “We’re doing ____” you had no choice. You were gonna do whatever she said you were gonna do. And, chances are, you’d never forget it.

So I enthusiastically excused myself from the light-stringing chore, and jumped in the pick up truck with Kirby. “We’re gonna save this wedding,” she said. “If these dumbasses can’t fucking do it, we gotta.”

Keep in mind, it’s about 5 p.m. on Friday evening. The rehearsal for the wedding, complete with “dress-up” clothes, was at 7 p.m. None of that mattered – Kirby had a plan. One of my cousins once described Kirby as our “action figure cousin” and any chance you got to see Kirby in action, you took it.

So we’re driving around rural Orange County NY. Kirby was looking for stables who had extra bales of hay and/or wood chips that we could lay down under the carpeting in the tent to make the ground more like solid ground and less like quicksand.

“I used to manage this stable and train all their horses” she said on her first stop. But they only had loose hay and we needed bales. So we went to another stable where she once knew the owners. Struck out again. Finally we pull up to a random barn where Kirby didn’t know the owners.

She knocks on the door, explains the situation and convinces the owner that they would save her little sister’s wedding if they could just help us out.

Minutes later we are loading more than a dozen bales on the truck, and the owner says we can come back later if it’s not enough. Don’t worry about the money, she said, I’ve been in a similar situation. Have a wonderful wedding. Turns out they knew some mutual friends and Kirby’s world had just expanded again. She made friends with the ease that other people made excuses. If you met Kirby just once, you would do anything for her. Because you knew she would do anything for you. In a heartbeat.

So long story short, she saved the wedding and the dinner tent went from a complete clusterfuck to a mere minor disaster. Enough to get by and save the day. But I’m teasing. That wasn’t the story.

With the hay in the truck and the clock ticking, Kirby took a short detour to drive me to one of her favorite spots near another stable where she once worked as a teen. “The view, Tommy, reminds you why we’re here in the first place.”

So as we drive by the stable, she slows down and says, “No fuckin’ way, Tommy. “

There was an old tired horse standing there, not doing much of anything but waiting to die, it seemed.

“I trained that horse maybe 15, 18 years ago when it was a pony. It was a rough one and it was one of the hardest horses I dealt with. But so, so sweet.”

As the truck inched closer in silence, the horse turned, saw Kirby and came back to life. Its eyes were full of recognition and love. It looked 10 years younger, instantly. It was full of energy and life and vigor all over again.

Through the years, we all marveled at Kirby’s ability to forge human relationships with anyone. From millionaires to homeless people, she viewed all people the same – with respect and humanity – and pulled out only the very best in people in return.

But to see the relationship she had built in another species was incredible. The look in that horse’s eyes was the same look Kirby would get from a cousin who didn’t expect to see her at the latest family gathering.  Kirby was our nomad. You could never predict when you’d see her again. It might be weeks, it might be years. But you knew instantly you would pick up right where you left off. And she’d fill your heart with love.  In and instant. With a hug.

Turns out she had the same effect on horses.

She didn’t stop the truck that day. We had to get back and frankly, I don’t think she wanted the horse to get too excited and possibly attached again.

But, from the passenger seat, I made sure I remembered that story. I marveled in watching my cousin just be who she was. In an hour she managed to formulate and execute a plan to save her sister’s wedding, show me an amazing, breathtaking view that gave me goosebumps, and give an old horse a last happy moment – just by being Kirby.

I spent a lot of good time with Kirby last summer and over the previous couple of years. She had re-entered my life when I needed the kind of help only Kirby could give. Effortless love that reminded you “It’s gonna be okay.” No matter where Kirby was, she was with you. And that made me feel okay when nothing else did.

Riding around in that old truck last July 3, I remember being thankful that I got to experience my action figure cousin, and selfishly enjoying that nobody else was there. Just the two of us, a loving stranger, and an old horse. It was perfect.  It was life.

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