Author Christopher J. Valin

My brother Tim passed away last week. He was still relatively young, in his mid-50s, but he lasted more than ten years longer than my youngest brother, Bill, who died at 41. It’s a difficult thing to process, having both of my younger brothers die before me and before our mom. I tried to pay tribute to him at the celebration of life we had for him last weekend, but I was too choked up to say much. I’m better at processing things through my writing than speaking in front of a crowd of people.

Tim was the most unique and interesting individual I knew. He was a real character. In fact, I’ve used him as the basis of more than one character I’ve written about in my books, stories, and scripts. People liked to give him nicknames, such as Crazy Tim, but the most common one was Spaceman. Not because he was an astronaut or anything, but because he honestly and thoroughly believed that he had been repeatedly abducted by aliens. This wasn’t a phenomenon that began after he started drinking or doing drugs by any means. It started when we were both little kids. For years, I was convinced that I’d either witnessed things or been abducted myself because we would talk about it all the time. I’m not sure how much I believe in any of that stuff anymore, but if it’s true that these things actually happen, then I’m sure it happened to Tim.

Tim was a creator. He loved to write and make art and record podcasts and do standup comedy. But mostly he loved making music. In the last part of his life, he was rarely seen without his guitar, which he’d picked up after being a singer in bands for many years. I’ve always felt that if he had more discipline, he would have been very successful at one or more of these creative endeavors. But, alas, “discipline” is not a word anyone would use to describe my brother.

He was a free spirit. He enjoyed life and lived it to the fullest, sometimes to the consternation of those of us who prefer to keep our feet solidly planted on the ground. Everyone who talked about him last week said how funny he was. He always made everyone laugh, one way or another. His nicknames were earned by many years of hijinks and adventures that most people didn’t believe. Or, at the very least, thought that he greatly exaggerated. He was shot in the head once in an alley. He had more car accidents and concussions than anyone else I know. He said that he was being spied on by hybrid aliens and that they were always out to get him. Once, when he was stuck in Wyoming, he claimed to have walked on foot from Casper to Cheyenne in the snow. When we were young, he was sure he was going to die at the age of 27 like so many of his heroes, such as Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. But he made it past that, and kept on going for almost three decades.

One of the best things about Tim was that he loved everyone and everything–people, animals, nature, and especially his kids and his family. He was the least judgmental person in the world. Except when it came to Billy Shears, whom he was absolutely, one hundred percent, sure replaced Paul McCartney after he died in a car accident in 1966. Tim was on a crusade to end the charade, and he would talk to you about it for as long as you were willing to listen. But, other than that, anyone was free to do whatever they wanted as far as he was concerned.

We could all probably learn a lot from Tim.

~ by christophervalin on October 22, 2023.

Posted in valin, writing
Tags: obituary, spaceman, tim, timothy, valin