Kenneth Howard Knaster

1952 - 2026

If this blog has a format, it would be something like “fun, nostalgic, light-hearted nonsense.” But I’m breaking format today. The only thing on my mind is my brother Kenny. He passed away Monday and we buried him yesterday.

I wrote an obituary and I delivered a eulogy. But I wanted to say a bit more about Kenny, and I’m due for a Substack post. So here we are. Feel free to skip this one if you like. (As if you’re not free to skip any or all or them.)

This is my brother Kenny.

First, I need to say that our relationship was often fraught. Kenny and I were almost 8 years apart in age. We were not close growing up. He had teenage interests and I was a wee lad. I thought he was cool — he WAS cool — and I looked up to him for that. I loved music because he loved music. I listened to the bands he liked. He played in bands of his own. He had friends and knew girls. He smoked cigarettes and liked cars. I read comic books and wore glasses and stayed indoors and liked science fiction. He was charming and talked to everyone about anything. Me, not. We shared half our DNA, but not much else.

As adults, Kenny and I got a little closer. But I got mad at him for making some life choices I thought were terrible. Usually the only time I get mad at people is when I play a part onstage. I can yell really well in a play. But in real life I hate to fight. And yet, with Kenny, our relationship was often strained and sometimes estranged.

I knew that our family has a bad habit of this familial estrangement. And that bothered me a lot. I didn’t want to continue that awful tradition. So I forced us to un-estrange. I used whatever grace I could muster to get along as well as we could.

Kenny went through plenty of tough times. But in the last decade, he returned to our native Denver and he finally found some peace in his life. As old men we finally had a reasonable, sometimes warm relationship. It was fine. I used to tell him, kind of jokingly, “I love you like a brother.” He knew what I meant was “Our beloved parents always wanted us to get along. And I want us to get along and I think you do too. We’ll never be best friends. But let’s get along.”

In the last year of his life, his health began to fail badly. A few months ago, he went to the hospital. He never got to go home again. He spent his last 4 months in a care home. Kenny and I talked on the phone almost every day, and I visited him in Denver every month or so.¹ We talked about music and old times. He was often confused, which is the word you use when you don’t want to say dementia. And then a minute later he was razor sharp, often telling a detailed, accurate, hilarious story of something that happened decades earlier.

Kenny’s loved ones in Denver and I formed a team to support him as best we could. We always said “There will be good days and bad. We’ll do what we can.” And we did. We dreamed of Kenny getting better and going back home. But I think we knew that was not likely.

Five days ago his health took a bad turn and he was rushed to the hospital. He had pneumonia, then sepsis, and before long his organs were failing. I got to Denver as fast as I could. Four days ago, he died. When someone is near death, hospitals do this thing where they turn off the beeping and alarms of all the monitors and other systems that are helping keep the patient alive. Then you sit and wait for what you know is going to happen. You get to have a quiet moment with them before the end, and it’s quite beautiful and meaningful.

A funny thing happened to Kenny and me in these last few months: we finally got close. Close -> closure. I loved him like a brother.

1. Ask me what I think of Frontier Airlines. The answer may surprise you.