Just like so many families, when we all get together, there
is someone who has to hear the old stories that have been regenerated every
time you get together. In our case, it’s
my niece Molly. She loves to hear those
stories from when her Dad, my brother, Jim and I were younger and my brother
tormented me. She will say, “tell us
that story about when you were riding in the car ….?” And it all begins.
Many, many years ago, I would gladly go anywhere with my
older brother. He was a teenager, I was
about six years younger, and I’d gladly go with my brother, riding wherever he
would take me. I’m sure there are many
stories of how he would make my life miserable, I mean, what else should an
older brother do to a younger brother (think Wayne and Kevin from The Wonder
Years), but there are two that always come up, and to be honest, for good
reason.
I’m not really sure which is my “favorite”, but there was
the one time, it was a hot, sticky summer day, and remember, way back then
there was no air conditioning in most cars.
I was drinking a milk shake from McDonald’s, and Jim decided it would be
really funny to slam on the brakes, and then gun the engine, just as I was
taking a drink. It was inevitable that I
poured most of my milkshake down the front of me. I then had the pleasure of sitting in a hot
car for the rest of the ride with a shirt full of sticky milkshake. And of course hearing my brother laugh at my
misfortune.
And then there was the time that we were riding down the
street, and Jim said, “Look out the window and see what that sign says.” I of course complied, and as I stuck my head
out the window, he hit the brakes, and I banged my head into the side of the
window. And again, of course, Jim got a
great laugh out of my misfortune.
Now, before you get to feeling too sorry for me (if you do),
in so many ways, I deserved whatever I got.
You see, growing up, I was the much younger brother to Jim, and our
older brother Bill. When I was young, I
always wanted to tag along with my brothers, wherever they went, and my Mom
always insisted that they let me.
Whenever they went out with friends to play football, baseball,
whatever, I was there. Whenever they had
a girl over, I was there. Whenever they
did anything out of line, I was there. And
I was a pest. I was a tattletale. I was the stereotypical spoiled baby of the
family. While I know the word hate is a
strong word, for a long, long time, my brothers probably hated me, and really,
for good reason. So whatever torture I
received over the rest of my childhood, it was probably warranted and
well-deserved.
But the torment and torture doesn’t tell the full
story. Over time, Jim spent a great deal
of time with me, taking me with him so many places. I’ve shared before in blog posts, he used to
take me to many Pittsburgh Pirate games each summer. We’d drive to Pittsburgh, park on the streets
in North Side, go to the games and get $1 general admission tickets, and get a
Coke, and we’d be out of there for less than $5. As we grew older, Jim would take me hunting
and fishing, and we’d spend a lot of time walking around the woods or sitting
at a pond or lake, and I wasn’t that spoiled little brat anymore, or at least I
don’t think I was.
As time has gone by, the story even changed, and we had more
to bring us together. Into our
adulthood, we experienced a tragedy, our brother Bill committed suicide. As I’ve noted previously, I don’t think there
is a greater loss than a loss of a child, and losing a child to suicide is even
harder. But it’s also not easy to lose a
sibling, and again, it’s even harder when you lose a sibling to suicide. After Bill died, I went through a wealth of
emotions, trying to figure out how this happened. I would be driving down the road, and I’d be
lost in my thoughts, I’d vacillate between missing Bill, wanting him back, trying
to figure out what I could have done to prevent it, to being so angry at him
for what he did. I couldn’t believe he
could do this to us, do this to our parents.
Through it all, it really wasn’t feasible to talk about Bill
and what happened to my parents, it was too painful for them. For the most part, we never talked about him,
it was off-limits, at least from my perspective. But Jim and I talked. At first, we would vent, we would voice our
anger toward Bill for what he did. We
would talk about how angry we were, how hurt we were, how we couldn’t believe
what he did to our parents, to us.
Eventually, our anger subsided, and our discussions turned to stories,
stories of growing up, stories of when we were brothers, and some of the funny
things Bill used to do. Bill was always
larger than life, he did everything in a big way. Jim and I had so many stories, Jim more than
me, since they were closer, but we would share those stories, and laugh, we
would laugh at better times, times when there were three of us, and we would
relive those memories.
As time went on, and as our families grew up, Jim became
more of a mentor to me. While I have
various great friends that I reach out to, there are certain things that you
talk to your brother about because they know you as family like no one else
does. One of my favorites, and I won’t
go into the details, partly so as not to bore you, but also because of the level
of embarrassment I have for the stupidity of what I did, I remember telling
Jim, and his immediate reaction was, “Oh my God, don’t tell Dad”. To which I quickly said, “I already did”, and
his quick and immediate response was, “Why in the world would you do
that.” I know, I know, I know, really
bad decision.
Most of the time, I would call Jim about my children, issues
surrounding them and some of the issues he had been through. Maybe it’s genetics, maybe it’s the way we
were raised and how we raised our children, but we’ve faced many of the same or
similar issues. I’ve been able to pick
Jim’s brain and get some counseling when I’ve needed it. Don’t get me wrong. He doesn’t have all of the answers. There are times, he just starts laughing, and
says, “Good luck with that one.” But he eventually
starts talking through the issues and tries to help me deal with whatever the
problem is. There are times he is very
supportive, and there are times he shows no sympathy for me, and kicks me in
the ass. You know, quite frankly, when
he does, just like when we were younger, I really deserved that
ass-kicking.
We have entered a new stage in our lives. We are both getting old(er). No, we don’t call each other and talk about
our latest aches and pains, hip replacements, arthritis or things of that sort
(although we could compare notes on receding hair lines). We’ve dealt with the loss of our Dad, and how
difficult that was. As much as you
realize that death is just another part of life, it doesn’t make it any easier
when it’s your parent.
Now, we are dealing with our Mom getting older, and the
difficulties of watching her go through the inevitable changes that old age
brings. Jim is the one who has, and
still does, all of the heavy lifting. My
Mom lives close to Jim and my sister-in-law Laura, and they do everything for
her. Recently my Mom asked me if Jim
ever complains, and I was able to say without hesitation or reservation, “No,
I’ve never heard him complain.” And he
doesn’t and I could never imagine he would.
Jim is just an incredible and amazing son who would do anything for my
Mom and also did everything for my Dad.
Similar to my comments above, I’m not looking for any sympathy or any
reassurances, Jim is a really good son, and I’m extremely thankful for all he
does for my Mom, as is she.
So it may sound crazy, but I relish those stories of the car
rides where I took a milkshake bath or my head got smashed against the inside
of the door. I relish those car rides to
Pirate games, listening to KQV and 13Q, riding through the streets of North
Side with all of the potholes. I relish
those days of sitting on the banks of that little pond in Slippery Rock,
catching more mosquitos than fish, or that time that our cat stole Jim’s
freshly skinned rabbit from him and took it underneath the trailer. I relish it all, and I’m thankful for the
great father he is, the great grandfather he’s become, and the amazing son he
is. But most of all, I’m thankful for….
He’s my brother.
