I have a brother, Charlie. He was a perk that came with being adopted by the family that picked me. By the way, since all the talk recently is about family values and what to do with pregnant teenagers, I just want to point out that my very own family lived the dream and adopted me, even though Madonna and Angelina Jolie hadn't yet made it The Next Big Thing. My parents as trend setters? My mother is so cute. She always told me that God knew they couldn't get me the usual way, so He arranged for alternate delivery.
Which, quite frankly, worked out pretty well for them, because I came fully clothed, sort of talking, mostly potty trained, and with my own set of silverware. I even came with an owner's manual in the form of a three page letter from my foster mother. What more can you ask for? Of course, it worked out even better for me, I realize, but still. Can we say win/win?
Anyway, Charlie was born in 1949, an archetypal baby boomer, who grew up on Howdy Doody and the Twilight Zone (that would be the show, although that may be an apt description of certain periods in his life, too, I dunno. You'll have to talk to him about that.)
I don't know what he thought about having a sister come barreling into his life, but I'm guessing he was okay with it, since he gave me my very first doll that day. I still have it; falling apart, sawdust fluttering to the floor every time you pick her up, but I have it. Incidentally, he also gave me my very most favorite doll, my Thumbelina, which now sits hairless and falling to pieces on my closet shelf. I see her every day when I'm getting dressed, and it's a reminder that I am not alone in this world, which is the best thing about having a brother.
My brother is much older than me, eleven years [I never let him forget that, obviously,] and he was already a busy teen by the time my parents picked me out of the line-up. Well, okay, there was no line up. Actually, the truth is, they got me on approval - theirs, not mine - sort of a thumbs up or down situation. Good thing I was lot cuter then, and a lot more quiet. Which leads me to a point I've always felt put me one up on my brother. Our parents were stuck with him, but they got to choose me. It's not much, I know, but it's all I had.
Because my brother was definitely, and I do mean without question, the favorite child. I know this for a fact because he was always the topic of conversation, whether he was there or not. Seriously, Chuckie, as we knew him then, was always the center of intense discussion: mom and him, dad and him, mom and dad and him, mom and dad.... They all talked a lot except me. I was not consulted on anything, so I just played dolls. Did I mention he was a teenaged boy with a motorcycle? And a rather interesting definition of fun?
By the way, you know how some families have pet names for each other? Well, my brother apparently thought my given name wasn't quite bad enough, so he decided to give me a nickname. Zelda, and he did not mean Fitzgerald. If he was only slightly annoyed, he called me Zelda Mae. If he was really mad, I was Zelda Bean. I saw my cousin recently at a family funeral, and by golly if he didn't call me Zelda Bean. Isn't it funny how you can leave home but some things never change?
For awhile there, I was under the misapprehension that I had two brothers, because my cousin, Jim, spent as much time with my family as my real brother did. If we went up north fishing, he was there. (I think my parents introduced him to fishing, actually, which wouldn't be that big of a deal, except that it turned out to be one of things he loved most in life.) If we went to church, there he was. If we went to the grocery store, he was there, too. (I didn't realize he worked there until later, but it seemed to me he was everywhere we went.) Jim was a good guy with a crazy hair fetish, which worked out, because he grew up to be a barber and do a radio show on fishing, a sport he loved until the very day he died. Ironically, on his way home from a day of fishing.
Anyway, my brother introduced a lot of fun into my life. He was always up to something goofy, a real idea guy, and I followed him on his exploits as much as I could. Which means not very much, because he was eleven years older, and he got away from me a lot.
Charlie is very creative and artistic, and he was always making something fun for me. My first playhouse was a giant cardboard box that we kept in the corner. I'll bet he doesn't recall it, but I remember a lot of happy hours in there, thanks to him.
He built a tree house Way High in a pine tree, (okay it was for him, but I still got the benefit, which lasted until I was in high school,) and which provided me a place to run away and be totally alone when I needed a break. I had a bucket on a rope that I would put my book and some snacks into and pull up, and I would sit up there and read and snack all afternoon on a summer day, out of sight and out of my mother's mind, so she wouldn't get annoyed by seeing me with my nose in yet another book, instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing.
My brother was occasionally forced to babysit me, not often, but that was probably my favorite time of all. It was the only time he really felt obligated to notice me, and he would do things with me that my parents would never have allowed otherwise! For example, one time we got tacks and put them on the backs of the piano hammers, so that when we played, it sounded sort of like a harpsichord. And he would give me motorcycle rides, which was probably the best thing of all. I am happy to report that whatever chances he took with his own life, he never took them with mine. He made me wear a helmet and went about four miles an hour, but at the time, it seemed like amazing speed, and was quite a thrill.
My brother always came through with the very best Christmas presents a girl could imagine. Among the most memorable were my Thumbelina doll, which moved like a real baby until I lost the key, a set of twin dolls in a stroller which I named Salt and Pepper, because of their blond and brown hair, and, of course, my cat, Puss Puss.
The story of how I got my cat is one that still makes me feel warm all over. I think it makes my mother hot, too, although possibly not for the same reasons. We were opening our Christmas presents, I was maybe eight or nine years old, and my brother ran upstairs to get me my present. He wasn't living at home by then, he had an apartment in The Cities, so when he came home, he brought his presents with him. [This is pertinent, you can take my word for it, because if my mother had gotten wind of what he brought, that cat would never have seen the light of day.]
When he came down, my present was meowing, and it turned out to be a cat that he had gotten for me at the Humane Society. I have no idea what on earth possessed him to get me a cat, but I was enthralled. I am pretty sure my mother groaned, possibly even uttered the Norwegian epithet, uff da, but I was too busy being thrilled to notice.
My cat came with food, a litter box, and a little sheaf of papers, and he was the best present I had ever gotten. I named him Artexerxes, from the Bible, King of Persia, I can't really remember why on earth I was so taken with that name, but of course, we never called him that. Instead, I just called him Puss Puss.
This was one very large cat, with paws like a bobcat. At his biggest, he weighed 17 pounds. I would put him into my doll buggy and try to stroll him around the yard, which would last just until he could jump out and get away, and then he would go and fight with the other tom cats and come home with slashed up ears. I still see him in my mind's eye with purple ears from the antibiotic spray we used on his wounds. I loved that cat as much as any pet I've ever owned, and it was one of the best presents I've ever gotten.
When my brother graduated from high school, he did what teens were doing back then, he became a full fledged member of the counter culture. In other words, he was a hippie. Long hair, fringe, war protests and colorful flowers became a part of his personal landscape, but any rumors that he ever went to Washington are just a vicious slander. Unless they aren't.
Our family first went to Alaska in 1969, when my brother was just 19, and he fell in love with the rugged and beautiful state. He knew then that he had found his home, and within just a couple years, he was already working to achieve that goal. I will never forget seeing my cousin Barb, her husband Randy, and my brother setting off for the long drive in a little VW bug, looking for a future in a state proud to call itself the last frontier. He fits in up there. Sort of a cross between Grizzley Adams and John (Pa) Walton, I think.
The older we get, the more Charlie reminds me of my dad, which is sort of weird and spooky, but in a nice way. He is a hard worker, great with his hands, and very resourceful. Charlie is also a genuinely nice person, quiet and thoughtful, and wants everyone to be happy, much like my mom. He has a gruff exterior, but inside, he is a marshmallow, reluctant to say no, who would willingly sacrifice himself to bring joy to the people he loves. He is extremely easygoing, which makes him a very easy person to have around most of the time. Dad would proud to see what a terrific man he has grown up to be.
He does, however, have one trait that leads to a certain amount of frustration for his nearest and dearest. He likes to be sure that he gives due consideration to every possible angle when making a decision, which means that he spends an inordinate amount of time making up his mind, at which point, he wants instant action, because the whole thing has taken too long and time's awasting.
A few years ago I took my kids up to Alaska to visit Charlie's family, and we got to see him in action. I should add here that my son is not exactly into spontaneity, and likes to have his life mapped out for weeks in advance, if possible. We would get up in the morning, and Charlie would present us with several options to choose from for activities we might do that day. As we mulled things over, trying to decide, he would suddenly, out of left field, come up with a previously unmentioned idea, and off we would go, totally unprepared.
But never fear, my brother does not travel lightly. He has an RV and a trailer, and they are both full of whatever he thinks we might need to have the best possible time. He takes everything but the kitchen sink for a weekend camping trip. Actually, come to think of it, we had a sink in the RV. So he brings everything.
When you get to the campsite, he begins unloading. There are chairs, tables, food, stove, guitars, hammocks complete with mosquito netting and fishing rods. But on one notable occasion, what he did not have was an epi-pen. Which would have come in handy, since I'm allergic to bee stings, and he stepped on a ground hive. It's all sort of a blur, but involves some panicked travel to a hospital, a lot of epinephrine, and a memory of him standing over me in the emergency room telling me in all seriousness that I needed to get myself together because Mom would never forgive him if something happened to me. Excellent. No need for pesky priorities.
One of the humorous things about that trip, especially in light of all the moose talk in the news recently, was that my kids desperately wanted to see a moose, and never did. We saw a black bear, lots of salmon, and even visited a reindeer farm where yet another cousin lived [yes, I do have a lot of them,] but no moose. That was the great disappointment for the trip, which should tell you we had a lot of fun.
The best thing about having a brother, though, is that he is there for you, no matter what life throws your way. You have shared memories that no one else can understand, like how your dad's glasses always hung on the tip of his nose when he was working hard, or being crammed with your parents into the cab of a truck for a week while driving up the Alcan Highway, only to sit on a parking lot for days while it rained.
You are the only ones who know how the dials came off the black and white television when you were fighting over whether you were going to watch Star Trek or Romper Room. And you both remember when one of you went through their psychedelic period and moved their bedroom to the attic for a few weeks, spending days asleep and nights listening to songs about living in yellow submarines. Not naming names or anything, but you can pretty much assume it wasn't me, since I wouldn't admit to doing anything that silly.
Ironically, we each ended up married at age 23 to similar personalities, and we both ended up divorced after 20 years of marriage, too. We agree that our parents were probably responsible for that. Who knew marriage could be so hard? It was false advertising, since they made it all look so easy. In that very hard time, Charlie provided the kind of moral support that only a big brother could. Partially in the form of his new wife and true soul mate, which means I get to have her in my life, too, which makes us all really lucky he found her. He didn't pretend to have the answers, he just loved me, believed in me, prayed over me, and let me know that it would all be okay in the end.
Although we annoyed each other at times when we were young, I have always felt a little sorry for only children, because it must be lonely when life's biggest decisions knock on your door and you are the only one who can answer it. I am really glad that I can turn to him when something goes wrong, and he cares as much as I do. So, as we approach another birthday, ironically, our birthdays are eleven days apart, I just wanted to say, happy birthday big brother, and here's wishing you many, many more. I love you.
