My Brother Was an Only Child

I’m stimulated by music. The sound and the words often stimulate me to board my personal “WayBack Machine”. As I drift on a song, back to an event or place, it’s usually a person that’s the link to a memory. Upon arrival, I close my eyes and instantly, hanging there in my mind and heart, like apples from the largest tree ever known, is each memory.

The closest memories and times begin with my childhood in West Bridgewater, MA., and the first recollections are of my brother, Chris, and then, as we grew older and apart other amazing real people, all characters in this great mostly non-fiction book of my life.

Aside from spraying “Red Cap” refresher in his eyes occasionally, I was a pretty good brother to Chris and he to me. We shared a second-floor bedroom at 361 Spring Street. From here, we ran imaginary radio broadcasts (The Stringy & Spot Club), read millions of comic books, stole each other’s baseball cards and underwear and bounced the ideas of youth off of each other to stimulate a response.

Because of the configuration of the eaves, our beds needed to be put on opposite walls, where the walls angled in, so you’d hit your head if you walked in those areas. With the beds in those spots, only if you stood up or jumped could you whack your head on the wall. The wallpaper had the boys of summer fishing and they silently watched as Chris and I grew.

We shared a longish closet, which was divided down the middle by an invisible line, followed by one of white tape, which, when crossed, was reason for violent and bellicose actions. We sweltered and melted in the summer and we froze to the heating pipes rendition of the Anvil Chorus in winter.

I so recall and am sure Chris would too, a bird that decided to perch in a tree in the Boynton’s yard, next door. He was evil and would make the same loud call over and over, always way too early and would unite us in some massive scheme to have him done away with, preferably by a lone gunman.

This too, was the room where we heard papa yell hundreds of times, “David and Christopher, if you don’t stop that racket, I’m coming up there”. This, for a few moments, struck fear into our hearts, but papa rarely followed through on the threats of instantaneously depriving us of our very lives, Mama wouldn’t let him. On one occasion, however, that has remained in my memory until this day, Papa made good on his threat.

Around ages 13 and 14 years old, Mama would fold our clothes and then have us carry them up to the bedrooms, upstairs, and put them away. She was so smooth, she’d hand Chris some clothes and tell him which room and drawer then hand me some underwear and say “these go in your second drawer down, you know, the one where your “Playboy Magazines” used to be.” Yikes! busted and she did it without looking up or skipping a beat, Oh the shame!

Mama left our socks up to us to deal with and we’d go to our room and fold them into balls and end up tossing, pegging, hurling, shooting, and attacking each other with them, before they finally found their rightful place in the little drawers at the top of our dresser.

As brothers, only 15 months apart, we use to throw balled up socks at each other from our beds, diving under covers to protect from a deadly hit. One evening, after a million warnings, these socks brought Papa, silently, like some 60’s ninja, up the stairs. My bed’s location allowed me to see his shadow before I actually saw him, I whispered to Chris “here comes Papa”, but because Chris had a hearing deficiency, left over from our Diphtheria days in Jefferson City, Missouri, he just didn’t hear me. Adding insult to injury, he had yanked down his pajamas and made his rear end available as a target for my sock throwing prowess. I dove under my covers and snuck a peek out as papa stealthily approached and raised his giant hand and then spanked Chris so hard it turned him over. Chris immediately yelled “what the hell did you do that for” and got another for cursing. Without saying a word, the giant shadow moved from our room and down the stairs, back to its den, to read his newspaper in peace. I would like to have heard the conversation between my folks, but I found myself waiting a few minutes to see if Chris’ backside was broken, and if it was safe to talk to him. He sat up and said “thanks Boodie”, my parents nickname for me, “why didn’t you say something?”, and I begged his apology, and hoped he would understand that if I had yelled a warning, I may have been in line for the fiery bum barrage. I laughed so hard, that I thought Chris would never forgive me. He did, but this moment remains one of those memories that I recall, almost cherish, these many years later

We are now 74 and 73, both going through some physical issues, but still as close as when we boys. He waxes political from time to time and is very opinionated, and I am about living in the moment and being kind, no matter what. We’re brother’s and per Mama’s wishes, never leave each other or write or phone without saying I love you; a bond the entire family keeps and shares.