My younger brother is about twice my size. He towers over
everyone. It is a running joke to introduce him as my “baby” brother. In the early years of high school he had a growth
spurt My mother, in self defense, made all his pants and shirts that year. He
grew an inch a week for a couple of months. His bones actually hurt, and you
could almost hear him creak as his body stretched.
Steve started out as a rolly-polly chub of a baby. He was so
heavy mother had to make him walk on leading strings as soon as he could takes steps on his own.
She simply couldn’t carry him any longer. Back in the day, leading strings looked a lot like a body harness with a leash you put on a dog. There
weren’t cute back packs or bracelets then. And the leading strings were sorely
needed with Steve. He was fast. He would dart away from mom in the blink of
an eye. We went on a shopping trip to downtown Port Arthur one Saturday. Steve was about
three years old, I was about five. Steve, as usual, got hungry and decided he
didn’t want to walk any more. He simply dropped down on the sidewalk and
refused to get up. Mother could barely lift him. She begged and tugged and
made promises the shopping trip would soon be over. Nothing worked. He was
holding fast to rolling on the ground like a very heavy sack of potatoes. He
needed encouragement from his older sister. In a moment my mother was looking
up, I leaned over and clearly said, “Get up or I’ll kick you.” He rolled a bit,
I pulled my foot back and he popped up. Mom was praising her little man for
doing just as she asked. Then she scolded me for being ugly to my brother.
Humph!
Our street had very deep drainage ditches on each side. The
ditch in front of our house was at least three feet deep. With heavy rains, we
had our very own swimming pool. One Sunday morning following a stormy night with torrential rain, mother dressed Steve for church and told him to behave. Being about five years old at the time, Steve couldn’t
resist the tug of the water. Like the sirens of the Odyssey, the muddy water called to him. Mother walked past the living room windows and spotted
his head bobbing up and down in the ditch. She stormed out of the house,
grabbed a switch from a tree and headed for the street. She pulled him out of
the water, switched him all the way to the house and redressed him. She shook
her finger in his face and said, “Don’t you dare get your Sunday clothes wet
again.” Thirty minutes later, she sees the red head with the freckled face
bobbing up and down in the ditch again. Oh, my, was she angry. Steve saw mother in the process of ripping another switch off the tree. He stood upright
and pointed to the fence while saying as clearly as possible, “But I didn’t get
my clothes wet. See? I was good.” Mother turned to see he had stripped naked
and every article of clothing was hanging on the fence – each sock, each shoe, shirt,
pants, underwear – all were hanging carefully and neatly. He did exactly what she
told him. He did not get his Sunday clothes wet. She sat down in the yard and
cried, then she started laughing. Needless to say, we were late for church.
Time rocked along and we graduated high school. Steve graduated high school in 1976 and immediately joined the Navy. He was deployed on a nuclear submarine that
traveled the world. He would never tell us where they went, but hinted years
later that they could often hear Russian music. He would never tell how fast
that big sub would go. We would ask questions like, “60 miles an hour? 80
miles?” His only answer was “fast.” In 1978 I gave birth to my daughter. Steve
was deployed on a 90 day mission. There was no way to make a phone call to let
him know he was an uncle. My parents contacted the Red Cross for advice. They
were advised that a telegram, referred to as a familygram, could be sent. In the situation of a non-emergency
the sub would get the message when they surfaced. Other methods were used in
emergencies. My mother, armed with the knowledge that the telegram had to be
brief, dictated the following: "expected
package arrived stop small but powerful stop." Okay, so did this sound like the
stuff of bombs and espionage to you? Well, apparently it did to the officers on the sub. I never knew whether or not they put him in the brig while questioning Steve over the unusual verbiage of the telegram. I know he was upset and probably blamed me.
(I don’t know if I have written about this before, but Steve
is a lot like that character in MacGyver on the old television show. If it goes
wrong, Steve can fix it. If you are stuck in the Gulf of Mexico on a boat with a broken motor, and you have a choice of my brother or a computer genius,
give Steve a piece of bubble gum and a bobby pin. He will get you home.
Needless to say, when I have a mechanical issue baffling me, I call Steve.)
When Steve came home after several deployments to actually
see his new niece, we all gathered at my parents’ home for a big family dinner.
Steve gently cradled Tina in his giant arms that hovered several inches over my
head. He followed mother into the kitchen and quietly asked if I had been ill
during pregnancy or had been sick with a serious illness. Mother was puzzled,
said no and asked him why he was concerned. He said, “Because Cheryl looks so little
and shrunken.” She laughed and said, “She’s always been that size. She just had
you fooled into thinking she was bigger, meaner and tougher than you so she
could take away your bike.”
So I guess the real job of being a big sister is to tell
all. Sorry, baby brother.
And I didn’t take his bike that often. He usually let me
have it if asked. At least, I think that’s how that went.
