Reminiscences
Thanksgiving was so nice this year. My brother Mike and his family came from Delaware for a visit. On Wednesday night we had a big dinner with cousins, but on Thanksgiving day we rode 4-wheelers at my other brother’s house (4-wheelers being the all-terrain vehicles, like a dirt bike with four really big wheels).
After our ride we sat around the campfire and reminisced, retelling stories we tell every year. Like the one about Chris being tired of taking the trash out to the barrel to burn (this was back about 1970) so he decided to burn it in the house instead—and then not letting anyone in the house because, after he lit it, he knew he’d done something bad. Or the one about Chris throwing the coconut through the window—the closed window; he claims to this day that he thought it was a ball of yarn. Or the one about my cousin Lance and me, at about ages 6 and 7, getting caught in the upstairs shower stall paging through Grandpa’s Playboy magazine.
Mike’s stories are always funny with a hint of sad. He’s the oldest: 10 years older than me, four and a half older than Chris.
A typical Mike story usually involves him taking the responsible role, watching out for his younger siblings. For example, one cold, winter day in my brothers’ youths, they and a neighbor boy a year younger than Chris tramped back the drive, between the barns, over the field, and down the hill to the creek. The creek was great fun in the winter, but we had to be careful because some sections were pretty deep and didn’t always freeze solid.
So the three boys are down at the creek hitting each other over the head with thin ice, like theater glass, sliding along, exploring, and SPLASH! The neighbor falls in up to his ankles.
What to do, what to do?
By the time he got back to the house in those wet boots, he’d probably have frost bite. Mike could carry him maybe, if he didn’t have to go up the hill. Hmm? Being the good neighbor, Mike gives up his own boots and decides to wait on the creek bank on the condition that Chris and/or the neighbor bring him back a pair of warm, dry boots.
The walk from the creek to the house only takes about five minutes. Still, Mike waits and waits. After what seems like an hour he begrudgingly concludes that Chris and the neighbor are not coming back.
Freezing and finally, Mike gets to the house in his soggy stocking feet, walks in and sees Chris and the neighbor boy sipping hot chocolate and watching cartoons.
Every year Mike recounts the story, he imitates the wide-eyed, drop-jawed, innocent look of “Oh, I forgot,” that flashed onto Chris’s face when he saw his older brother. And every year by the end of the story Mike is seething.
I guess really cold feet are not soon forgotten.
After our ride we sat around the campfire and reminisced, retelling stories we tell every year. Like the one about Chris being tired of taking the trash out to the barrel to burn (this was back about 1970) so he decided to burn it in the house instead—and then not letting anyone in the house because, after he lit it, he knew he’d done something bad. Or the one about Chris throwing the coconut through the window—the closed window; he claims to this day that he thought it was a ball of yarn. Or the one about my cousin Lance and me, at about ages 6 and 7, getting caught in the upstairs shower stall paging through Grandpa’s Playboy magazine.
Mike’s stories are always funny with a hint of sad. He’s the oldest: 10 years older than me, four and a half older than Chris.
A typical Mike story usually involves him taking the responsible role, watching out for his younger siblings. For example, one cold, winter day in my brothers’ youths, they and a neighbor boy a year younger than Chris tramped back the drive, between the barns, over the field, and down the hill to the creek. The creek was great fun in the winter, but we had to be careful because some sections were pretty deep and didn’t always freeze solid.
So the three boys are down at the creek hitting each other over the head with thin ice, like theater glass, sliding along, exploring, and SPLASH! The neighbor falls in up to his ankles.
What to do, what to do?
By the time he got back to the house in those wet boots, he’d probably have frost bite. Mike could carry him maybe, if he didn’t have to go up the hill. Hmm? Being the good neighbor, Mike gives up his own boots and decides to wait on the creek bank on the condition that Chris and/or the neighbor bring him back a pair of warm, dry boots.
The walk from the creek to the house only takes about five minutes. Still, Mike waits and waits. After what seems like an hour he begrudgingly concludes that Chris and the neighbor are not coming back.
Freezing and finally, Mike gets to the house in his soggy stocking feet, walks in and sees Chris and the neighbor boy sipping hot chocolate and watching cartoons.
Every year Mike recounts the story, he imitates the wide-eyed, drop-jawed, innocent look of “Oh, I forgot,” that flashed onto Chris’s face when he saw his older brother. And every year by the end of the story Mike is seething.
I guess really cold feet are not soon forgotten.
posted by Elizabeth Evans Fryer at 4:14 AM
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