My big brother and I were rarely apart growing up. I was his guinea pig in nearly all things. As very, very small children someone and I suspect it was my Grandmother told him I was and I quote “his baby”. This was to encourage him to look after me, however what it inspired was something along those lines and much, much more. There we were, 3 and 4 years old in the parlor. The kitchen light was on, but in between the parlor and the kitchen was *insert creepy music* the long dark hallway of doom! Ok, maybe it wasn’t doom, it was just a long dimly lit hallway that would scare a four year old that couldn’t reach the light switch. Past that lit kitchen was the bathroom. At night, tiny nightlights lined the hall, but as we all know monsters hide in between the nightlight spots, so that they can eat unsuspecting children who have had too much milk. My brother had cleverly found a way around this dilemma. If and when he had to go down the hallway of doom, it’s always best to bring someone smaller, who cannot run as fast that way the monsters can eat them and you get away. Solid thinking from a young lad looking back, however not exactly what I had on my agenda as I sat on my Grandpa’s lap watching Sunday’s Disney Special. I however was “his” remember? So since I was his that meant I had to go with him. My grandparents encouraged this behavior, I suspect that they had too many to feed, and figured one less wouldn’t be that bad. I’m kidding, of course they knew there were no monsters in the hallway, but it’s easier to send the 3 year old with the scared 4 year old then go with them yourself after an 18 hour work day. I can respect that, they worked hard and they were not young. I took one for the team. So hand in hand he’d drag me down the hallway of doom, and then to the bathroom where I’d make shaving cream snowmen on the bathroom sink with Grandpa’s Barbasol. I was addicted to making those, and it was always with a sigh that I washed them away when it was time to go back to the parlor.
As we grew up my guinea pigness began to blossom. We had watched Mary Poppins, now in all honesty I do not recommend this movie to anyone with children. Why? While it may be a classic, I know way too many kids who have had the exact same idea my brother had. I can picture him reading this as I type and squinting as he shakes his head remembering that fateful day. Yes, the day he tried to “make Anj fly.” Now he was a clever lad of 6. I was the poor unsuspecting sucker who with umbrella in hand was told to jump from our second story bedroom window. The family home mind you was not a typical house. This was a cigar factory my great grandparents had built into a grand home. The “second story” is approximately 25 feet of the ground. Once I was standing on the window sill clinging to the window for dear life, my brother decided that perhaps an umbrella may not be quite enough. He pulled me back in and pulled a sheet out of the linen closet, went into my Great Grandmother’s sewing room and took out about 50 safety pins. He then safety pinned the sheet to my body. Now he determined I was ready to fly, the umbrella was of course to be the main flight propellant; the sheet was the backup plan. So I climbed back out onto the window sill with my big ladybug bubble umbrella. The countdown came and I froze. A voice inside my head said “Don’t jump.” I told him I didn’t want to. He decided that it would be fine, and helped me get good height by giving me a bit of a toss off the window sill. My scream echoed through the house and yard as my bubble umbrella promptly turned inside out, and the scream turned into a wail as I bounced off the carport 15 feet below the window and from there onto the sidewalk. One broken leg, one broken arm and a sprained wrist were the only injuries. My brother being the honest sort of fellow he was, ran through the house wailing as loud as I was “I broke the Baby!”.
Sadly to this day when I am spoke of, and not to, I am referred to as “the Baby”. My brother stopped doing this when I was about 8 or so, however the rest of the family continued and I’ll be 40 in 2.25 years.
I was driven to the hospital to be repaired yet again, my brother in the backseat crying as hard and loud as I was in the lap of my Grandmother in the passenger seat of the front. My poor Grandfather drove the car at the speed of light yet again to the hospital. I can’t even imagine the migraine that poor man must have had.
I was not only a guinea pig but a valued instrument for my brother’s personal growth. Ok, not exactly but it sounds a lot better than what it really was. My brother started football. He was as most of the males in the family, tall and big. He’s now 6’4” and 250 pounds. As a kid he was always tall and thick, so of course he was going to play defense. He could pretty much squash anyone that was going to be coming his way if size alone were a factor. There was only one tiny issue. Like most young fellows that start football, he was afraid of being hit. The easiest solution? Put the scrawny younger sister in her older uncle’s helmet, dress him in his full football pads and gear and have her launch herself at him repeatedly for a few hours every day. After a week he was no longer afraid of being hit. I quite honestly thoroughly enjoyed this part, the next part though, not quite as much. While he could now take a hit, the problem became how exactly do you tackle someone? So my job was to run around with this helmet on that was so big it would spin around on my head while he chased me through the field. If he caught me his job was to tackle me. Yes, I was indeed a tackling dummy. You’d be amazed how fast you can run while someone is chasing you knowing they’re going to flatten you. After about a week of being a human tackling dummy, he was the best defensive tackle the pee wee team had ever seen. His football career went on through many championships and through high school and he was always MVP. Yes, you owe that all to me. *insert wide and cocky grin*
As we grew our misadventures did too. My brother wanted to be a chef when he grew up. He took on the diligent task of sharpening every knife in the house to a razor’s edge. He showed me his fine craftwork and I of course being 11 had no idea how to tell a sharp knife from a dull one, so I asked. “You run your finger down the blade.” I shrugged one shoulder and did as he bade. Now you see he didn’t say the “side” of the blade. So with one quick smooth motion I ran my pointer finger from the tip to the hilt of the longest knife we owned to test my brother’s fine work. Oh the blade was indeed sharp and it cut my finger quite literally down to the bone. I lifted my finger from the blade, as I hadn’t felt any pain yet and he just kind of looked at me with an odd expression. I looked back not really understanding until my finger erupted in a rushing gout of blood that began to spill quite literally out across the kitchen floor. My eyes were as wide as saucers as he grabbed my hand and yanked it under the faucet. He then explained the difference between the “side” of the blade and the “length” of the blade to test sharpness. I had pretty much gotten the picture at this point, but he wanted to clarify. 19 stitches later I was repaired yet again. To this day when this story comes up he bursts into laughter, and swears it was not his fault. I could have sworn he motioned with his finger down the length of the blade, but I can’t bet the house on it so I’ll give him this one.
Since my brother and I were so close we really didn’t do much without the other. When friends came over we both went out to play. Well as we got older the dividing line between “boys” and ‘girls” came into focus. We didn’t see it, however his friends did, at least some of them. Dean, a friend of his came over and they were playing catch with a football in the backyard. I of course wanted to play too. I asked if I could and Dean said no because I was “just a girl”. Never did like that Dean guy all that much. So another friend Billy came over, and said that we could have a 2 on 2, the fourth being yours truly. Now I could catch and throw a football better than either of them, since I had been my brother’s catching dummy and throwing arm for years. Dean again said no. Billy pushed the issue saying that he’d be on my team. I was standing on the patio at the time watching this all take place. Dean refused; he would not play football with a girl. My brother stood up for my saying I could throw a spiral. I can too, darn good one at that. He finally relented saying if I jumped off the patio then I could play because that would prove I wasn’t a wuss. I looked over the railing, it was 15 feet down. Now recalling the fall from the carport I looked at my brother. He nodded, “You can do that easy Anj!” Billy nodded as well. Hmm..ok. So I climbed over the railing and standing on the edge of the patio I jumped. Well I hadn’t gotten the whole landing thing down yet and didn’t realize when you do something so incredibly stupid you’re supposed to bend your knees to absorb the shock. I landed stiff as a board and promptly had the wind knocked right out of me, and fell backwards like a ton of bricks gasping for air. They ran over, my brother kindly slamming me in the back to improve my air flow. Once I caught my breath I stood up and punched Dean. He cried. He then said I couldn’t play football anyway. Did I mention I never did like Dean? Billy pointed out that I hadn’t cried after jumping off the porch, but he cried when I punched him. I got to play. I also knew from being my brother’s tackling dummy exactly what a shoulder spear was, and how to place my shoulder exactly into the soft of a target’s belly. Dean was my target the entire time we played. Strangely after that he always wanted to be on my team. Go figure.
When we moved to Massachusetts the basement of the house was unfinished. My brother’s drum set was down there. My father said he’d put a light in down there, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Normally when this story is told it’s about this point my brother starts laughing uncontrollably. You’ll see why in just a bit. So my father had purchased a light socket, and the wiring and left it in the short hall that led to the room my brother’s drums were in. He had already pulled the fuse as well. My brother figured, how hard can this be? He decided we could wire this up without a problem.
My job was initially to sit by the light socket and wait. It was a good job, albeit boring, but it fit the pay. In other words, I got nothing, so my job was to do nothing. In a flash of genius my 14 year old brother came over and wired the light socket. While we didn’t have a ladder to put it on the ceiling, at least there would be light. So that end was set, and now all he had to do was wire up the other end to the fuse box.
This is where I’ll insert the famous last words. “Hold this.” He said to me as he passed me the wired light. Now we didn’t happen to have any of those neat little caps you put on the end of the wires, so they just kind of hung there below the light socket. He went over, wired up the other end to the fuse box and flipped the power back on. *insert the sound of a 13 year old being electrocuted as she became the ground for said uncapped wires* Apparently after being launched quite literally backwards across the room like a rocket, hair standing quite literally on end, arms out in front of me like Superman, legs as well, and coming to a convenient rest at the cement knee wall, I sat there eyes peeled wide open staring into space. He thought I was dead. He flipped the power back off, and began shaking me. It’s at this point in the story when it’s told that my brother can no longer speak, is red faced and rolled into a ball laughing hysterically. He eeps out something about my hair standing straight out in all directions, but cannot seem to form any other coherent words as he recalls the incident as if it were yesterday. Aside from a couple minor burns I was stunned but fine. It was at this point we decided to leave electrical wiring to those who understood it better.
Through the years and hundreds of misadventures we somehow grew up, more or less in one piece. I can hear him laughing as he reads this. I’m hoping it will force him to call me if only to hear that laughter.
While I don’t exactly miss the misadventure parts, I sure do miss the adventure parts. Two kids took on the world together, and a few broken bones, burns, and electrocutions aside we came out ok. As always with family get togethers his kids will ask for stories of us growing up. We will offer them the tales of what not to do, and we will spend a night in tear filled laughter. I can’t wait. I learned a great many things from my brother.1. Possession is 9/10 of the law.
2. Gravity works.
3. Don’t play with knives.
4. When falling bend your knees.
5. Do not play with electricity.
There are many other lessons I learned, and perhaps after his visit I’ll write up some more of our misadventures. I hope these brought you at least a bit of laughter, I know they’ve brought us many many nights of hysterical laughter as the two of us tell these stories.
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