My brother has long been a source of joy and confusion for me. He came into my world after a long, lonely seven years as an only child; the excitement of having a sibling was almost more than I could bear and I greeted his arrival with a spring in my step and a stuffed puppy in hand. My enthusiasm bordered on hysteria and after a year pretending that he was mine and bossing my mother around about what she should be doing, I settled into a world where I was either laughing or shaking my head - sometimes both simultaneously. I suppose I could have guessed that after throwing up on the puppy he would give me a lifetime of scratching my head and blinking profusely when in his presence, but honestly there are few prepared for a life with Jack.
When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his. Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him. Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America. As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants". I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.
His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment. Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments. My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic. My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'. My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point. While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy. We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.
When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus. He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning. As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day. Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life. Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose. What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.
My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages. My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven? At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage. The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker. First, middle, last. I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name. After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat. As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said. My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one. This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to. The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before. He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back. The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred. When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well. Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.
I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed. Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.
This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch. Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work. You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth. To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar. This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.
