A Birthday Present You've Probably Never Received

This week I turn sumpin' sumpin' years old. I'm hoping for jewelry, but who really cares. I definitely have everything I need and pretty much everything I want. However, the most unusual and best present I ever got came on my 2nd birthday, but I wouldn't realize it for years to come. On June 14, 1969, I turned two and my mom delivered my brother, Gary. As the story goes, the doctor had theatre tickets to see Hair on June 15. I'm sure my mom didn't argue about going in a day early. She was probably on her second gin gimlet when he called to offer the option. It was the 60s, people.

Let's get the regular stuff out of the way: Yes, my brother and I have same birthday. No, we don't have any other siblings. Yes, our parents only did it in October, exactly twice.

When we were little we hung out all the time making up skits and playing in the yard. But around the my 14th birthday, something terrible happened. I remember it vividly. We shared a bathroom and I was in there putting on my Revlon Marine Blue eyeliner (way too heavily I'm sure) and he walked in and momentarily paused behind me. In that unplanned moment we both knew the game had changed forever. Gary was taller. It was a swap in the balance of power that would last for years, right up until he acknowledged we could be friends again. Usually he was gentle and used his size advantage with a humorous approach. But one time he and a friend thought it would be funny to scare the crap out of me by launching bottle rockets from his bedroom window while I rode my bike (orange with a purple banana seat) up and down the street. I'd like to think he didn't mean for one to shoot through my hair and explode next to my head.

But throughout the hassling, elbowing, tripping, and full nelsons, we were friends deep down. After all, he knew he had to stay somewhat in my good graces or I wouldn't let my friends make out with him anymore. But that's a different post.

Having a big little brother was and is awesome.

One Friday night, my senior year in high school, I got dropped off at home from a party and was a little banged up. I was not at all surprised to find my brother shooting hoops on the driveway. Here's how our conversation went:

Me: Gar, do you have anything for my breath?
Gary: All I have is chewing tobacco. Opens the tin can to show me.
Me: Thanks! Grabbing a big league-sized scoop, I chew and swallow it.
Gary: Look of horror and disgust. Wait, don't!

I walk into the house

Mom: Hi honey, did you have fun tonight?
Me: Yes.
Mom: What's in your teeth?
Me: Brownies. Good night.
Mom: Good night.

My brother loves this story because he's seen guys twice my size taken down and puke for hours when a little bit of Skoal accidentally slipped down their throats. I think in his redneckian 15-year-old way, he saw me in a different, cooler light that night. And we've been looking out for each other ever since.

Happy Flag Day, Gary!