On Goldenrod Road

Oh, Brother

      I loved my big brother. Still do. As a little kid, I embraced him as a role model, looking up to him in multiple ways because he was ten years older than me. But I know my brother persecuted me; the memories are tattooed into my brain.

      The crystal flakes fluttered down like thousands of white butterflies. A film of condensation outlined the spots where my nose and mouth left prints against the front window. Kindergarten and high school had been canceled, and I waited for my brother Harvey to take me outside to build a snowman. He’d been calling his friends all morning to set up an hour for sliding and sledding. But I knew he would make time for me.

      Late in the morning, a gaggle of teens broke the white silence with whoops and screams. As a snowball hit the front door with a thump, my brother grabbed his gloves, coat, and cap and started to pull on his boots.

      “Just a moment, young man!” My mother’s shrill voice halted him in mid tug. ”It won’t hurt you to take Gary with you.”

      Harvey stared at me, his mouth contorted in pain. “But ... but, he’s too little. He won’t be able to keep up.”

      Mom answered with a glare that served as an order. “It’s your job to make sure he keeps up. Either he goes, or you’re shoveling snow.”

      My brother, who looked like he’d just been commanded to clean the toilet with his toothbrush, nodded and gazed at his feet.

      Then my mother added a familiar string of words, “Watch Gary, no ‘if’s, and’s, or but’s’ about it’.”

      Mom poured me into my cream colored, one-piece snowsuit, tucked my shoulders inside, fitted the hood over my head, and zipped up the whole thing. Mittens dangled on a string from my coat sleeves. I must have resembled Casper, The Friendly Ghost.

      But I smiled from ear to ear, not caring how silly I looked. After all, I was going sliding in the snow with the big kids.

      With rubber-booted, baby steps, I trailed the group of raucous, rowdy teens heading in the direction of Blackjack Creek. Harvey soon forgot about me as he strolled arm in arm with two pretty girls. Then he joined in snowball fights and slid on the soles of his boots in the packed car tracks.

      I had to kick my way through the deep snow. Constricted by the snowsuit, walking wore me out. By the time we reached the sliding hill, I happily let gravity take over. Perched in an upside down garbage lid, gripping the edges, I careened and whirled down the steep, icy slope. Only salal and huckleberry bushes at the bottom protected me from bashing into trees and self-inflicting brain damage.

      Dragging my “sled” behind me, I clambered back up the hill. After three times, I was exhausted. My full body suit didn’t help. When two more attempts to crawl up the incline proved failed, I sat at the bottom with the hood flipped back. Then, everyone started to leave.

      There was no way my tired body would allow me to follow without help. And I began to panic, thinking they might abandon me in the woods. Frightening shades of Hansel and Gretel.
I whimpered, “Help! I can’t get up the hill!” I wallowed on my stomach covered with the white, freezing powder.

      “Hey, kid, I’ll pull ya up.” A pimply-faced boy jerked out a length of rope and brandished it like a whip.

      I grabbed for it.

      “No, no, kid. Ya gotta wrap it around your neck first. Then hold on.” He displayed a gap-toothed grin in need of serious dental work.

      Being naïve, desperate, and only six, I looped it around my neck.

      He pulled on the long cord and started yanking me up the hill like a bag of dirty laundry. My mittened hands slipped off the rope and it tightened noose-like around my neck. I gasped for air and my eyes bugged out. I tried to scream for help, but could make a sound except for a rattle deep inside my throat. Gagging and choking, my world began shading to black when one of the girls shouted, “Hey, what are you doin’, dip s***!?”

      It took a moment to register that the object of her insult was the teen dragging me up the hill. She ripped the rope from him and gently uncoiled it from my neck. I tried to rub the burning ring around my neck, but it hurt to the touch. Lifting me to my feet, my savior took my arm and guided me to the top of the slope.


      When my mother returned to the house after collecting eggs from our chicken coop, her eyes widened. “What happened?” She spoke in clipped syllables and directed her fixed stare at my brother.

      As I explained, Harvey slunk away toward the bedroom. Mom scowled and lifted her voice. “We’ll see what your father says about this when he gets home from work.” She aimed her comments at the spot vacated by my brother. Then she led me to the bathroom and massaged soothing ointment into my wound.

      When my father stepped through the back door at 5:15p.m., my mother paraded me in front of his gray-eyed, thin-lipped stare. He turned me in a circle, cocking his head to better see my rope burns. He gave a deep sigh, shook his head, and patted me on the scalp. “Go into your room and send me your brother,” he commanded in a flat, businesslike tone.

      Dad didn’t discipline often, but when he did, he taught a lesson. Far away in my room, I heard the words “irresponsible” and “he could have died." Harvey tried to say something in self-defense, but our father cut him short. “In this case – you ARE your brother’s keeper. There’s nothing more to say.”

      The next day my brother shoveled snow – for most of the day. I only put two and two together later. His sentence was shoveling snow for not protecting me. When I offered to help, his shoulders slumped, and he glowered at me like I was an irritating subspecies. He spat out the words,“Just go away.”

*    *    *

      Harvey was a shameless know-it-all. To him, there were only two ways of doing things: his way and the wrong way. Examples: telling our mother how to cook and our father how to farm.

      Dad installed a basketball hoop by screwing the bracket into the tall, outside wall of the chicken shed in our backyard. Although the ground was uneven, it was better than nothing. I worked hard learning how to play basketball. Dribbling on the bumpy ground was a challenge. Shooting was, too. I would hurl the pebbly-surfaced rubber ball at the metal hoop. Sometimes it even fell through.

      Harvey was watching me practice one afternoon, as I propelled the brown rubber ball toward the elevated hoop. Whenever one fell through, I expected him to congratulate me with reserved praise. Like “well done”, for example.

      Instead, I heard, “Boy, that sure was ugly.”

      My shoulders slumped, and I answered, “B-but I made a basket.”

      “Yeah, you made it, and it looked butt ugly.” He shook his head and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Here.” He opened his hands. “Gimme the ball. Let me show you a few things.”

      Eager to learn the proper techniques, I handed it over.

      “Now, watch,” he said, facing the basket with his elbows spread. “First, a head fake.” His eyes and head jerked toward the sky. “Then, a shoulder fake.” The upper part of his torso flinched left. “Now, up for the shot.”

      He leaped into the air, held the ball above his forehead, and flicked in a two-pointer. “See, that’s how it’s done,” he explained with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, you do it.”

      I tried to mimic his movements, feeling spastic. When I went up for the shot, he smacked it back in my face.

      “Gotta watch out for defenders,” he smirked. “That’s an added free lesson. Go ahead and practice on your own.”

      I retraced his lesson a few times, but my shots never reached the rim. Not even close. I was too little for adult shooting techniques.

      When I complained to him, he answered, “Don’t be a cry baby. Keep working and you’ll get the hang of it.”

      But I didn’t. I’ll get the hang of it in about five years, I thought. I decided not to practice something I couldn’t do. So, when Harvey turned his back, I resumed heaving the ball at the rim. A few shots even bounced through.

      When my brother looked back, he blew up. Stomping up to me, he pulled the ball away and shouted, “If you’re going to ignore my lesson and just look stupid, I’m not going to waste my time anymore.” He trudged away with the ball.

      “Hey, could you leave the ball?” I pleaded.

      “Sure!” He whirled and heaved it against my hip. It was my misfortune that it bounded back to him. He threw it again, but I managed to duck. When I returned from the raspberry canes with the ball, he’d disappeared inside the house.

      Dropping the basketball at my feet, I rubbed my bruised, aching hip. But a grin spread across my face. At least I had the ball, and without my brother, I could shoot it any way I wanted.
Picking it up, I heaved it underhand toward the basket. Swish!

*    *    *

        I feared Polio when I was growing up because before the 1960’s no vaccine existed. The disease attacked with indifference – young, old, rich, poor – it didn’t matter. It could be treated, but there was no cure. Those afflicted could get well, be crippled for life, or even die. And it was epidemic during the 1950’s.

      Visions of children and young adults walking with crutches or braces were commonplace. Some people were confined to large, tubular breathing machines called “iron lungs”. Who wouldn’t be terrified?

      Tommy Lester, a boy who attended our church, was diagnosed with polio. He needed crutches and braces to walk. The dreaded disease became personal.

      No one knew for certain what caused it, but scientists suspected a common denominator. Their best guess was contaminated water. Most people who came down with polio lived near or played in lakes and ponds. Public swimming pools weren’t even trusted. A lot of us neighborhood kids spent time at the pond, Blackjack Creek, and even Horseshoe Lake during the summer.
My mom became a “clean freak”. She washed our clothes at least once a week. When weather permitted, she hung them on the outside clothesline in the sun to be sanitized.

      She required her family to wash thoroughly. To this day, I can hear her voice echo, “Gar-ee, make sure you wash with soap and water all the way to your elbows.”

      “Wash to get rid of germs” became her motto. I took it seriously. One day while racing around the house, a fly flew inside my open mouth. With quick action, my forefinger dug it out. But then I hurried into the bathroom, took out my toothbrush, and scrubbed my mouth with soap and water. I had only tasted soap once before – when I’d blurted out a naughty word.


      Against this backdrop, my brother committed another foul deed.

      Although I never considered my family poor, we seldom splurged on luxuries. Ice cream cones were special treats to all of us.

      In Port Orchard on Bay Street, a little sandwich and burger joint named Jan’s Café sold the greatest tasting ice cream on the face of my earth. Yummm! Twenty-four flavors, ranging from peppermint to pistachio filled their ample freezer. I loved most of their flavors – especially the triple chocolate – ice cream so rich its silky, rich chunks dissolved inside my mouth.

      One Sunday in summer, after a stifling, warm church service (we didn’t have air conditioning, just handheld fans shaped like ping pong paddles), our parents packed the whole family in the 1941 Chevy and headed down the hill to Jan’s in pursuit of a tasty, refreshing treat. Of course, I chose the triple chocolate, my sister Carrol the pistachio, and Harvey the maple nut. Mom and Dad sat in front, so I wedged myself between my siblings in the back seat, handling my cone with loving care.

      Halfway home, my brother sat empty handed, having wasted no time demolishing his treat. He gave a longing, covetous look at my triple chocolate cone. A huge mound still remained because I was savoring each bite.

      “Can I have a little bite?” he wheedled.

      “But – but you already ate yours.” I pointed out the obvious.

      “Puleez! I’ve never tasted triple chocolate.” He screwed his face into a pathetic pucker, brow wrinkling and the corners of his mouth turning south.

      I felt sorry for him. I should have known better, but Mom and Dad always taught us to share. Holding out my cone with an uncertain grip in his direction, he grabbed my hand, took a huge bite, and slobbered all over it by giving it a tongue licking.

      I sobbed and held my ice cream cone at arm’s length.

      My mom yelled at Harvey and looked me in the eye. “Go ahead and finish it before it melts all over the seat.”

      “Nooo! It’s all covered with germs!” I wailed.

      She gave me an anxious, twittery look until Harvey volunteered. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He shrugged and ate the rest. He probably had designs on my treat the whole time.