Youngren Road. part of first chapter

YOUNGREN ROAD

June 1, 1961 at 12:05 a.m. I was born. Thirty miles from our home in Harbert, Michigan, at St Anthony’s hospital, in Michigan City, Indiana. I have three brothers. Herby six years older, George four years older, and David yet to come, four years younger. All three boys were born in May. This leads me to believe holding out for that precious five minutes was intentional. If I wouldn’t have held out, I would have been born in May. From the beginning, I knew I had to be unique.



Herby, six years older than me, had many different labels in the household. Crazy, nuts, off his rocker, mental case, mean, strong willed, sensitive, philosophical, protective. Those are some that I remember. Herby was the sports fan of the family. Chicago White Soxs’ Chicago Bears’ Chicago Black Hawks’ and Chicago Bulls’. He watched every game that he possibly could. The whole household could hear him yelling from the bedroom in pure enjoyment, as his team would score. So of course, he is the one that taught me how to play baseball, basketball, and football. At Mom’s insistence, it had to be touch football.

“Please read me a story. Please! Please!” I whined.

“I c-c-cant.” Herby said as he shook his head.

“Yes you can, please!” I begged, and begged.

Now let me tell you, Herby had a colossal brown-eyed expression. I have been told many times in my life, I have the same expression. The way he looked at me that night, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head and roll on the floor. I had to hold in the giggles that were coming to the surface. Reluctantly he gave in. Sitting on the edge of the twin bed sighing deeply, he opened the book.

“W-w-w-once ap-pon a t-t- t-time. Th-th-there was.” He closed the book. Now his enormous brown eyes looked sad.

“Thank you Herby.” I whispered.

He patted my leg and shook his head, and smiled. Rolling over, my heart was full of appreciation and sadness. That was the first time I realized how challenging it was for Herby to talk.



George four years older than me. His label. Favorite. Yes, he was the only one that got praise for everything he did. “Oh, look how nice the kitchen looks” “oh look at the nice job George did on the garage,” “oh look at what George made.” Oh, look there goes George with mom again.

The other side was the comedian and friend. He always could make us laugh. He would always do something goofy when we were not supposed to laugh, like at the dinner table or church. George and I played school so many times I should be a genius. We would set up hundreds of army men threw-out the house and played forever. He also was the one that taught me how to fight. He always told me ‘kill or be killed’. Our pillows were punched so many times, it is miraculous that the feathers did not flutter threw the house. His aspiration was to be a police officer; however his favorite game to play was Al Capone and Bugs Moran. That should of told us something right there. George left home at the age of 13 and hitchhiked around the United States. He has many of his own stories to tell.



David lived a miracle.