My Older, Older Brother

My older, older brother thought big thoughts when I was still short and went to college when I was just ten. He left the sibling harassment to his whistling younger, almost-twin brother. The sibling patriarch invested his time reading books and drinking Dr. Pepper instead. After a haircut he brought me the lollipop, he had no taste for sweets. He was a myth and a giant, and an ever so serious older, older brother to me.

I reached my full height before our first conversation. It took place by telephone. He was in Wyoming about to marry his first love and make his first home. I think I talked more to her more than him. Even now we meet on the phone. He makes the calls. He thinks it’s his duty. He is the first-born after all.

A listener would think our dialogues boring. They aren’t filled with verbal volleyball. Information is tranferred cordially with efficiency. We’re both highly perceptive. We say things directly. What else would you think could possibly occur between an older, older brother and a wide-eyed little girl?

I was an unpredictable child. He drives to avoid the curves. We don’t tell jokes or discuss philosophy. But human exchanges quite often slip through. I treasure those moments particularly.

Once when my son was 16, a phone call went something like this.

me: I would never have talked to my mother like that.
older, older brother: I think I’m hearing a selective memory.
me: What do you mean?
oob: I remember some all-out conversations between you and your mother.
me: Are you kidding? I was scared to stand up to her.
oob: Yep. Definitely selective memory. I saw the same conversations here when your niece had it out with her mother. Like I said she’s too much like her aunt.
me: A truly delightful child.
oob: Balderdash! A true pain in the neck.

Each year on my birthday the call is the same. Some might call it a stage routine.

oob: Is this my older sister? Oh my, you’re up before noon?
me: This is your baby sister who has been working for hours.
oob: You’re the only sister I have, so you’re the older one to me.
me: I see.
oob: Happy Birthday. You know, it’s not the number of years on the car. It’s the number of miles on the chasis. I figure your chasis has far more miles on it than mine.
me: Why thank you, dear brother. I know you mean that in the very best light.
oob: Of course I do. I’m always polite to my elders.

That’s my older, older brother. He’s everything my younger, older brother is not and vice versa. And with both in the end, I will never win. He too is still bigger, taller, and older than me (and always will be).

I’m always stuck with whatever’s left over.

I’ll have to settle for younger, and prettier, and smarter. . . . and nicer, and sweeter, and more fun to be with.

It’s a curse on the baby of the family.

—me strauss Letting me be