Stories Involving My Brother – Earth and Midnight

Taking the Field

When we were kids, my grandma would periodically take my brother and I to feed wild ducks by the river that runs through the town she lived in.

My grandparents kept a metal trash can in their garage filled to the top with dried corn kernels. Grandma would dip a plastic bucket for each of us into the trash can. Then she drove us a mile or so to the river- back then, it seemed a lot farther.

We’d park near the same patch of grass each time, the ducks waddling toward us before we even got out of the car. What a thrill, flinging handfuls of corn to rain down on our fanbase! They devoured it and baby stepped toward us, chattering, emboldened by greed.

Later, when I was a teenager, my grandma once again scooped kernels into buckets in preparation for another visit to the river. I asked where she got the corn, wondering if it came in fifty-pound bags the way other birdseed did. She gestured toward the farm kitty-corner to their block. The cornfield.

“You stole it?!” I asked with astonished eyes. I hadn’t thought of my grandma as a thief.

She flinched at the ugly word, as if it were a wasp flying straight for her face. “You don’t steal it,” she said defensively. “You just…take it.”

I was at a loss for how to respond.

Incidentally, I’m currently rereading Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Huck talks about “borrowing” melons and other produce from farm fields while he’s on the run. His dad told him that it isn’t stealing if you intend to pay the farmers back someday, which, of course, he doesn’t.

In the last story [here], I mentioned my great-grandma picking corn from someone else’s farm field. So maybe yoinking crops was in my grandma’s DNA. Her perspective could’ve also been shaped by her parents, who had been farmers. Maybe they were generous with their own produce and assumed other growers held a similar attitude. Or maybe they were cheap and self-centered. Mother and daughter had both lived through the Great Depression, when people may have had to bend the rules to survive.

As for the ducks, there are now signs posted by the river saying not to feed the animals. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out the signs were posted back then, too, seeing how my grandma made her own rules.

Fair-Weathered Friends

Since it’s August, I’ve been thinking about the County Fair. Several years ago, one summer day, my brother started a conversation with me:

“I was kinda thinking about going to the fair this year.” [Neither of us had been there in decades.]
“Me, too! Did you want to go on some of the rides?”
“No…”
“Oh. Did you want to look at the animals?”
“I mean, I guess, if I’m there…”
“Did you want to look at all the exhibits?”
“Mmm…not really.”
“Well what did you want to do there?!”
After thinking for a minute, he answered, “I kinda just wanted to walk around and eat a bunch of food that’s bad for you.”

We did go to the fair that year. We went on some carnival rides, saw the farm animals and local vendors, looked at prize-winning vegetables and 4-H projects, and bought cotton candy. It became a tradition for a number of years.

His reason for wanting to go seemed funny at the time, but it also reminds me of the best friendships: you don’t have to arrange some special activity in order to get together. Just being there, hanging out, is enough.

It’s All in the Details

It was election season. Sitting on top of a pile of papers to recycle was a letter from a politician, soliciting donations for their campaign. Various denominations were listed, along with ‘other’ next to a blank line. My brother had checked the ‘other’ box and had written ‘a million billion dollars’ on the line.

That’s what I missed while on the road. When you talk on the phone every couple weeks (or months or years), people usually leave out these funny, everyday moments. They seem too small.

But these moments help separate one day from the next. These lighthearted attitudes help get us through the day in a decent mood. They mean something.

When you run into an old coworker or friend or classmate and they ask what you’ve been up to since they last saw you, it can feel like a pressure situation, like you need to say that you scaled Mt. Kilimanjaro, or won a Grammy, or that you cured Parkinson’s disease, or you opened your own successful five-star restaurant, when in reality, maybe you’re barely keeping it together, trying to wipe up the edges of the puddle before it spills off the counter and all over the floor.

The next time someone asks you what’s new and you can’t think of a piece of major news, instead of saying ‘same ol’, same ol’,’ why not share a little anecdote? All they want is to connect with you. If you can make them laugh, even better.

Tangerine Dreams

Almost twenty years ago, my aunt in Florida got married. At the time, there were no chain hotels in her town- only small, independently owned motels. When my family convened to fly down, my mom informed us that my aunt had arranged motels for all the out-of-town guests.
“Where are we staying?” my brother asked.
“The Tangerine Inn,” my mom announced, enunciating each word.
There was a moment of silence. “Sounds…classy,” my brother commented.

For years- decades- afterward, I compared every hotel room I stayed in to the Tangerine Inn, and every other hotel room won. The room contained two beds, a TV, and a dead cockroach. That was it. To be fair, it was better than finding a live cockroach. I have minimalist tendencies, but this was beyond bare bones. There was no handle on the bathroom door- only a hole where the handle should have been. There was no towel rack or hook to hang a wet towel.

One morning, after a shower, I discovered I was trapped in the bathroom. With no handle, I couldn’t get a good grip on the door, and there wasn’t enough room to get any leverage to pull it open. Luckily, even though everybody else was outside, my dad and brother heard me yelling for help and rescued me. I guess that’s the upside to paper-thin walls.

After that visit to Florida, the first thing I’d do after arriving at any hotel room was flit around, opening doors and drawers, calling, “Look! There’s an iron and ironing board! There are hangers! A coffee maker! Cups! A hair dryer! Kleenex! A miniature bottle of shampoo! A towel rack! A microwave! A refrigerator! A pad of paper! A pen! A chair! A desk! A phone book!” I was like a starving child who had stepped into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Even though I don’t drink coffee or blow dry my hair or have a reason to iron clothes, what a rush to know that extras were included.

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While visiting coworkers over Thanksgiving, a couple of them assumed, “You have to feel more confident” (after my recent travels). I don’t know about that, but I may have become more blasé.

One side effect of the camping lifestyle is that I can tolerate the cheapest of motels. Overwhelmingly one-star ratings? No problem. So the security door guard is broken. Maybe it smells like cigarette smoke. There are hairs on the sheets. The bathroom isn’t exactly “clean.” Hey, I’ve showered with scorpions. (Good thing I was wearing flip-flops!) I’ve had to stuff my tent with water jugs and bins full of notebooks just so my tent wouldn’t blow away. I’ve showered in a bathroom that had no roof on it. (Thankfully, I did not see any drones or low-flying planes.) I’ve had sand rain down inside my tent all night long. And I realize that I was lucky to have a tent in the first place, plus any kind of shower and a modern bathroom, not to mention a car filled with items to satisfy practically every want and need.

On nights when I was freezing or staying in run-down RV parks with makeshift tent sites, I probably would have welcomed a stay in any motel, even one with a missing door handle and a dead cockroach. After all these years, I think the Tangerine Inn has been redeemed.

Laughing Matter

Since I tend to be relatively quiet and reserved, it makes me laugh when people are loud, crazy, or obnoxious, especially in public.

One fall afternoon, I was in the car with my brother. He was driving, and I was in the passenger’s seat. The angle of the sun had turned a cloud into a rainbow (at least, the red to yellow portion of the spectrum). I’ve never seen anything like it. I pointed out the phenomenon, and my brother also got excited about it. A while later, he asked if the cloud was still there. Yes, and still colorful! He rolled down his window and called out, “WHOOOO!” then raised his arm out the window and flashed the horns hand gesture in victory. He drummed his palm against the car horn as another car approached in the opposite lane. Through my laughter, I tried to deter him. “They’re not gonna know why you’re honking!”

I was reminded of this episode recently when the two of us were in the car again. A block into our trip, something caught my eye. “Ooh! Lights! I forgot about those!” I said excitedly. My brother knows that Christmas lights and are one of my favorite parts of the holiday season, so he humored me by driving toward the subdivision where I’d spotted them. As he navigated through the maze of streets, he asked, “Where was that house where they used to go all out, but they didn’t do it last year? Was it this one?” I looked toward the darkened building and empty yard alongside us. “With the jugs? Yeah.” A row of plastic milk jugs, about a foot apart, had bordered the lawn in other years. Each contained a large colored light bulb, creating the effect of an oversized strand of Christmas lights. My brother rolled down his window and yelled toward the house, “WHERE ARE THE JUGS?!” I couldn’t help but act as the straight man. ‘They probably don’t even live there anymore!’

We step into these roles like a comfortable pair of shoes: he delivers the punch line, and I’m the laugh track.

An Unlikely Story

For Thanksgiving, I visited my family in the Midwest. After the feast, my mom taught my brother & I a line dance (neither of us knew any line dances). Later, the three of us, along with my aunt, played a couple board games from the 80s that were designed for teenage girls: Slumber Party and Girl Talk. Slumber Party involves rolling 5 curlers into your hair, then adding or removing curlers as the game progresses. My brother followed the rules without complaining, while other people laughed at him. I remarked that he was a good sport to play along with us, and he reminded me that they were his games- he bought and owned them.

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One of my pick-me-ups is reading stories about unlikely animal friends. There’s the dog who splashes in the surf every morning with the dolphin who swims out to play, the baby hippo who found solace in the 130-year-old tortoise, the pit bull who acts as father to broods of chicks each spring.

Sometimes I’d be jealous while reading these stories, thinking how enriching it could be to be part of an unlikely friendship, two contrasting melody lines blending into an elegant harmony. A few weeks ago, I realized that my brother is an unlikely animal friend. We don’t have the same hobbies or hang out in the same circles. If we hadn’t been related, I probably never would have talked to him or gotten to know him. Here, I already had what I’d been wishing for- I just didn’t recognize it.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Some people have asked if I get lonely on the road. Not very often; I like to spend time alone. Of course, it helps that I can stay in touch with people so easily through emails, texts, and phone calls. But once in a while I do get lonely.

A movie theatre advertised a funny old movie I had watched with my brother, and I thought that if we were in the same area, we might go see it again and laugh. Then we have family traditions, like going to the botanic garden around Father’s Day or my dad’s birthday, and I missed them both. Some weekends I’ll be in areas with cute little shops and see pairs of women, and I’ll hear, “Mom, look at this!” “Mom!” “Hey, Mom,” and I’ll think, Ohh! I want to be here with my mom! At least I still have the option.

Another time, I went to a baseball game in West Virginia. I’ve never been into team sports, so I thought I should attend a sporting event just to see what I’ve been missing. The capitol city was scheduled to host a minor league baseball game the night I’d be driving through, so I decided to go. That night also happened to be their weekly Take Your Dog to the Park Night, a novelty designed to generate public interest.

I naively assumed that people who attended baseball games were baseball fans. What I discovered was that hardly anyone in the stands paid attention to the game. Kids ran wild through empty rows, slid down handrails, and badgered their parents for concession stand money. High schoolers met up with friends, ate nachos, and chatted, never glancing at the field. Couples ordered beers and talked with other couples. Some people texted nonstop. Then there were those who brought their dogs, making sure their dogs were fed, watered, exercised, relieved, and petted, while throwing out compliments and questions to other pet owners.

A major league game might be different. This ballpark seemed to be purely a hangout venue, and I was there alone. I could have talked to other people sitting in the stands. I could have talked to the players or the employees. I could have talked to dog owners about their animals. But I didn’t.

Another activity I had wanted to try was cheering insanely at a sporting event. Here was my chance to try two new things at once! In reality, since hardly anyone was watching the game, there wasn’t a whole lot of clapping to begin with, let alone the roaring crowds heard at major league playoffs.

I started out by politely clapping for the home team when they made a play. But I thought it was cool when anyone made a good play, no matter what team they were on. For a little while, I clapped for both teams. Even though the audience seemed lukewarm, I remembered how insane fans can get, covered in body paint and team logos, and I didn’t want to get beat up for clapping for the wrong side. It felt strange only clapping for one team, though. It’s not like I had anything against the visiting team. Why shouldn’t I show appreciation for their effort, too? Plus, I didn’t live around there, so I didn’t know the home team, and I didn’t have any allegiance with them. Unfortunately, with all the rationale, by the end of the game, I wasn’t clapping for either team, even though that felt just as awkward. And I realized how ridiculous I was, sitting there alone, reasoning out why I should or shouldn’t clap, knowing that no one else would have cared either way, and even if they did, why should that have stopped me? Meanwhile, the rest of the ballpark was enjoying spending time with their friends, both human and canine.

I could have cheered, no matter who else was or wasn’t cheering, no matter what team made a good play. I could have started a trend! But I didn’t. It was too out of character.

My feeling about going to a game alone was that my time would be better spent elsewhere. But I was glad I went so that I knew I wasn’t missing anything. If a friend ever wants to meet up at a game, I suppose it’s as good a place as a coffee shop or a city park.

I think what I really hope to be better at is cheering on other people in life, not just professional athletes at a sporting event, and there doesn’t need to be any insane yelling involved to accomplish that.

My Own Private Cinematic Experience

When I was a teenager, I watched the movie My Own Private Idaho several times. [It’s not for everyone.] I had a little crush on River Phoenix. About ten years later, I was living in Portland, Oregon, where parts of the movie had been filmed. I lived about a block away from two different movie theatres. Gus Van Sant, a Portland resident and the director of My Own Private Idaho, was releasing a new film. To celebrate, several theatres around the city were holding special showings of his earlier works. One of the theatres right near me was going to show My Own Private Idaho. I decided to go, partly for nostalgia, partly to see what I thought of the movie now that I was older, and partly to see if living in Portland would alter my perception of the story or the viewing experience.

The movie started, and River Phoenix was in the first scene. Horrified, I realized, Oh my God! Do you know who he looks like? He kind of looks like…my brother. Back in the day, I hadn’t noticed. But apart from the initial gross-out factor, this had an even bigger effect later.

In the movie, Keanu Reeves plays a young man from a rich family, while River Phoenix plays a homeless youth. The two are friends until Keanu Reeves returns to his roots. A scene near the end of the movie shows Keanu Reeves in an expensive suit, riding in the back of a limousine that is passing by River Phoenix, who is sleeping on a sidewalk. I recognized the sidewalk and the general area. I had gone to an employment center there when I was job hunting. It truly was the Bad Part of Town. The area had a sketchy vibe and reeked of urine. It’s a place I wouldn’t want to walk in after dark. So, being familiar with the area pictured in the scene, and River Phoenix looking like my brother, There was my brother sleeping on the street in the ghetto. It was really unsettling. It’s probably not an effect Gus Van Sant intended, and it’s not a reaction every viewer would experience.

For a while afterward, it made me more compassionate toward any down-and-out person I encountered on the street, thinking, That could be my brother.

Unfortunately, like so many other good intentions, the effect wore off with exposure and time.

Message in a Bottle

My great-grandma owned a typewriter, and when my family would visit relatives in Florida over Christmas vacation, typing on it was entertainment for me. On one visit, I typed an entire copy of Yoko Ono’s book Grapefruit. As kids, my brother and I had to write to a far-away relative every Sunday as one of our chores. At the time, it felt like an actual chore, but now, it’s hilarious to look through them and see what we wrote. I got a card back from my great-grandma once, thanking me for a drawing I had sent, and she added, “I don’t know if you are going to be a writer, an artist, or both.” God, I wish I had gripped those words like a life raft in fifteen-foot waves. If you receive any encouragement toward your goals, don’t forget about it like I did. Bottle it and let it buoy you in pessimistic, confusing, or disappointing times.

Photo: Platte River, as seen from Fort Kearny Recreation Area Hike-Bike Trail, NE

A Very 80s Christmas

How did you spend Christmas? While cooking and chopping ingredients for tacos, my brother and I started singing jingles from 80s commercials (like My Little Pony (okay, so I started it) and Fruit Island Cereal), which led to theme songs from 80s cartoons (like Inspector Gadget and Gummi Bears), children’s TV shows (like The Electric Company and Sesame Street), and sitcoms (like Cheers and The Golden Girls), which led to songs featured in movies, like “Somewhere Out There.” As much as I enjoy traditions of the holiday season, spontaneous moments are the best.

Photo: artificial Christmas tree