Why I Didn't Kill My Brother

Earlier, I wrote about the worst prank that my brother ever played on my sisters and me. It may have been the worst, but it wasn't the only one by far. I won't even attempt to name them all.

I could go on and on about my "mean" brother. But I won't, because I loved him then and still love him above any of my other siblings. I can honestly say that, to this day, he has never spoken an unkind word to me. And that makes me feel really special, because kindness is not his strong suit. He has a big heart, but seems to see gentleness as a flaw in a man.

But the other side to my brother is that when we were growing up, he always defended me against anyone else giving me a hard time. He was basically the only one who ever took me swimming, and he taught me to swim. The only problem with the swimming was that he had horrible leg cramps, and still does, and would always get the cramps when he went swimming.

Once on a boy scout outing, he would have drowned because of leg cramps if another boy hadn't kicked him towards shore repeatedly until he was in shallow water. He taught me to swim down and massage the cramps out of his calf-a skill that still comes in handy with my husband who also has terrible cramps.

He took me fishing, which I didn't particularly enjoy, but I did enjoy being out in nature with my big brother. I didn't hunt with him, but did help him skin squirrels, a job I despised but did because I loved him.

He taught me to play a guitar and took my sister and me to "musicals" at various places in the area.

In short, neither my sisters nor I would have had any fun at all without his willingness to drive us around. Our dad worked from daylight till dark, and our mother hardly drove at all, so if he hadn't helped us out, we would have had a very boring childhood.

When I was nine years old, I wanted a bicycle more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. I had learned to ride at the age of four, and when I was five, he took the seat off his big boy's bike so I could reach the pedals on it. I would start out with one foot on the porch, shove off and ride around till I decided to come back and dismount onto the porch.

He had never had a new bike, but always some old one he had patched up. He remembered staring for hours at bikes in the Sears catalog and dreaming of owning one.

When my ninth birthday came, he was a few months short of nineteen. He was working in our dad's auto repair shop, and I'm sure never had much money in his pocket.

On the morning of my birthday, he told me to come by the shop after school-that he would have a surprise for me. So as soon as school was out, I made a beeline for the shop.

My brother told me to come with him, and we walked the length of town (two blocks!) from the shop at the south end of town to the Otasco store on the north end. One the way, he told me he had found an old bicycle that wasn't in too bad shape that he was going to buy me for my birthday. I was ecstatic.

When I saw the bicycle, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen-a blue and white Monarch with a horn and light and best yet, it was a GIRL'S bicycle.

I didn't understand how a used bicycle could look so good, nor why one would have the papers still attached to the handlebars. Then I realized it had been another of his tricks, but one I could gladly live with.

It wasn't till later that I realized that bicycle had cost $65, a huge sum in 1950, especially for one who had very little income.

Yes, my brother was my protector and best friend, as well as a pest. I never attempted to compete with him insofar as pranks went, but there was one time when I was seven, that I was inspired and actually got the best of him.

At seventeen, he was girl crazy, as most boys that age are. He was sitting in our porch swing, swinging gently with a glazed look in his eyes. I was sure he was thinking about some girl, and wouldn't be paying much attention to what I was doing. So I wandered around behind the swing and pretended to be playing with something.

Earlier, I had found a strong cord about ten feet long and stashed it behind the swing. Now I carefully eased it between slats in the back of the swing and worked it through a protruding belt loop on the back of his jeans. It was not easy to do without his noticing, especially with the swing moving back and forth. But I was able to do that, and even to tie a knot in the cord.

Then, keeping plenty of slack in the cord, I tied the other end to the porch banister behind the swing. That done, I sauntered around in front of the swing, did a little dance, and sing-songed, "Nyahh nyahh nyahh nyahh nyahh-you can't get me."

The swing was in a forward motion at the time and he bailed out of it to make a grab for me. When he hit the end of the cord, he was suspended in the air for a second, brought up short by the sudden tension on the cord. The look on his face was priceless. Then I heard a loud snap. His belt loop had broken. It's a good thing I hadn't had the opportunity to put it through his belt, or it might have been his back that broke. But that had never occurred to me.

It took him a minute to realize what had happened, then he said gruffly, "You're going to fix my belt loop!" I think now that he was trying not to laugh.

He realized he had been had and was actually rather proud of my accomplishment, even if it was against him. He took it as a sign that he had taught me well. To this day, he still tells about the prank I pulled on him.

Yes, my brother was a hopeless prankster, but I don't know how I ever would have survived without him.