I have the greatest older brother, seven years older than me. He was here waiting for me to arrive, the solid base of my childhood and the rock of my adulthood.
When I was little, he carried me.
When I got older, he rubbed snot on me.
When I couldn’t tie my ice skates, he double looped them.
When I got hurt, he made jokes to make me laugh.
When I left not one, but two disastrous marriages, he carried the heavy end of the couch out to the truck.
Allen was a busy, energetic, a little naughty and curious kid. Too much pent-up energy and not enough release but always silly and looking for humor. Burping, smelly feet, dirty underwear and toxic gasses were his favorite ways to get a reaction out of his younger sisters.
He loved to fart into an ice cream bucket and then seal it with the lid quickly. He saved it, then brought it into our room and opened it in our faces.
Our mom sewed us beautiful church dresses. He promptly picked his nose and wiped his fingers on the fancy fabrics.
I loved when he teamed up with me against our middle sister to make her miserable. Pranks of rubber spiders to make her scream, and bribing her to keep quiet about our rule-breaking was the norm. If he thought it up, I’d execute it. If he said it was a good idea, I was all in. I loved feeling like we were a team. He was my first friend.
He played card and board games with us girls, teaching us the rules, then teaching us his made-up rules, i.e. cheating. We were gullible enough to believe them, which always led to him winning. Monopoly was a favorite and he was always the banker, always got Boardwalk and Park Place and always won. I didn't care, I loved the hours on the green carpeted floor, surrounded with board games and his attention.
We were raised without community and no option to play organized kids sports. He was phenomenal at sports and spent hours throwing a baseball at a duct-taped strike zone on an old piece of plywood, propped up against the side of the garage.
When I was old enough to throw a ball with some force, he taught me how to throw a fastball, lining my fingers up on the threads of a baseball, patiently instructing my wind-up and delivery. Then he would trade spots and pitch to me, honing his skills and teaching me how to swing a bat.
I could hit the baseball to the edge of the yard. He could hit the ball across the hedges, past the other row of houses and far into the next street. He was a powerful hitter, a perfect pitcher and brilliant with all of the game elements in our backyard. I got extra good at running to retrieve balls, blocks away.
At age 12, he got a paper route. The giant stack of papers arrived overnight and in the early morning, he spent hours rolling them and putting them in rubber bands before delivering them. He won paper route carrier of the week and had his picture in the local paper. I was so proud. My brother was a celebrity!
When he got older he was moved to a converted basement area for his room and spent most of his time there. There were no neighborhood kids to play with, so his hours were spent in his room, teaching himself how to play the trumpet, guitar, bass guitar and drums in his room.
All day, every day, I heard the sounds of music coming up through the floor as he learned how to play the cords and supporting bass line to records and tapes. He could eventually play anything by ear. Once mastered, he played in the church band and for all of the music during church. There was nothing he could not play and his talents quietly piled up. I bragged to everyone.
Allen and our dad were two peas in a pod, Dad being an overgrown little boy at heart. Dad could usually get him to laugh during dinner. Dad stealthily waited until Allen was taking a swig of his milk to interrupt with a loud shout of “glug glug glug” which would result in Allen laughing and spewing milk across the table all over us. Mom would lament that we could never have a decent meal. Dad would collapse in laughter and that was when we most saw Allen being himself: funny, fun, silly and all boy. I loved those dinner messes, it was like the house was alive and Allen was the star.
As teenage years took over, Allen got quieter and more withdrawn. He read for hours on end. He checked out giant piles of Louis L’Amour books from the library, and he loved humor so Garfield, The Far Side, and Calvin and Hobbes cartoon books accumulated in his room.
With no television or movies in our house, reading was the pastime and he read biographies of the great leaders of our nation and historical greats. He was fascinated by history. He was quietly brilliant, curious, studious and wise beyond his years.
Home schooled with little college opportunity, he went right into a full time painting career after high school. I hated when he was gone all day, life changed and I lost my time with my big brother.
At age 17, he had a long distance girlfriend and seemed to fall in love. He got letters in the mail from her nearly every day, most of which he read, then numbered and placed in a shoe box under his bed. As soon as he went to work, I went to his room, found the latest letter, read it and put it back. They were written flowery and sprayed with her perfume. The relationship ended after a year or so. He was heartbroken. I was heartbroken for him. I couldn’t understand why anyone would break up with my flawless brother.
He worked hard and long hours and his room was a disaster. It was my favorite thing to do most days, to rifle through his things, eat his hidden snacks and snoop through all of it. He had cool books, collections of pocket knives, musical instruments and shoes. I studied all of it. He didn’t talk to me much anymore but I knew him well via my snooping. He was so cool.
I idolized him, and wished for nothing more than for him to notice and like me. I turned into a pesky, nagging teenager who disrespected his space. His perpetual exhaustion and increasingly subdued personality clashed with my bubble gum optimism. When he came in the door I greeted him excitedly with questions and he always responded with, “What, you writing a book?” He never threw me a bone but I was undeterred. I never got tired of trying to get his attention.
Eventually I grew up and married the wrong guy, a disaster of a husband, and left the house. Allen immediately came around. Suddenly, he was involved and quietly befriended my new husband. Not because he liked him but because he saw the mess I was in. We were young newlyweds, immediately had a baby and had no idea what we were doing. Allen was a rock of support, enduring countless instances of disrespect to make my life easier and to create a dynamic of trust, just for my safety.
Eventually my marriage deteriorated severely, and unfolded dangerously. I was alone, afraid and terrorized by the situation.
Allen parked his truck outside my house many nights to keep watch. Allen talked me off the ledge when facing my first steps on my own and had difficult conversations about what I had to walk through in order to take charge of my life.
He made every step doable. He made me believe I was strong enough for every crisis. I stood on my own two feet finally, but with Allen’s belief and support holding me up from every angle.
Allen was there for everything. He helped me handle raising a sullen teenager, supported me during weight loss, bad relationships and new jobs. He came to all of my son’s games, tournaments, plays and high school choir concerts. He cheered me on and also called me out, lovingly and honestly trusting me and calling me higher all at the same time.
While I was building and rebuilding my life, he was becoming the most spectacular man I have ever known. He honed his trade skills, becoming an accomplished craftsman and high-end painter and woodworker. He learned about relationships and people, falling in love, and enduring brutal heartbreaks.
He did deep work in therapy, facing his past with courage. He persisted in finding peace and forgiveness for old wounds. He started taking care of our aging parents and honoring his story of his childhood. He was outshining even my idol-level adoration.
When I got remarried, he bonded with my new husband Greg, loved my step-sons, and was my loudest cheerleader and fan of my new and happy second chance at married and family life.
After two years, my new life fell apart with another divorce. Humiliated, Allen was the first and only one I could bear to face. I couldn’t make eye contact, but he was the one who showed up with the moving truck and carried my things out of yet another house into yet another empty apartment.
I got bitter. I got angry. I got hurt. I shut out most people. But I could never shut out Allen. He was too kind. He was too diplomatic. He lobbied for peace. He gave me space. He gave me grace. He waited. He was right.
I found healing. I found my family again. It was possible because Allen held the borders open between me and my loved ones. He set the example of forgiveness and grace. I only had to follow.
So was the story of life with my older brother.
I idolized him, he surpassed my respect.
I needed him, he was there.
I tried to do things on my own, he caught me when I fell.
I triumphed, he told the world.
The rest of my life, I hope to be more like him. I hope he stays funny and silly and I hope I never forget to laugh with him. I hope he sees himself more clearly as the unique, talented and resilient hero of life that he is. I can’t imagine my life without such a hero and constant force of strength. He made it all better.
Every good thing is colored with his influence.
Every funny story was gross because of him.
Every hard thing was bearable with his strength.
I didn’t have to do the impossible alone and I never had to look far to find a hero.
He was here already, waiting seven years for me to show up.