From Your Little Brother

When my brother was in the fifth grade, it was he that took me to my first adventure to school as I began first grade. We traveled quite an adventurous route through dangerous terrain from my “younger brother” perspective. We traveled down a set of railroad tracks jumping from railroad tie to railroad tie straight down the middle. This would have been 1963.

Wandering thoughts would drift to the stories our parents told of how dangerous it was to do this. What if my foot got caught in the rail or stuck under a railroad tie leaving me helplessly waiting for an on coming train? Visions of our neighbor across the street, that survived the loss of his arms up to his shoulders when run over by a train, came rushing into my brain.

We were supposed to cross over the tracks at a designated point, but I don’t ever remember him following the prescribed path. If there was a train resting on the track, we’d risk life and limb to scale the crumbling slopes underneath a small wooden bridge that supported the tracks. I don’t remember having much of a choice in regard to following my fearless leader. I could actually see the wheels of the train close enough to touch them seeing my own reflection on the shiny edges; but he would warn me that the train could move at anytime.

Once we crawled our way through to the other side, I recall always seeing a ledge along the top of a drainage concrete ditch through a cyclone fence. I’d remember some kind of story or rumor of a boy who slipped off that ledge and drowned in that very ditch. I envisioned him every time wearing a striped short sleeve tee shirt and shorts lying face down at the bottom.

Any doubts that I might have had in regard to following his lead were erased by his big ole “Jimmy” smile (full of confidence and assurance) and that outstretched fifth grader hand coaxing me to “Come on!” Safely on the other side of the tracks, we would walk along the back yard fences of people who lived next to the tracks.

Hopping over the peeled back corner of another cyclone fence attached to someone’s backyard we would stumble through a set of semi rusted trash cans. We’d then sneak pass the side of a worn out looking rental house toward our destination. Crossing over a street shaded with old trees led us over to the next street to where the crossing guard was located. She helped us safely across the busy four lane highway to our school.

The next year our parents made a decision to move south of Memphis out of the city schools to the county school system. A new school meant new adventures. We didn’t live across the railroad tracks from the school any more, but rather to its modern equivalent – across the interstate bridge.

I was, at this point, in the second grade and my brother was in the sixth. He was now taller, bigger and seemingly the brightest of any of his dumb friends. To me he seemed adult like. The school was about a mile from our home, so we walked or rode our bikes to get there.

Early each morning on our way to school, we would maze our way through the intersections of our neighborhood along the sidewalks. The crossing guard, who just happen to be our next door neighbor, would help us across the small highway; but not before she would complain to us about the kids further down the highway cutting across the two-lane. She would smile, greet us, stop traffic and have us walk our bikes across. Mounting our bikes as quickly as possible, we would dart straight toward the beaten path through the tall uncut grass that led us underneath the interstate bridge.

Beneath that bridge were huge slanted slabs of concrete leading up to the steel girders that supported the weight of the interstate traffic above. At the top of those slanted slabs was a platform of concrete tucked right below the bridge giving about four feet of head room between the steel girders. I could feel the vibration and hear the traffic above whizzing by with drivers on their way to work. Perched up there was like sitting on top of a tree overlooking the whole world from above. Graffiti left evidence that we weren’t the only ones to brave this adventure. Our parents explained to us that we weren’t supposed to go up there because it was dangerous.

Did our fearless leader lead us to safety? – Of course not. Parking our bikes or just laying them down in the overgrown grass, he would lead the charge scaling up the slant sideways. The best part was quickly scooting down the cement slide in order to not be late for school. We generally repeated it on our way back home after school. Mom had to put a lot of patches in the seat of our pants due to the fact that they simply couldn’t afford to buy us new ones. I’m sure she knew how those pants got so worn out.

After bedtime, I would occasionally sneak over to his upstairs bedroom to sleep and play around with my “big brother” before going to sleep. It was located right above our parents’ bedroom. He would tell me some crazy story and then tickle me afterwards. Somehow he could bring my favorite stuffed monkey (D.C. – Danny Civilized … named that because they called me “Dan, Dan, the monkey man”) to life. “Pop” (our dad) would mysteriously appear in the doorway to let us know that we were being too loud as we were jumping around. Flicking on the overhead light for a moment he would say “Settle down and go to sleep boys”, but he never would send me back to my bedroom. I’m sure he knew the value of our limited bonding.

Our family spent many good days and time together at Fairhaven Harbor growing up. Actually, we were at the lake water skiing, camping and swimming while Fairhaven Harbor was being developed. Mom and Pop tried their best and succeeded in providing for us wonderful memories of our childhood at the lake.

In later years, our little sister and I went to a different school than our big brother did, so I was never over shadowed by being “Beach’s little brother”. She unfortunately had to deal with being “Beach’s little sister” because of me at our school.

The ultimate and ever big brother grew up and left me when I was in the 8th grade. Often times for years afterwards it seemed that he still “left me when I was in the 8th grade”. I grew up too, but traveled a different road. As he liked to tell folks on a trip here to North Carolina a few years back, (tongue and cheek) “You see, you have to understand … my brother – he’s the white sheep of the family.”

We have had our own adventures in life that have brought about both joy and sorrow, successes and failures … both separately and together – with our families and each other. Despite the limited time, circumstances, and distance we have remained loyal to our love, care and concern for each other.

It’s always good “to hear from Jim”, my children’s favorite uncle and my only (and favorite) brother. It’s particularly good to hear that my brother is, as he puts it, “lucky”, but I might categorize it as “blessed”. Even a massive heart attach becomes an adventure for him. I am especially blessed (and lucky) to have him as my brother – I love you bro’.