He Ain't Heavy; He's my Brother

Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk. ~Susan Scarf Merrell

I don’t know what he was thinking on the day that I was born, and, for the life of me, I can’t remember. It’s one of the few things, my family will tell you, that I don’t remember. I do know what I think today though: I’m glad he’s my brother! He teaches me things... still. Whether I agree with him or not, I continue to learn from him.


Our relationship, for most of my childhood, was like oil mixing with water. It didn’t work very well in typical brother-sister, older-younger fashion. There was always picking and complaining – namely, him picking on me and me complaining about it. [Though my mother would probably classify it more as whining] I suspect somewhere there exists a manual for older brothers with all the rules clearly spelled out with regard to the best and most effective ways to pick on and irritate younger siblings. "How to pick on" is probably rule number one. Of course, there was always the payback: being around his friends and telling what he would probably classify as embarrassing tales about him, which would result in him wanting to strangle me, and, if I’m being completely honest, which I always try to be, a brattish, tongue stick-out from me. [But, that’s a story for another day...] So it goes, the relationship of an older brother and his younger sister. At least in this case.
My brother was [and remains] a real jokester! He was the one who told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus. The thing about my brother is that he’s always been able to tell a tale and keep a poker face. I have to admit, for a minute, I believed him, which sent me crying to my parents. I won’t tell you what happened to him as a result of that mean stunt, though I’m sure you can imagine. But, I can say that when he got me on a joke, he really got me! Thankfully, I only believed him for that one minute, and I can happily report that, for 47 years, just like clockwork, every December I get a visit from Santa Claus. I actually sat on his lap in Cumberland, Maryland about 10 years ago, but that too is a story for another day. That brother of mine! You’ve gotta admire someone who could think up such a tale as NO Santa Clause! [Thank Goodness Virginia O’Hanlon got the mystery of whether or not Santa Claus truly existed resolved years ago...] But, I digress...
Speaking of the pranks my brother pulled over on me, there was also the time when he dared that I wouldn’t let a bee walk all the way up my arm. I think I was seven at the time. Had I been older and wiser, I would have told him that I wasn’t stupid enough to let a bee walk up my arm, but I wasn’t and I didn’t. In my defense, let me just ask this: who’s not going to take a dare from their older brother to try to prove him wrong? So, he put that bee on my arm, [he will probably deny this, even though my grandmother believed me, and my grandmother was rarely wrong] then encouraged me to leave it there and see how far up it would go. It stung me before it reached my elbow. It’s another instance where I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about the reaction he received from the grown-ups. He was a trooper though. Nothing dissuaded him from trying to pull one over on me. I have to admit, he got me good most of the time too!
Now, for my part in the shenanigans that went on between us, I will tell you this: when we were little, my brother collected toy, model-style, horses. He kept them on the shelving unit above his desk. They were both pretty and fascinating to a little girl like me. I remember one, in particular. It was so pretty that I knew it just had to be a filly. She was a blonde colored horse that had a small dangling chain that went around her neck and attached to a removable saddle. I’m sure the "dangling chain" reference indicates where this story is going. I don’t know many little girls who couldn’t resist wanting to play with a dangling chain, even though my brother had told me to stay out of his room and keep my hands off of his horses! Well, that was a double-dare as far as I was concerned– to see if I could, in fact, pull off such a feat: not get caught a) going into his room without permission, and b) playing with his horses. When I attempted it, I made certain that he was down the street at a neighbors house, and that I only touched that one, too-tempting horse. I remember being extra careful standing on the top of his chair, and holding my breath as I reached over and lifted the horse from its carefully positioned spot. I made a mental note exactly where it belonged so that I wouldn’t betray my sneakiness. I didn’t need him around to pull one over on him! I played with her until I’d had my fill, then placed her back exactly where she belonged. My brother never thought I could keep my mouth shut about anything. If I’d done something, the need for me to tell all about it would far outweigh the consequences, or so he thought. It was nice to be underestimated! I had my "ha-ha" moment with none the wiser, or so I have believed all these years. All I can say is that if he ever caught on that I’d been in his room, playing with that horse, he never squealed about it to my parents. In my heart, I like to think, if he did know that I’d done it, some part of him secretly admired my chutzpah.
I was not, however, as impressed with his early Karate skills. Somehow, don’t ask me how, other than to say that my brother can be very persuasive when he wants to be, he managed to talk me into being his human "practice on" block. [Yeah! Yeah! I know NOW that it was a dumb thing to do] What I later learned was that it was his attempt to try and see how close he could kick his foot up to my face without actually hitting it. He failed miserably in that endeavor, and my glasses went flying across the room as I wailed for dear life. If memory serves, he dragged me from the den out the sliding doors and to the end of the backyard where my cries probably sounded more like playful ruckus instead of angered agony. Neither of my parents found the exercise very funny, and he never used me for Karate practice again. [I will proudly brag now, however, that he’s a 3^rd or 4^th degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I truly don’t remember his degree level. He may even be a Grand Master at this point, but I’ll just warn you of something Texans say about their state, only I’ll apply it to my brother: "Don’t mess with Jeff!" ‘Nuff said...
Likewise, there was one time, as a pre-teen, when I actually thought of him as a "hero", for a moment. It was after a mean and hateful neighbor lady poisoned our Dachshund. No one could prove that she’d actually done it, but it was known throughout the neighborhood that she didn’t like dogs. Our beloved, little Gretchen wasn’t her only casualty. The following weekend there was an unfortunate mishap in her yard. It was nothing major–just something to provide a little irritation for her. I’m pretty sure I know who gave her that headache, as did my parents. It was the only time I ever recall them never really trying to get to the bottom of something. We weren’t raised to seek vengeance, but I think my parents decided, in this instance, that some things were best left alone–un-pursued. I thought it was a fair pass.
The interesting dichotomy of these childhood years was the unspoken and protective eye my brother kept on me. In other words, it was okay if he picked on me relentlessly, but if any kid in the neighborhood ever did it, and he found out about it, let’s just say they never picked on me again! I guess it falls under the same principle that I can say anything I want about my family, but don’t you dare consider doing it, unless it’s something kind! It’s a funny principle but, I imagine, a universally true one. If you don’t believe me, try it out sometime.
Years passed as we both continued to grow along the paths of our individual lives. We weren’t close during the early childhood or teen years, primarily because of the six years that separated us in age, and also because my brother jokingly referred to me as the "white sheep of the family"! My idea of fun and his were at opposite ends of the spectrum. I was a studious kid, popular and well-liked among my peers but not a very rowdy girl. My brother, however, was part of the "cool," "in" crowd of his. If you subscribe to the "boys will be boys" doctrine, then apply that here. Our paths rarely crossed unless we were at the table for breakfast or supper, or going to church on Sundays and Wednesday nights.
My brother reached pivotal moments in his life, years before I did, because of those six years that spanned between us. One of those such moments was the day he moved out of the house, when he turned 18. I honestly didn’t think it would affect me that much. However, I still remember walking down the hall to his room and looking inside at it, after he’d left. It was empty. The furniture was gone–the closet was bare. The only thing that remained were the blue colored walls and the window curtains. It was the first time I remember feeling melancholy. It was a rite of passage not just for him, but for the family dynamic as well. He had left home. There was something unfamiliar and permanent about it. It was a parting that I hadn’t truly been prepared for, and didn’t like the feel of. Things were changing. There was no going back to the way things had been. There was only the way things were or would be–nothing more. It was a little unsettling for me in some odd way that never truly made sense because, at that time, as I have said, we weren’t that close. Still, it was the end of something. That much I knew. It was also significant. That much I knew as well. I closed his bedroom door not wanting to look inside anymore at the nothing which remained in the space that had been specifically designated for him.
It would be several more years before our sibling-hood advanced from our early childhood "picking at and tattling on" relationship across the imaginary bridge of time that took us into early adulthood. Here is where the picture of my brother starts to change for me, from something abstract, to the beginnings of something concrete–solid.
My brother is the one, along with my mother, who drove me up to Macon for my freshman year of college. He loaded the car in Jacksonville and unloaded it at the end of the line in Georgia, and up three flights of stairs, to boot.
The only complaint, if you could call it that, that I recall him making on that trip was regarding his astonished disbelief over the weight of my suitcases. "Good grief!" he grumbled. "What do you have in here?!"
Before they left, however, he inconspicuously pulled me to the side and told me that if, for any reason, I got homesick and found I couldn’t do it, just call him. He’d come back up and get me. I sighed with relief, knowing that he meant it.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to come back to get me because I was homesick, but I did come to realize that I wanted to be in Florida. So, I moved to Tampa and received my A. A. Degree, before heading up to Gainesville, where I finished my college years with the long-desired Bachelor of Science degree in Journalism and Communications. I remember speaking to him about a week or so before I graduated and excitedly stated, "Can you believe I’m FINALLY getting my B. S. Degree?"
He was quiet for a minute, considering it. Then, he said to me, "You’re getting a B. S. Degree, huh? Yeah, I can believe that!" [Did I mention that he’s a comedienne!?] He’s quick on the uptake, but I did leave myself wide open for his teasing inference. And, if he has a smattering of an opening, he rarely misses an opportunity to seize it! [More stories for another day...]
Gainesville holds a couple of special memories with regard to him, but the one I recall with extra, special fondness is when he took me out one Saturday night. Before I continue, I’ve failed to mention something about my brother: he can dance. He’s a really, good dancer! I think I’m a good dancer in the privacy of my home, but Jeff has proven it many times when he’s been out in public.
There have only been a couple of times when I’ve had the courage to dance in public: once was on my wedding night, when Tom and I had our first dance; the other time was at a little club in Gainesville, Florida where I was in the company of my brother. Truly, I had simply gone along for the ride–to be out on a weekend night–listen to some music– hang out. Jeff had come over with a friend to stay at my place for the weekend, see the Gators play and have a little nightlife fun. He asked if I wanted to go, and given that I’d never been out with him before in that kind of setting, I was game. I’ll never forget, after a couple of songs, watching the women in the room clamoring to have a spin with him on the dance floor. More significantly, I’ll never forget him coming back to the table and reaching for my hand.
"Really," I said, shaking my head. "I’m good. I’m enjoying just watching."
He made a funny face, not taking my "no" for an answer. "Come on!" he cajoled.
I don’t know if it was my Casper-white face or the sudden shaking of my hands that clued him into the fact that I wasn’t really comfortable with the suggestion...okay, truth be told, I was terrified. In any event, I found myself on the dance floor and him directing me loudly over the music, "Just stand there and move a little. You do know how to do that, don’t you?!" [He missed his calling. He should have been a Director!]
Anyway, one thing I’ve come to learn is that self-consciousness on the dance floor is really nothing that should invoke fear. Truly, no one is paying much attention to you, unless of course, you’re a really great dancer, like my brother. In that moment, though, life experiences hadn’t yet taught me that fact. I felt awkward and clumsy. My saving grace, aside from the fact that my brother could dance good enough for the both of us, was that I loved the song that was playing, so I found myself able to catch the beat and shake a thing or two as The Hollies sang Long, Cool Woman in a Black Dress, and my brother danced around me, making me look....well, good! When he took hold of my hand, toward the end of the song, spun me around and twirled me about, I felt myself let go and laugh. It was a genuine, happy laugh of pure enjoyment, and I never hear that song that I don’t think about him or that night.
One of a few things that I still choke up over, if I think about it too much or too long, is when I graduated from The University of Florida. I was my parents’ first child and the first grandchild to achieve that milestone. Given that I was the youngest of three children and the fourth out of seven grandchildren, being the first to do ANYTHING was a big deal for me! It was an accomplishment that I was very proud and was looking forward to celebrating with my family. Unfortunately, events made it so, it would seem, as if I would celebrate that accomplishment alone. The year prior to my graduation, my parents and sister moved to Maryland. Several weeks before I was to take my walk and receive my diploma, my mother had an accident, resulting in her being in a body brace and unable to travel. It had been a serious injury. That meant that my father and sister would not be in attendance either. I wasn’t told about this until after my finals. They knew, rightly so, that it would both upset as well as worry me. They wanted my mind to be free of those concerns while I prepared and took final exams, because I worried enough, as it was, about them.
While, I understood the situation in Maryland and was in total agreement with my family’s being unable to witness my graduation, it didn’t make it an easy thing to accept. So, imagine my surprise, once I was seated in the huge auditorium and waiting for the ceremony to begin, to hear my name being yelled from the rafters. I looked up to see my brother standing there, waving at me–letting me know that he had made it for my big moment, and it was not going to go unnoticed. He had gotten into Jacksonville a few hours earlier, after having been first out on his shift with the railroad, then he’d driven like a bat out of hell to get himself there on time and represent my family in seeing the first child and grandchild, in the Bosher-Whitlock clan, graduate from college.
I remember feeling tears come when I saw him. I can still see myself, in my mind’s eye, waving back and smiling because I wasn’t going to be alone for that momentous event in my life. I can still recall the sense of gratitude I spoke out to God, and most of all, the reality truly take root within me that when the chips were down, when all else failed, true to his word, my brother would be there for me. I’ve never doubted it since. There have been times since that one, living in Maryland and Virginia, when he knew I needed his help, and was there without a second thought. It’s a good feeling to know you have that reinforcement. It makes me sad for siblings who don’t have it.
There have also been words of comfort that may seem unconventional but meant more to me than anything else he could have possibly said. Case in point, after I suffered my first miscarriage, I remember the phone call I got from my brother.
"Oh Man!" he sighed. It was a long sigh–the kind filled with disbelief and sadness for the other person.
For any of you who grew up in the 70's, you will understand all the various definitions that are contained within a long, disbelieving sigh of "Oh Man!" followed up with. "Ya know, sometimes, life just sucks! I’m sorry you’re having to go through it."
Indeed! Indeed! Indeed! Sometimes, life just sucks, and that’s the only thing you can say about some things that happen.
On that note, thoughts turn to 2008. It was the worst of times and the worst of times and the worst of times. It was the beginning of a downward spiral for my family that we’ve yet to fully come out from under. The year ended with the unexpected death of an important person in my mother’s life and ours as well. The following year began with the illness of a family member; a surgery for my mother and the, subsequent, death of my father. It was as if we had all stepped into some crazy, surreal dream that we’ve yet to wake up from....that’s how it’s felt...
What impressed me about early 2009, when illness struck one family member and my mother required surgery, plus we were dealing with our father’s declining health, was what a lifesaver my brother proved to be for me. I spent half of January and half of February in Florida, to be with my mother after her surgery, help take care of her house and her dogs, provide limited aide to my sick family member and tag-team with my brother where Dad was concerned. Have you ever heard of "Murphy’s Law" [anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.]? Well, to say that my brother and I were living that philosophy up close and personal during that time is a gross understatement!
It amazes me sometimes that we survived it with our sanity still in tact. While there, I had a mishap. Nothing major, though at the time, that’s exactly what it felt like to me. I was running on empty; my pilot light was out; there was a definite hitch in my get-a-long. It stressed me out to the point where my brother took charge of the situation and took care of it and me. Likewise, when one of my mother’s dogs took ill [the one, of course, weighing 100 pounds], there was no way that I could get her to the vet by myself. There he was, helping me juggle things around and get it taken care of. As relief from the stresses of those daily hours, my brother took me out to lunch. If I had a problem and needed anything while I was there, he was the one I called. Knowing he was there was both a comfort and a relief.
Later that year, when our father died on my husband’s birthday, I remember my brother calling to check on us.
"Well...", he said with a tone in his voice that sounded as lost as I felt.
We had been expecting this outcome, but it’s one thing to try and prepare for something and quite another when it actually happens. Nothing can prepare a person for the loss of a parent or a spouse or a child. Nothing.
"How’s Tom?" he asked, concerned, knowing, how much it must have additionally hurt for him because it happened on his birthday. We pulled out and dusted off that "It sucks!" philosophy.
That being said, he and I spoke briefly. Really, what is there to say on the day your father dies? The same thing that prepares you for it: nothing. There are no accurate words for it–only grief and the momentary reversion back to being a child and having an overwhelming sense of fear, the way you did when you got separated from your parent in a store when you were five. The panic reaches from deep down inside and grips tightly as you realize that they are gone. You look around and have no idea where they are; and, you know that you’re lost. In that moment, the sense of aloneness is overwhelming, until you find them. And, when you do, you swear you’ll never, ever let go of their hand again! On the night when your parent dies, you realize that there will be no rediscovery, no sense of relief in the moments immediately following afterward and no hand connection that tells you everything is okay and you’re safe, at least not in what’s left of this lifetime.
And, you understand the profoundness of your big brother’s unsteady voice as he struggles to find some words of comfort in a very un-comfortable situation.
Then, there are those ties that bind so strongly with a brother, when you do something together that stands as a true, grown-up testimony to the responsible adults we both have become:
It’s a full-circle, 360 degree-moment, when the roles reverse, and you go to the cemetery with your brother to make certain that all the arrangements are in place for your father’s final rest. There’s a flash when all the moments that your father had made certain that everything was in order and in place for you, run through your mind. You realize that outside of giving his eulogy, this is the last great and loving gesture you can offer and do for him. It’s a common denominator that few things in life ever surpass.
I recall, in the aftermath of that tending to, my brother saying to me, "Let’s take a drive."
Nothing else had to be said. There is a profoundness when you realize you’re truly together in a moment that defies definition but requires no words to explain it. There is an unspoken comfort in it. We understood one other completely in that moment. It’s a progression that is far removed from the days when he picked, and I whined. We banded together and gave our father a memorial service that did him both proud and gave us some peace regarding that final chapter in our father’s book of life.
For that first year after Daddy passed, we spoke frequently just to touch base. We were together that first Christmas without him. We didn’t expect too much from each other and just let one another be, but we were all there together, hanging on to what was left of our family and finding the gratitude in that.
Time moves on...it stops for no one...and on we must go...sometimes, it sucks!
And, sometimes there are echos of an earlier time, when, as the saying goes, "the past is prologue". I had one such time with my brother, that truly makes me wonder, if he hadn't known all along, the time I went into his bedroom and carefully lifted that blonde horse with the dangling-chain saddle from its display, admired its beauty and played with it until I’d had my fill.
What leads to my suspicion you may wonder? Every year, on the first Saturday in May, I receive a phone call from him.
"Okay," he asks. "What are your picks?"
He’s not too impressed with the method I use in making my picks, but he is often surprised by the number of times I’ve gotten two out of  the win-place-show lineup right.
Still, he and I continue to await the celebration of a Triple Crown Winner culminating from the six weeks that begin with The Kentucky Derby and end at Belmont.
Within a minute of each race’s conclusion, the phone rings again, and I hear his laughing, "Boy, you missed that by a mile!" or his commiserating, "Well, we didn’t do that bad in our picks! Maybe next year..."
And, I reply. "Yeah! Looking forward to a Triple Crown winner next year!"
Likewise, we’ve had fun moments reminiscing about our childhood:
"God, you use to be a pain in my neck!" I say.
"Hey! That’s MY line!" he replies.
Then, we begin laughing, like two fools who have withstood the test of time: from being each other’s pains in the neck to being one of life’s truest blessings.
One never knows what lies ahead or how long the road stretches out for either of us. Hopefully, it’s a good, long time. Our history is all there, though, tucked safely away in my mind. I think about it more, the older I get. I appreciate the memories more too.
I can still hear his voice, in my mind, throughout all the stages of my life:
"Brat!" when we were young kids.
"Get out of here!" a few years later.
"If you want to come home, I’ll come and get you," he told me, that first time I’d left home.
"She’s the white sheep of the family!" he’s humorously characterized me as to many.
"Come on!" he cajoled, urging me to step out of my comfort zone and dance with him as a 20-something year old, young woman.
"Jhill Bosher!" he called, as I took the second most important walk of my life.
"Man..." he sighed as life dealt me one of its cruelest blows.
"Well..." he lamented as life dealt us one of its toughest experiences.
"Let’s take a drive..." he suggested, as we each struggled to accept that tough experience.
"I love you!" We always say now before the end of each phone call.
That’s how far we’ve come, my brother and me...
Written by Jhill Perran
July 2, 2011

http://youtu.be/qFJLvY5X0xI  [He Ain’t Heavy/He’s my Brother-The Hollies]

　http://youtu.be/LK90ySBSmQs [Long, Cool Woman-The Hollies] In my mind's eye, Brother, I can still see you being your cool self, moving around me and making me look pretty darn good on that dance floor...you have to be good to make someone else look good....and you are.  Man, you are....