I was screwing around and wrote this little essay this morning.
Blog Update:
Ok, everybody this is my latest blog entry. -Bill
DISTANCE, TIME, BROTHERS AND LIMEADES
In Jeremy Schaap’s book “Cinderella Man: James J. Braddock, Max Baer And The Greatest Upset In Boxing History,” there is an amusing tale about how Jim Braddock and his older brother get into a fight. It’s called The Battle Of Nurge’s Field, and came about when Jimmy had taken his brother Joe’s shirt without permission and wore it out on the town. Joe was a few years older than Jimmy and a professional fighter at the time. Jimmy was still in his mid-teens and a bit of a careless rambler, so his angry brother decided to teach him a lesson and some manners.
Joe huffed out and found Jimmy wearing his shirt while hanging at a place called Nurge’s Field. Joe immediately confronted Jimmy and started throwing punches, well, much to everybody’s surprise Jimmy not only started fighting back, but was holding his own. The two brothers fought for nearly an hour, going back and forth until it was eventually broken up. By this time the shirt in question was bloodied and worthless and the brothers each were claiming victory.
When I first read that story I couldn’t quit laughing because brothers all have a funny way of dealing with each other. I have three younger ones, all bigger and more athletic than me by now, but I remember those days when I was the headmaster around the household. I also remember when my brother Rex, ten months younger than me and always bigger, took one of my shirts. Well, he didn’t just take one, he had a habit of constantly wearing my shirts and leaving them at his friend’s houses and scattering them all over the country. One time, he took a shirt of mine without permission and I had enough. So I went and took his prized leather jacket and tossed it in a mud puddle. I challenged him to a fight and neither one of us were going to back down, but then again neither one of us really wanted to get into it either. At any rate, we jawed back and forth and we never came to blows. Which is a surprise, I guess, because we have before.
But the story of the Braddock boys reminded me of those times. And, as silly as it may seem, getting into a fistfight over an article of clothing seems like a pretty rationale thing to do.
However, I have to profess that despite any fights or arguments, my brother and I always grew up close. We were basically the same age. Raised together. Played together. Went to school together. We essentially had the same friends and the same experiences. Typically we played competitive sports in the same leagues as each other. All in all, you cannot break a bond like that in just a few moments with a few words or a few punches. Life typically doesn’t work that way.
Yet, in certain instances, I find that as people get older they tend to drift away from their families. It seems like time holds a greater distance than any argument or disagreeable action ever could. That does not sit well with me. Here I am, living across the country from most of my family, wondering if I am most haunted by the last time I saw them or simply the distance between us? I haven’t been home much for nearly seven years now. I do not call as regularly as I once did.
There is something both sad and enthralling to that.
Especially since I feel my family near my heart every day. I see them. In my thoughts. My prayers. I think about them constantly. Worry. Sometimes I burst with pride when I hear of successes. My shirt-stealing brother has given me a nephew and a niece. My second youngest brother, Justin, is a high school basketball coach and is about to get his Master’s degree. My youngest brother, Tim, lives with me right now. He’s 21, yet sometimes I feel more like his dad. As if I had a kid of my own when I was just 10 years old. In many ways, he’s the brother who is most like me. In some ways, he’s not. But we complement each other well. Have the same humor, the same interests, similar ambitions. He’s much as I was 10 years ago when I was his age. Maybe not quite as lost, I suppose. Now, it’s funny to see him, like an overgrown pup, wrestling around with me, child-like and not knowing his own strength. And, me, the old mutt who just likes to lie around, eat and sleep all the time. Half grouchy and war-torn. Scarred and ornery. Yet I still feel the need to protect him. Be close to him. Even though he probably protects me more than I ever could him.
I wonder how things will be ten years from now? Will he be like me? Will he be better? More successful? Less? I don’t even have a clue.
Around sixty years ago, my grandfather, Blackie, my dad’s dad, used to wake up before five in the morning in the middle of a harsh Montana winter. Impoverished and living with his young family 6 miles out of Cut Bank, MT on the Blackfeet Indian reservation. It would be well below zero, gosh he had to be younger than I am now, and my grandfather would walk out to fetch water for his family, then walk a few miles to the highway and hitchhike nearly 30 miles to work. Then when he got off he would hitchhike all the way back. Finally he received a decent paycheck and caught a ride to the bank in Browning, MT where he worked out a deal to get a car for his family. I think about that a lot. My grandmother, Doris had to be so young and pretty then. Working hard days, cooking and cleaning and watching her young son and daughter. With more soon on the way. My dad, Petesy, and aunt, Marlene, both had to be only a few years old. If that. Our country was at war in Europe. The Cold War was on the horizon. The country was still feeling the aftereffects of the Great Depression.
And, here was a young man living on a reservation, trudging in bone-chilling, to put it nicely, weather because he had no choice. His family had to survive.
Sometimes, people with mettle just do what they have to do. Yet, I can’t help but feel a great amount of love was put into these gestures. Maybe the greatest.
So here I am, about two months ago, trudging along at about 7 am, walking from a Sonic fast food restaurant, with one large limeade in one hand, and one large Diet Cherry limeade in the other. Chattering in the 50 degree weather. Chilled from my 5 minute walk each way. Dreaming about the moment when I’ll be handing my youngest brother, his limeade, cranking up the heat and sipping on my Diet Cherry one. Somewhere along the line, I think my generation has gotten soft. My grandfather’s generation whipped ass on fascism, communism and the Great Depression. Meanwhile, my greatest victory has been over Mike Tyson on Mike Tyson’s Punchout, many, many years ago when the old school Nintendos were en vogue. I am of the firm belief that we need to treat elders with respect. Not because I’m that nice of a guy, but because they’ve whipped tougher men than my generation before breakfast. And, their breakfast probably could have beaten up my breakfast too. Mind-exploding strong coffee vs. a Diet Cherry Limeade? Yeah, we have gotten soft alright. Too soft.
But I think the love is still there. That’s what matters most.
So, you know, that’s really the genesis of what I’m getting at. Your family is your family. Whether it is your grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces or nephews.. What you have in life are the people who are your own. Granted, some people don’t. Orphans. People who were abused. And, for that I am sorry, but the rest of us are lucky. We have blood. We have those people, those memories. That’s something that should not be taken lightly.
Among my people, I am a Blackfeet Indian, our society is highly familial. Often communal. Friends aren’t just friends, they are like brothers and sisters. Your aunts and uncles are almost like parents. Your immediate family are basically an extension of yourself. Turning your back on a parent or sibling is almost like killing a part of your own soul. It’s the highest form of treachery. Of treason. That is something we should all understand. That no matter how far away you are, no matter what the distance or time is, somewhere out there in this world there is an extension of yourself. Of your blood. Of your soul.
You are connected whether you like it or not.
There is this movie starring Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen called “Red Dawn.” It’s set in the mid-80’s during the Cold War. In it the Soviet Union attacks the United States and occupies a part of the country. Swayze and Sheen are two brothers who escape with some friends and attempt to survive up in the mountains. In the end, when these brothers are in a desperate situation, Swayze, the older one, looks over at his little brother and say’s “It’s hard being brothers, isn’t it?.” That reminds me of my family. Of my Uncles, my brothers, my cousins. On both sides of my family. Family is an odd thing. We can be so ambivalent towards each other. Fight. Argue. Rarely talk. But if somebody else messes with us, than you can be sure everybody will be there to fight back. That’s the way it is. Maybe the way it should be. But having family comes with a responsibility. The responsibility to stay in touch. To love. To forgive. To allow yourself to be both strong and vulnerable. So is it really that hard to be brothers?
Yes it is.
But I think that is a good thing.
http://billwetzel.livejournal.com/
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