Dave

Me, Tackling Dave

My brother Dave is around five years older than me. When I was a kid, I thought he was the greatest. So smart, so strong, and I assume he was handsome because he had all the girls in the neighborhood after him. He and I hung out together quite a bit. I remember him saving me from a tornado one summer afternoon. He dragged me three blocks, across fences, and into our basement ahead of the twister. Okay, the tornado had already passed by that time, but it's the thought that counts. Dave also saved me from a crazed bull at the Four H Fair when I was around five years old. Okay, once again it might not have been just like that. It wasn't a bull, it was a calf and it didn't really threaten me. I was terrified when I saw it and stepped into a pail of water. Dave took me home so I could put on a dry shoe and sock. In the summertime we sailed homemade toy boats down the poop infested Midlothian Creek, explored the forest at the edge of town, and caught frogs in the swamp that is now Lewis Memorial Park (It was much more fun when it was a swamp). Wintertime meant snowball fights with neighbor kids while we hid in a snow fort built at the edge of the street. We went sledding down the hill in the woods behind Willow Lane. That hill seemed to be a hundred feet high, but it probably wasn't more than six feet high. Dave and I had a good time back then, so that's why I am always glad to see him now that he has entered his twilight years.

Dave came up to Chicago this past weekend to babysit Mom. Her live in caretaker had the weekend off and Dave wanted to do his part, so he spent two days with Mom. Dave lives in Florida and we don't see that much of him anymore. That's why I drove out to Tinley Park on Saturday to spend some time catching up on things. Dave and I have always been quite physical with each other, meaning, fist fights (Usually slap fights), wrestling, and mayhem. It was as if we were ten years old again. There in my Mother's house on Saturday, Dave and I started a little push, shove thing in the hallway. All in good natured fun, but without my mom to put her foot down and tell us to stop that goddamned fighting (Yes, Mom used to swear). But Mom didn't need to referee us. Dave is married. His wife, Judy is familiar with our behavior and she did a very respectable job of telling us to "Stop that fighting."  (Notice, Judy doesn't swear.)