Growing up the only girl (besides Mom) in a house full of boys, my three brothers made the experience…interesting. Boys like to “get you”.
It started with Dad, who early on convinced me Kermit the Frog’s real name was Timothy. Middle-brother Jeff told me Ernie and Bert were, in fact, brothers with the last name “Bean”. Timothy the Frog and Ernie and Bert Bean.
Younger-brother Robert and I mostly banded together, two against two. We mostly lost. Like the time our brothers put us on trial for “The death of Charlie McCarthy”, found us guilty and made us walk on the hot summer sidewalk in parkas as “punishment”.
Oldest-brother Joe, an evil genius, whose two bedtime "gets" stand out. The first when he tied dental floss around our pet hamster and let it loose in my bed. The second when I found my beloved Holly Hobbie doll tucked in, the top of her bonneted-head barely visible above the covers pulled up over her face. When I turned the covers down, I found her head on the pillow and her body perfectly positioned a few inches from it. Mom sewed Holly’s head back on, black, criss-crossed stitches encircling her neck, but she was never the same. She just flopped to-and-fro.
Brother Joe died seventeen years ago last week. One of the last memories I have of him is Christmas Eve, 1987. He dropped by with gifts and to visit my then one-year old niece who he presented with one red rose. He told her, “It’s the first of many”. When my two brothers re-tell the same old stories, I laugh until I cry. They get me.