How to Survive Fifty Years Living on the Edge
Atlanta, GA
When you turn fifty, you begin to feel old.
Then, your younger brother turns fifty…and that hankering for prune juice becomes insatiable. Suddenly, the urge to go to bed early, get up in the middle of the night, and chase kids off the lawn is that much more pronounced.
But there are certain ways to slow the aging process. And one of the best is to spend time with my brother. Of course, by doing so, you not only add zest to your life, you sometimes take it in your own hands. There’s a chance that you’ll never become old at all!
Brett himself ran that risk right off the bat. Fifty years ago today, he was born with Hyaline Membrane Syndrome, a respiratory affliction that deprives infants of oxygen by keeping their lungs from expanding. President Kennedy’s son, Patrick, succumbed to it a few months before his father went to Dallas.
Upon being born, my brother was diagnosed with the disease, baptized in the Faith, and prepared for Last Rites. In the intensive care unit, my mother peered anxiously thru the glass at her eleven-pound newborn. There, like Ayers Rock among tiny pebbles, her giant “baby” struggled, in a ward of little preemies, to stay alive.
To our great relief, he did. And, by all indications and ample evidence, his lungs have been just fine ever since.
On the mean streets of Davis Island and South Tampa, Brett grew up. Or, rather, he progressed thru childhood. He defended his turf and made his mark. Before long, he became one of his mother’s favorite sons. In many ways, he was second to one.
He spent a lot time with his older brother, wanting to be among the big kids and part of their activities. Sometimes it meant being the permanent center in neighborhood football games. On others he was full-time target in backyard dodgeball, even when he wasn’t aware we were playing the game.
But life was good. Being on the gulf coast, he was raised under warm sun and blue skies, in a land of golden fried shrimp, and seafood “every night”.
And, in west central Florida…with no hills, ridges, dales, or swales…all the golf courses were “fair”. Only later would Brett’s conniving uncle swindle his naïve nephew on the undulating terrain of Congressional Country Club.
But even on the course, Brett sought adventure. Among his more endearing qualities is a tendency toward, shall we say, “enthusiasm”. In his younger years, this would regularly manifest itself on the golf course, and occasionally in the presence of his grandmother. Well, actually, just twice in the presence of his grandmother. She made sure of that.
One morning, while Brett played with her and me, his score went south, and his temper started to rise. In the middle of the round, something mysterious happened to Brett’s exquisite game. An ill-designed club, errant blade of grass, or a mischievous gust somehow sent one of his shots horribly awry. As it veered from the prescribed path of his vivid imagination, a colorful exclamation went up and the offending club slammed down.
At that moment, from the cart…like a cold north wind on a warm autumn day…came a chilling warning. One more outburst, and our grandmother would haul Brett back to the clubhouse. There he could wait a few hours till she and I finished our round.
A few minutes later, after another wayward ball and emotional reaction, that’s what happened. Our grandmother told Brett to put his club in the bag, and get his ass in the cart (she may have used more genteel words, but they were to that effect).
Brett begged for clemency, but received no stay. The sentence was carried out…in silence, which was even worse. Our grandmother drove him in from a distant corner of the course, her guilty grandson protesting his innocence as his elder brother suppressed a grin.
It would not be the last time Brett would poke the bear. Or other wildlife. And golf courses were not the only acreage on which he would do so.
When he was in high school, our parents brought us to Yellowstone National Park. Driving thru herds of buffalo, amid smatterings of moose, and past the occasional bear, we wanted to capture these Kodiak moments. And we had just the man for the job.
“Brett”, our mother instructed, “go get a picture of that moose.”
Lesser men might’ve looked at her as if she’d conscripted him to a ship bound for Actium. Brett simply asked for the oar.
She handed him the camera, and he hopped quickly from the vehicle. Sneaking past signs proclaiming “Danger – Closed to Public”, “Wild Animals – Go No Further”, and “Beyond this Point You Will Be Trampled, Mauled, and Eaten”, Brett edged cautiously toward the big beast, hoping to God it wouldn’t charge.
Brett was well past the boundary set for park guests. Like coast-dwellers who ride-out a hurricane after the draw bridge goes up, Brett was on his own. If the storm came, no one would be able to save him. But he knew his mission, and would do his duty. At a small clearing, he knelt carefully, slowed his breathing, and prepared to snap his photo.
“No!”, our mother exclaimed, suddenly becoming alarmed at the position her son had put himself in. “Get closer! From that far away the moose won’t show up in the picture!”
Having captured his prey, Brett holstered his camera, and scampered back. As we rode further, he continued to jump into the field…approaching buffalo, elk, and even a bear…risking his hide to preserve their image. Brett was justifiably proud of his accomplishment, in a 16 year-old boy sort of way, and relieved he’d survived.
After he took his last photo, we returned to our lodge at Mountain Sky Ranch, just across the border in Montana. Brett handed the camera to our mother, so she could re-load it for the next day. She grabbed the new roll of film, opened the back of the camera…and found it empty. All afternoon, her younger son had risked his life hunting big game with an unloaded gun.
But Brett wasn’t mad. He appreciates his mother too much, and has always shown it in magnanimous ways. For example, with some regularity, depending on how she’s acting, he promises to give her a new home…replete with attendants, regular meals, and weekly activities. Nor could he be more sincere in his generosity. As he repeatedly reassures her, “it’s only a signature away”.
Not that Brett didn’t make good use of the homes his mother provided him. And he often did so in generous fashion.
On one occasion, our mother and Jerry decided to expand their horizons and try something unusual: they went out of town. Brett was a senior in high school, so they left him home alone. For some reason, our parents returned a morning earlier than they’d initially planned (or, at least, than they’d previously told their son).
Their considerate teenager, hospitable as he is, hosted a dozen or so friends the evening before. In a further sign of consideration and respect, he didn’t tell his parents. After all, why worry them with things they can’t control? They should simply enjoy their trip. For all they’d done for him, he owed them that much.
But unbeknownst to Brett…as night lapsed, the dew fell, and morning dawned…his high school gala would become a surprise party.
And everyone would be the stunned guest of honor: my parents as they walked wide-eyed thru the kitchen door, into a sea of beer cans and stray kids…my brother as he rose from the couch, like a prairie dog peering from his hole, looking helplessly at an oncoming tractor…and the assortment of startled teenagers strewn haphazardly throughout the house.
These kids at least had the benefit of being able to leave, which they immediately did. Like patrons from a busted speakeasy, most of them ran as quickly as they could, out of the house and down the street in every direction, leaving behind jackets, jewelry, and even their shoes.
Soon thereafter, but for unrelated reasons, Brett also left our parents’ home. It was time for college, and he went to Tallahassee. He loved to travel, so decided to make his way in the world. Brett spent his final semester in London, which he capped off by meeting our parents and me in Milan for a ten day trip thru Italy.
But he crossed the Alps a couple days before we arrived. With almost no money, but needing lodging and food, Brett improvised. He hopped a round-trip, overnight train to the heel of Italy. On board, he had a seat to sleep, and kindly Apulian families from whom to mooch meals. It was ingenious, and resourceful. Once more, Brett had survived.
The morning he returned to Milan, he made his way from the station, and waited for us. As we drove repeatedly past the predetermined meeting place, my parents searched in vain for the sight of their son. Several times, amid the orderly traffic for which Italians are famous, we rode slowly past. But no luck. Then, suddenly, Jerry did a double take.
“Oh my God…”, he said, his voice trailing off. “I think I see him”.
“Where?”, I wondered. “Behind that hobo?”
After circling once more, Jerry pulled up to the curb…and the hobo hopped in. The benevolent Apulian families had provided meals. But no soap, and no razors. Brett looked and smelled like Tom Hanks coming off that island. Yet once again, with wit and resourcefulness, he’d survived.
Several years later, Brett’s sense of adventure took him to China. For more than a year, he taught English in Yantai, at a school in that small coastal village, which by Chinese standards means a city the size of Chicago.
I’m not sure what phrases he taught or secrets he shared with those aspiring youngsters in the Shandong province. But since Brett was there, Beijing hosted the Olympics, the Chinese economy has quadrupled, and its government has become vendor financier to a debt-saturated American public. We don’t know the precise nature of Brett’s rôle in these intrigues and outcomes, and probably never will. He slipped back across the Pacific without leaving a trail, or before the CIA could pick up the scent.
As we’ve seen, my brother never shied from risk, peril, or hazard. He pilots small planes, and occasionally jumps from them – tho’ not at the same time. As a child, he’d don a “cape”, pretend to be Superman, and leap head first from the top of a car, certain he would fly (he didn’t). He’s snow skied thru the woods, and waterskied over oyster beds…barefoot.
But nothing compares to his most dangerous escapade, on which he embarked during his freshman year in college. On my way home for Christmas, I drove from Atlanta to Tallahassee, and met Brett at Florida State. We then shared the rest of the ride to Tampa.
As we drove south, I noticed from the corner of my right eye something glistening in Brett’s left ear. I’m sure he told me the story of how he got an earring. But that was less interesting than the idea of him wearing it when we arrived that evening, when our grandparents were joining us for dinner.
“I assume you’ll take that out while we’re there?”
“I’ll leave it”, he said. “Jerry will probably think it’s weird, but Mom won’t care.”
“What about our grandparents?”
“Oh yeah…”, he responded, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.
“You should probably take it out.”
“No. I’ll leave it in. It’s only temporary anyway. It’s not like I’m keeping it. Maybe they won’t even notice. Let’s see what happens.”
I hit the gas. I couldn’t wait to get home. This would be like trying to sneak the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London. Only, in this case, Brett was trying to smuggle the jewelry in.
As he suspected, our parents were initially taken aback, but ultimately fine. But they too were anxious for our grandparents to arrive. They wanted to see the show. My grandfather soon pulled their car into the driveway, and they approached the door as they always did: promptly…five minutes before they were supposed to.
Brett’s contortions were a sight to behold. He was doing all he could to hide his ear. My devious mother repeatedly asked Brett to serve more wine, refill the cashews, and bring extra cocktail napkins. Anything to put him in front of her parents. Brett kept dodging the bullets, in a way I never though possible. For the only time in his life, he successfully stayed to someone else’s left.
He’d walk in odd angles around the sofa, extend his arm one way to deliver a glass, while looking another to avoid a gaze. It was masterful. Because it was our grandparents, his effort was easier than it otherwise might’ve been. Once they settled in their seat and were served their wine, they tended not to move.
But, as conversation flowed and the glasses emptied, Brett’s guard came down. At an inopportune moment, he looked the wrong way, and popped the pin from the grandparental grenade.
“What the hell is that goddam thing in your ear?!”
Uh oh…
Brett felt incredulously for the offending earring, as if it were weed a cop had found in his glove compartment. It was like he had no idea it was there. Clearly someone had planted it. He started chuckling nervously, then fessed up, and fumbled for an explanation that was in fact probably true. It was just goofy college stuff, and he’d be rid of it soon.
His grandfather just stared at him with a befuddled, somewhat horrified look that I imagine he would’ve replicated the night Donald Trump was elected. Our grandmother, equally bemused, said something along the lines of “Dahlin’, why would you do such a thing?”
As Brett finished his rambling defense, his grandfather leaned forward in his seat, then looked toward the coffee table. He slowly reached forward, and grabbed a handful of cashews. He settled back, and looked ominously at his incorrigible grandson. He then shook his head, and rendered his verdict.
“Whoever she is, she better damn well be good looking!”
Apparently, Brett can survive anything.
JD
