I’d Trade Places with Him in a Heartbeat

No attempt at humor today. I’m sitting in a hospital waiting room. Waiting. Time has slowed to a lazy snail’s pace. Minutes have crept into hours. Morning has crawled into afternoon. It is open heart surgery. And the patient is the only brother I have left.

You talk about time to think. And pray. And remember….

We drove a hundred thousand miles together on our knees in the dirt under our house. We built roads, bridges, tunnels, and service stations out of twigs, match sticks, and cut up tin cans. I drove a cattle truck most of the time. David Mark’s rig was a Texaco oil tanker. We’d never heard of CB radios, but we talked to each other all the way to Joplin, Missouri, and back.

One of us would get hungry so we’d pull into a restaurant to stand up, stretch our legs, and check the menu. Waitress Mom would whip up hamburger steaks with mash potatoes and gravy, and we’d talk trucking till the food arrived. It tasted like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but we laid imaginary money on the kitchen table without complaint and headed back to our trucks. We needed to get across the ferry at Tiptonville before dark.

David hit me once with a hoe handle that rattled my teeth. I don’t recall the leadup to this particular incident, but there is no doubt that I was at fault. He is 18 months younger, and you can bet the proverbial farm that I flaunted my superior age at every opportunity.    

That “year and a half” makes no difference now but when we were five and six it was a mountain I was fixed upon, and a hill he was continually climbing.

We fought renegade Indians on the “plains” behind Aunt Jessie’s house. And Japanese down at the big ditch. We were important soldiers. We had those multicolored ribbons and bronze metals pinned to our white t-shirts. I don’t think Daddy ever noticed they were missing.

We learned teamwork playing football against our older brother. It was always me and David against Leon. He was five years bigger and stronger. But Dave would hit him low and hold on like a bulldog. I would go for his throat.

We got those identical Western Flyers the same Christmas. We biked all over creation. We raced up and down Stonewall Street. He stripped his down to the bare bones when he realized it would give him a couple of more miles per hour.

We walked to school together every weekday. And to the Park Theatre every Saturday for the afternoon double feature. We both worked at the swimming pool. We were both known around town as Leon’s little brother. We shared those brown beans and cornbread suppers together, seemingly night after night after….

He was, at different times, my confidant, lone playmate, Rook partner, mortal enemy, teammate, punching bag, advisor, taste tester, holder of the “other end” of whatever we were holding, scapegoat, and mentor.

He was my Tonto, Dr. Watson, Little Beaver, Hardy, Costello, David Brinkley, Robin, Jerry, and logical Spock, with the tall ears. As we grew older, these rolls reversed on occasion.   

He was always and forever my best friend.

David bought a car when he was 15. The kids made fun of me riding to school with my “little” brother. Shoot, that didn’t bother me one bit. Neither of us were walking! One December I got the transmission hung up on that 1956 Chevrolet. I had to walk back to the house and get Dave. He laid down in the snow, ice, and water, slid under that car and fixed it. I was mortified. He never said a word….just taking care of his helpless brother.

When I went off to college, he gleefully proclaimed that for the first time in his life, he had a bedroom all to himself. But as we were loading up the car, I pretended not to notice the small tears in his eyes.

I will never forget the day he came back from Vietnam. I met him at the airport. I didn’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand… I said, “I don’t care about all that Green Beret training crap, I can still take you down anytime I want to.”

All of our lives that challenge would have precipitated a no-holds-barred fight till something was broken or blood was flowing. Dave chuckled, threw his big arm over my shoulder and said in all earnestness, “K.C., if you get ‘in’ and ordered to Vietnam, the army has this deal where I can go in your place.”   

I was reliving the time Leon, David, and I were playing golf at Joe Wheeler State Park when the doctor appeared. With a smile on his face!

Praise the good Lord in Heaven!

But wait, hold on a minute! I’m not finished yet! I haven’t gotten to Dave drag racing through downtown Clarksburg. Or him tackling that Billy goat. Or the time he gave MY letter jacket to the girl in Buchanan….

Gratefully,
K.C.