Red's Wrap
Happiness. It's relative.
Time in a Bottle
That’s my brother on the bed, being a new baby, the afternoon’s sunlight softly sprayed across my parents’ bedspread. He is waking from a nap and because he is their first baby and still new, my mother calls for my father to fetch the camera. It’s the light that she loves. It’s just right. It is the summer of 1939.
A family changes with every new ingredient. So by the time the second or third child comes, the camera gets worn out, the lens starts acting funny and there’s no time to fix it or get a new one. There’s so much to do when there are babies around. But that’s okay. We remember what’s important without pictures.
When I met my brother, I was a baby who napped on that same bed and he was nine. In all of my conscious memory, my brother was fully formed as a person. He was never a baby, never a child. He was always quiet and competent, knew how to do things, understood his job in the family and took care of me. He was a constant and sometimes quite stern presence in my life. He filled in a lot for parents who had other very concerning things to do like work all the time or be too depressed to function.
He took me on his bike to the fish hatchery in Hastings. We sailed down Green Street, faster than anyone should go with a four-year old sitting sideways on the bike’s bar holding on to the handlebars. He sat with me under our tree. He told me the elves left their footprints in the bushes next to the house. They had parties at night while we slept but we could always tell they were there because of their tiny footprints. It was true. He showed me exactly where to look.
He painted the walls of his bedroom brown, played Harry Belafonte as loud as he could, and studied constantly. He called me Short Pants. Sometimes he called me Red. He taught me how to wash and wax a car. He made thick peanut butter sandwiches for me to eat before going to the movies. He was there all the time and he was always the same. He was steady. So steady.
Many years ago, he gave me a silver bracelet with a single charm, an elf, sitting holdings its knees, a little silver Peter Pan. And because it had been decades since the stories of the elves dancing in our bushes at night, I was astonished that he remembered. More, I was astonished he would be sentimental. My serious brother, my so serious brother remembering this small, fanciful thing, it amazed me.
Thinking of the bracelet reminds me that we know people as they were when we first met them. He was nine and I was that baby on the bed. Time passes. We grow, we age, we become people so radically different from each other in so many ways, and yet, we’re still as we were when we met.
He’s my big brother and I’m his baby sister.
______________________
He was my big brother and I was his baby sister. My brother passed away yesterday at the age of 81.
12 Comments on “Time in a Bottle”
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Snow Door | wisconsinacademy.org
Listen to Jan read her essay “Billy” presented on WUWM’s Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “At the Breakfast Bar” on WUWM Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “The Parish Hall,” on WUWM Lake Effect
“Fury Cannot Touch Me,” Modern Love, NYT, 9/29/11
I am so sorry for your loss, Jan. You have written a beautiful tribute. Your love shines through.
I am so sorry to hear this, even though it seemed, from all your recent posts, to have been inevitable. Does your great good fortune in having such a wonderful big brother in any way offset the loss? Probably not; perhaps it emphasizes it. May his memory be a blessing to you and your family.
A lovely tribute, and so true about how we shape our memories of family. Sending an electronic hug.
I’m heartbroken to hear this, Jan. I remember the charming elf story from older posts and have always had a lovely picture of you and your brother under a tree. I’m glad you had his strong presence in your life.
May his memory be a blessing.
What a lovely tribute to your brother. May those memories keep in your heart always.
Peace,
Beth
Oh, Jan. I’m so sorry about your loss – he sounds like a very special brother. It seems like our social circles are getting smaller and smaller as we age. We are, of course, always adding new people to our circle but they don’t fill the huge hole created by the loss of the people who have been a part of who we are for our whole lives. It sometimes feels like a loss of self. We are all shedding tears with you.
Beautifully written tribute, Jan. I am sorry about your loss and hope you find peace in sweet memories like these.
You are in my thoughts Jan. This was a lovely tribute.
Thank you, Jan, for sharing all the stories of your brother – a good man and hero to his little sister. Your tribute is beautiful. I do hope that Covid movement restrictions do not prevent you from attending his funeral to say goodbye. I extend my condolences to you and your family for your loss.
I’m so sorry. Sitting here blubbering over this beautiful tribute to your brother. May his memory forever be a blessing.
So sorry to hear about your brother, Jan – sending virtual hugs your way <3
This is beautiful, Jan, and so so nostalgic and sad. Yes, tears were shed. Are being shed still. So sorry for you loss.