First Sunday in June

Younger brother (he's 50 and I'm 51 escalating toward 52) is getting married this first Sunday in June. The wedding (reportedly set for 1 PM) is his second.

I was informed on the impending nuptials last Sunday. But Mom, the informer, didn't know the time or the precise location of the ceremony. She'd prefaced the information by asking me to, "think about attending."

The additional details didn't arrive until Friday evening around seven, from the groom himself, "Hey, I'm calling to invite you to my wedding on Sunday, at one o'clock, in Aurora. We didn't have time to send out invitations and . . . . "

Long story short, I declined with no regrets.

Younger brother is a born again (and again, and again ad nauseam) christian, as well as an infantile,  narcissistic, know little know-it-all, user and abuser who has spent most his his adult life behind bars, a guest of the state. a drain on taxpayers.

But none of that directly caused me to decline his eleventh hour invite.

I declined primarily because my brother's events (first wedding, birthday parties, ordination into some kind of ministry, and holiday dinners) all have been notoriously and infamously late. Even on this past Mother's Day, we conspired to surprise our mother by appearing side-by-side to treat her to lunch and try to appear the happy family unit, he was two and a half hours late, with no apologies.

The other traits just add fuel to the furor that is our dynamic.

I realized last Sunday while Mom was trying to convince me to "support his decision" ill-conceived it may be, that while I like my younger brother well enough, and for our mother's sake, shoot for cordial whenever he and I speak or are together, I do not love him as she does. I cannot support him, as she does, unconditionally.

Still, I offered congratulations and best wishes. For despite the furor that is our dynamic,  I do wish him well, especially for the sake of all the children affected by his actions. At the end of the day, I do hope that my younger brother has, at long last, grown up and is thinking of others above himself. I hope that he has (or will soon) take the steps to "stay" his recovery, own his mistakes and work to ascend beyond them. I hope that he has stopped blaming everyone for his "crappy childhood" and using that as an excuse to be a total . . .

Anyway, while recent events and statements indicate none of the aforementioned hopes have come to fruition yet, HOPE is still the order of the day. And I do support my mother. And by so doing, affect some measure of support of my younger brother,  to a degree. I suppose.

That said, during our call on Friday I recognized that on this first Sunday in June navigating my own recovery from yet another horrid week would be best. I recognized that traipsing out to Aurora, sitting in some church waiting for a service that would have likely been at least an 1 1/2 hours late, suffering through all the "blessings of the lord" and forced cordiality with younger brother (and the stranger he will "take as his wife") was not going to be the ticket.

On this first Sunday in June I worked in the yard, helped my daughter grill meat, took a spin on my trusty Brin, ate some of the aforementioned grilled meat (and some tasty sides) watched some softball, drank a couple of beers, and de-cluttered my bedroom. All toward getting my mind and body prepped to take on the week ahead.

To wit, Happy June,  Happy "Season of Pride", and congratulations to Mr. and (the new) Mrs. Younger Brother. Perhaps  he will call the next time he's in (or on his way to) town. Perhaps we can share some cake to celebrate his union.

Remembering A Time

Memes, I’ve done a few, in fact, two in the past 30 days. Both asked, “Who was your 1st grade teacher?”

:::blank:::

I’m sure the woman was quite lovely, capable, endearing, and engaging. I remember having fun, in class. I recall some of what was covered in first grade. I recall being praised for my grasp of the material. I recall much, but her name…gone.

Going to first grade was exciting for me, I recall that as well. I remember being all atwitter at the thought (and experience) of being in school all day. In first grade we came home for lunch, and at that time mom (and still for a bit, dad) worked outside the homestead, “home for lunch” meant going to Mrs. Booker’s, our caregiver.

Mrs. Booker kept a few kids in the neighborhood, along with her own grandchildren while parents worked. She provided before, during, and after-school care. During the school year Mrs. Booker provided breakfast, lunch, after-school snacks, and in some extreme cases dinner. In the summer-time she made ice cream. She sold cones to the neighborhood at-large but those in her care got our cones (limit of one per day) for free. Of course, we got to help too.

I recall the first grade days being some of the most glorious, carefree days of my childhood, except . . .

My older brother was in 3rd grade, during my first grade year. He, by all accounts, was a terror and had been wreaking havoc at Samuel F. B. Morse Elementary school since his K days. I discovered in my first grade year that my older brother’s teacher was beside herself and quite frustrated (note: I didn’t have the language for that IN first grade, only the notion). She tried reaching out to our parents, who were also beside themselves and quite frustrated.

The primary mode of communicating with parents back then was to send notes home. The notes would be (in first grade) pinned to the first grader’s shirt or jumper. In the older grades the notes were inserted into book bags. I remember my older brother being punished (severely, sometimes) after the first few notes were discovered. It wasn’t long into my first grade year when my older brother’s third grade teacher discovered that notes were no longer making it all the way home.

When brother’s third grade teacher came to her discovery, she decided it genius to pin my brother’s notes to my jumper. My older brother got wind of the crafty maneuver during supper one fateful evening.

From that point forward, older brother, who had not shown any interest in walking with me from school (as he was directed) before, now intercepted me routinely. If he saw a note pinned to my jumper he would push me down and take the note. Sometimes as often as twice a week this was the ritual.

Finally, only a few weeks before first grade year would come to a close, no more written notes. My older brother’s third grade teacher came to my first grade classroom and asked me to deliver a verbal message to my mom. I was to ask my mom contact older brother's third grade teacher. She asked, “Will you remember?”

I told my older brother’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Stanley that I would remember.

And I did.

Before the Weekend Update

Remember the break-in a year plus ago? Well there has been a development. Lead detective Unzngr came over last night to discuss the development and the possible next steps.

The development: The state lab has completed the fingerprint analysis. Finally, a suspect has been identified. This suspect has a very extensive arrest and conviction history. A ‘rap sheet’ they call it, one as long as my arm, the detective relayed.

In fact, the suspect is currently serving time, convicted a few weeks ago for retail theft. The detective notes that though the suspect was sentenced to two years, he’ll likely serve half that, even less depending on the state-wide convict population.

The file will be delivered to an assistant district attorney who will look at the evidence, statements and reports toward deciding whether to charge the suspect. The ADA might send the detective to question the suspect. However, lacking witnesses or any other physical evidence, coupled with the non-recovery of the stolen items, a charge is not likely.

I’ll have to be ok with that, mostly I am, for outside the occasional heart-wrenching thought of what might have happened had daughter awakened to find the suspect in our home….the episode has been pretty much laid to rest.

And oh, the suspect is not my younger brother. Of course, I have no way of knowing if my brother's path ever crossed that of the suspect. They both seemed to have spent a life-time criss-crossing the state, visiting one correctional facility after another.