Thursday, December 3, 2009

Born to friends. Made enemies.

There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother... Oh, how I disliked that little boy. And how I loved him too. -Anna Quindlan

Reader, I don't suspect you were aware of it at the time, but I as an 11 year old girl in my Rollerblades and new AM/FM radio Walkman, was quite the cool cat. Unable to do an honest physical inventory of myself, I was generally unaware of the canyon sized gap between my protruding front teeth, nor did I realize that my most striking feature was not my bangs like I hoped, but my cloudy brown bi-focals. I decided to give you that background information just so you realize that I was, in a few words, attractive and trendy.

Please follow along with me...

Coasting along the busy sidewalk at break-neck speeds and probably listening to Genesis, I was feeling quite smug with my rollerblading skills. It was rush hour, so my audience was vast and my tricks were bold. Perhaps it was providence that I glanced behind me and discovered that my 7 year old brother was peddling like fire in his plastic go-kart at full speed directly at me. His eyes were dead. His legs, twiggy and bandaged.

The next time I tuned in, I was sprawled out, face down in a mixture of grass and gravel, Walkman strewn from my bloody fist. My right arm may have been laying 10 feet out in the street, but that wasn't the point. I would find that arm later. I had to catch him and I had to destroy him for ruining my reputation in front of my... audience.

Now on a war path like no other, I found him furiously peddling toward home, sweat beading up on his little brow. My dark soul smiled as I raced up to him and brought him to a screeching, smoking halt. It was the moment of decision. Would I let him live? Could I sell him for profit? Maybe a proper public pummelling would suffice? As I began to breath heavily and with the weight of such a decision looming, I decided that the best move would be pick up the go-kart, with brother sitting in it, and then drop it, bending the front axle and rendering it useless for the rest of its pathetic life. Remember, I was all of 85 lbs of steel and raw emotion then. Just imagine watching the scene unfold as you're driving home from work.

Realizing that these stories only appeal to a very slim majority of familial readers, I do apologize. However, at some primitive level, can't we all understand this sibling-induced rage? If you have any good stories, or not so good stories (see above), do tell.

P.S. I apologize for the picture resolution. I'm working on my scanning prowess.


  1. Haha what a great story, Manders! :D

    I am sure that you remember the time in Idaho that I whacked Bethy in the ribs with my fist? Yeah. Sibling rage is a powerful force...

  2. I do! I can remember how you gingerly asked if the warm body under the covers was indeed Bethany and then *WHAM* *BAM* ... Ahhh, memories. Miss you gals!