My brother Dave

Dave is almost seven years older than me and we pretty much lived in two different worlds growing up.  We had different dads (and different last names) and Dave was born just before the U.S. entered World War II, whereas I was born a couple of years after it was over.

Mom raised us both by herself, more or less, on tips and wages earned as a waitress.  She made Dave babysit me starting when he was about 12 years old, and I know he wasn’t always happy with that arrangement, but he was (usually) a good brother as we grew up. He mostly let me be, but he sometimes teased me just to hear me squawk.  His favorite verbal abuse was calling out, “Hey, Corroded…” which always annoyed me because, unlike “Rusty,” “David” has no such handles to play with.

We did have some fun times.  Once we built barricades with the living room furniture, folded up hundreds of paper airplanes, and threw them at each other, as viciously as possible, both having a great time. Another time he drove my friends and me all the way to the mountains to play in the snow, a real treat!

Dave was athletic and very sociable. He had girl friends in high school, owned a car, and learned to surf when it was first becoming popular.  I didn’t see much of him after I was 10 or so.  Relieved of babysitting, he spent all his time hanging out with his friends. I was the dweeby little brother, but I didn’t pay much attention since I had my own friends by then.

Dave and I both love the ocean. He surfed and swam a lot while I spent more time on the beach, building stuff in the sand or walking, sometimes for miles, to see what might have washed up.

Dave still lives in Southern California, where he has been in the residential construction business since the late '60s.  We talk now and then on the phone, and I get the local surf report.  Whenever there is a big bad storm or giant surf, he always sends super photos and news clippings.  He’s as good a brother as anyone could want.

Comments

[Chenresi]

Those are great stories about your brother!

I remember us doing the same sort of thing with lounge-room furniture, or sometimes the dining table and chairs. My brother and sister and I would move things around and use blankets to make forts or cubbies, with pillows and cushions thrown in for comfort.

Later, that dining table was the stage for my brother while he sang along with The Beatles.
A broom did double duty as microphone and guitar. This was before air guitars had been invented. We couldn’t have afforded one of those anyway.

I laughed when I read “dweeby younger brother”. I have a brother ten years younger than me, eight years younger than my little sister. So I guess he was in a similar situation to you – leading a separate life. I hadn't really thought about things from his point of view.

I do remember that we did take him down to the beach with us, under protest. At least we could take him in a cart my dad had built, rather than a dorky pram. Little bro would have been about 2 or 3 years old. There was no adult supervision – it’s a wonder we didn’t all drown!