May 5, 2001
Always talking, rattling on sometimes, my brother would tell me the ways of the world and I would listen intently. He seemed to know everything about anything. He started college, but he did not have the patience to sit through the boring classes. Always preaching about the evils of the world and the power of knowledge, he said strange and out of the ordinary statements that sometimes bothered, yet enlightened me.
I often visited my eldest of three brothers in his small studio apartment, filled wall-to-wall with books on Indian history, theology, physics, martial arts, and he always had miscellaneous science articles laying on his coffee table. Tall and slim, yet quick and agile, he was the athletic member of our family; playing sports in high school, always out shooting hoops or mountain hiking. When I was ten, John would sweep up behind me and say “hey bones, do ya wanna wrestle?” I would move my head from side-to side, “no.” John was too wound up for me; he always had to do something physical. “It’s good for the spirit kid,” he would say. “You have to learn how to defend yourself.” I never understood what from. He always explained how I should know how to fight. My dad always agreed. They failed to excite me much more than listening to their tales of old battles with broken noses and black eyes. John would often try to challenge me in different ways.
Once while trekking through the neighborhood on my bike, my sometimes-obnoxious brother appeared beside me on his twelve-speed. “Do ya wanna race?” I said, “nn-no, you’d just beat me.” He said, “Aaww come on brother, how old are you?” I told him I was twelve and he retorted back, “you know, I’m more than twice your age, you should be able to beat me in a race!” I just shook my head no. Changing the subject at my persistence in saying no, he initiated talking about the different types of trees. He seemed to understand that I could not be pushed, but never gave up pushing for me to do what he liked to do.
John once thought I was old enough to learn how to drive. I thought differently. I knew it was illegal to drive without a license, and it made me even more nervous. He let me drive before, but only on rural straight stretches of asphalt. One lesson began when he parked on the side of the road and began preparing me to learn how to make a left hand turn. It was very small road before an intersection. Our windows were rolled down and the summer air filled with the sweet smell of the peach trees from the orchards that surrounded us. He told me to switch seats. I felt very uncomfortable, and said, “I don’t want to drive.” But with a little more persistence, I was in the driver’s seat of his Ford Pinto receiving instructions to turn the wheel and slowly let out the clutch. I did what he requested. The car started moving forward and turning into the road in the intersection. “Ok, start straightening the wheel, straighten the wheel,” the car moved faster in the direction I was turning, “Straighten the wheel!” I felt myself unable to let go of the wheel, as the large peach tree seemed to get closer and the car revving higher. “NNNOOOO!” Crash! The hood of the car wrapped around the tree and the radiator immediately released the steam it held. I could only think of how angry he was going to be and I started to cry. He yelled, “why didn’t you let go of the wheel?” In between my violent sobs I blurted, “I told you I didn’t want to drive!” I noticed his anger fade and a blank look on his face for awhile. Then he began to laugh hysterically, “you did didn’t you?” The fear and the adrenaline built up slowly left my body as I heard his laughter, even after wrecking his car. ”I guess next time I’ll listen to you.” He chuckled.
I sometimes wonder what gave John so much patience with a little brother half his age. I now hold respect for his patience and his persistence. He has never stopped trying to crack my shell. Since he was the eldest of our siblings, I now realize that he probably wanted to have an older brother that would have treated him the same way. John always tried to show me the “more” in life and I am thankful to have him as my oldest brother.
Darrell B. Jones