OK, I'm back but I don't know for how long.

I had a brother I never knew. Well, actually I scarcely knew my other brother and two sisters either. You see I was a late baby so my brother and sisters were already gone from the house before I was old enough to remember them. But there was another brother, born about 3 years before me, who died in his first month of life. His name was Frank.

My first brother came along and my father was very happy with him, first born, much like him, etc. Then a girl. And then another girl. By this time my father was ready for another boy so his remark when my second sister was born was: "Another split-tail." My father could never be described as politically correct, but then again, in those days, nobody was. It was a concept which didn't exist. So, anyway, they tried again since my brother was now fast becoming a teenager.

Frank was what was then called a "blue baby," suffering from oxygen deprivation. As I understand it, while in the womb, blood circulation for the baby is mainly through the action of the mother's heartbeat, not the baby's. And to relieve the pressure on blood being forced into the baby's heart there is an open valve between the two halfs. This valve is suppose to close shortly before birth or maybe at it.

Well, Frank's didn't. So when the oxygen-rich blood from the lungs arrived at the heart, instead of being sent to the rest of the body and brain, it took a short-cut through the heart and back to the lungs for the carbon dioxide to be exhausted. In those days two things might happen in this case. The child would die or the valve would close before they did. Frank didn't last a month, although nobody still alive in the family knows the exact date of his death.

I have visited his grave twice. Once was when I was about 7 and I really don't remember it very well. I was told that I left my favorite possession (a small jar full of marbles), on that grave. Which was lucky, because years later, when I was an adult and visited the grave the second time, the small temporary marker was gone and the jar of marbles was the only way we were able to find the right spot in the overgrown graveyard.

Anyway, after Frank my mother wasn't really anxious to have another child. But my dad really did want another boy. So he talked and talked and talked until she agreed. But only at a price, if she got pregnant again, my dad had to agree to buy her a new radio. Now most people aren't lucky enough to know what their true value is, but I do. I was worth a brand new Sears radio.

I feel a certain type of kinship with Frank even though I never knew him because I, too, was a "blue baby". Only I was the lucky one, my valve closed up after a few days. But I can only imagine the grief, anxiety and sadness that must have come over my parents the first time I turned almost black, going limp from lack of oxygen.

Anyway, I was born, everyone was happy, my sisters and mother began to spoil me rotten. Gradually I grew up, virtually an only child. But this is supposed to be about others, so I'll talk a little about my brothers and sisters.

You know about Frank, everything there is to say. That is one of the saddest things about children who die young. There is so little to their lives, so few memories. My other brother was named Lemuel Grant, after our grandfather and our father. I, believe it or not, was named the same as the son of one of my dad's favorite country singer, probably heard on that new radio.

Anyway, my brother is very much like my dad. Thus, my kids, who never met my father since he died years before, can look at Lemuel and get a hint of what their grandfather was like, at least personality-wise. Lemuel's always got a joke to tell, most of them a little dirty, or a practical one to pull on someone (like putting a garter snake into the lunchbox of a co-worker he knows is deathly afraid of snakes). He only went through the 6th grade, so most of his jobs were physical ones, but he supported his family, had 5 kids, and spends his retirement mostly on the Texas gulf fishing, although he lives in New Mexico.

My brother also couldn't be consider politically correct. Some of his favorite jokes were "little Rastus" jokes. I'll repeat one here, but if this type of humor bothers you, just skip to the next paragraph. Seems like Rastus and Liza were at the barn dance. Liza said to Rastus, "Rastus, it's dark, will you walk me home?" And Rastus says, "I don't walk pregnant girls home, Liza." Liza said, "Why Rastus, I'm not pregnant." "No," said Rastus, "but you're not home yet, either." Anyway, a poor joke, but an indication of the kind of culture my brother grew up in.

My brother is almost 15 years older than I am. He ran away from home at about the time of my birth and went to California. By a couple of years later he was married to a 16-year-old who was pregnant with her first baby. His wife ended up becoming a grandmother by the age of about 32. But they're still happily married, just trying to take care of each other in their old age. So, you see, even teenage marriages, ill-conceived (so to speak), can end up OK. I can remember a time, when I was about 4 or 5 that my brother with his growing family came to visit us. When I saw the car pull in, I told my mother, "some of your relatives are here." She said, "That's your brother, silly." And that was the first time I realized I had a brother.

We end up seeing my brother every three or four years. My folks are not much for going long distances to visit, so it's pretty well been on me to establish contact. Every time I walk in after all that time, it's just like I'm stopping over after work, like I was just there yesterday. Then on Saturday while we're visiting, he has to take me to Wal-Mart where he meets his friends in the food court and he brags me up. He's so proud of his little brother that it's embarrassing.

I can remember when I was about ten that he was in town and took me downtown to get a coke. So I slid up on the stool at the soda fountain (remember those?) and ordered in as big a voice as I could manage, "I'll have a frosted coke." Now my brother never had much money and the price of a frosted coke (really an ice cream soda) was a little more than he had anticipated, figuring on 5 cents for a coke. But he didn't order anything for himself, got me what I wanted and it wasn't until I was grown that I learned that I'd spent all the money my brother had on him that day, a whole 25 cents.

But when we go to visit my brother we don't stay with him. I might want to, but there's no way my sister would allow that. My sister Dorothy, raised in the same circumstance as the rest of us kids, decided she wanted to be middle class, and she's been working on being thus her whole life. But I, her little brother, know her, know of her history. But I don't blame her for wanting to pretend to come from a different background. Anyway, we have to stay with her because she has a nicer house and I'm more important to her.

My sister also wants to tell everyone what to do. And she does. In spades. Now that can be annoying, but to me, her little brother, it's just sort of funny. She tries to tell me what to do (it's been especially bad since my mother died and she took over the job), I just argue a little bit with her so she knows I'm not her puppet, and do what I want. I could get mad at her, but what would that accomplish?

We won't even talk about the New Year's Eve (this was when she was in her 60's, mind you) when she got into a fight (I mean a true brawl) with a woman at a party for kissing her husband at midnight. Dorothy don't take nothing from nobody. Now maybe there was some history between the three of them that I know nothing about, but her husband had to bodily drag her out to the car where she immediately started beating on him for allowing himself to be kissed. He just took it and gradually settled her down, he loves her no end. That's my sister - solidly middle-class. :)

But, I do love her, even if I won't hardly ever talk to her on the phone. You see, her life and mine have almost nothing in common. I mean, sure, we're both humans and we both do about the same things in life, but her world consists of her children, grandchildren, etc. I don't even know them, and certainly not well enough to discuss what's going on in their life. On the other hand, she's not interested in discussing my life, so if we have a telephone conversation it's about a 10%-90% thing between us. But I know she loves me no end.

My other sister lives in Fort Worth and was the dependent one. Both my sisters had their trouble with drinking and Evelyn (or as I called her "sang") mixed it with valium for many, many years, not a really good combination. She's had so many physical ailments (some real, some imaginary), she always seems to be just outside death's door, but has walked away every time so far. Years ago she became almost a recluse, with little contact with the real world. About the only person who she really clicks with is Dorothy.

There's the story of when my sisters were older teenagers and they would go to the dance together. If one of them should hook up with a boy (don't know what that meant in those days), then the unattached one would try and make sure and be back home on time and drop their shoes noisily twice, so my father, hearing the noise, would assume both were home. Worked well until one time when the one coming in late forgot and dropped her shoes and woke my dad up. Guess they caught it and that destroyed their little deceptions for good.

So that's a little bit about my brothers and sisters. As you can see, I never knew them well and I actually grew up with my nephews and nieces (the oldest of which is only about 3 years younger than me).