Just another day. This is how I would like my birthday to be, and it was for a few years. It was good. During my childhood years, my birthday was even better. We didn’t have much growing up, but my mom always made our birthdays special. She would cook my favorite meal. I know for many, birthdays are a milestone that deserves a celebration. There is cake, candles, presents and for some, even a clown or two and a party. It is a big event. My family however did not celebrate birthdays with gifts and parties. It just wasn’t something we did. However, my mother would cook whatever I requested on my birthday. She would do this for both me and my older brother. My meal was always the same as far back as I can remember. Pork chops, mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, biscuits and scratch gravy poured over everything. My birthday cake would always be cherry chip with butter cream icing. I know this may not sound like a king’s meal, but it was for me. The black-eyed peas were fresh from our garden. The pork chops, cut from pigs we raised, were sliced thin, salted, peppered, floured lightly and fried. After the frying was complete, Mom would deglaze the tasty bits in the cast iron frying pan with more bacon grease, flour, salt, pepper and milk from the local dairy farm to produce a wonderful golden gravy. The mashed potatoes were always buttery and a little lumpy. Lumpy because they were mashed by hand. I still like my mashed potatoes with a few chunks.
I left home when I turned 17 which was the last time Mom cooked me this special meal. Not because she did not want to cook for me but because I was never home long enough for her to cook a big meal. I was too busy working and pursuing a college degree at a state university. At the time, it seemed as if I was on the other side of the planet from where I once called home. Much too far to travel for a birthday meal, even if it was a feast fit for a king. After leaving home, my birthday came and went just like any other day. Occasionally Mom and Dad would call, but nothing more than a heartfelt “happy birthday son”. I never gave my birthday much thought and never even mentioned the date to my friends. It became just another day. I was comfortable with it being this way.
My 25th birthday was different. My big brother called to catch up; to say happy birthday and to tell me he loved me. I then called him on his next birthday as well. The swapping of birthday calls became an annual occurrence. Our conversations always ended with us reminiscing on one or more childhood events that we shared. The recollections were always of the good times and the many ornery pranks we pulled on each other. I could always count on my brother remembering my birthday and giving me a call. We talked twice a year on the phone and would try to see each other for a few hours at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Some people might say we were not close. Not true. When we were younger, all we had was each other. We fought, we played, and we took care of each other. At the time, I did not know this was love. He was just my big brother.
When my brother turned 16 and had his driver’s license issued, I found out he was a half-brother. He had known he had a different father for many years but never shared it with me. My mother and father also kept this secret from me. It was hard for me to understand and accept. But I soon realized, it did not change a damn thing. He was still my brother. He was two years older, bigger, stronger, better looking and a much better athlete. In high school, all the girls chased him. Truth be known; I was jealous of him. As brothers do, we often argued which usually escalated into a brotherly brawl out in the yard. My big brother knew he was tremendously stronger than me, so he pulled his punches. He did not really want to injure me. I am not sure I could always say the same for my feelings. His constant tormenting, on a few occasions, led to me using any leverage I could grab. Once, I slammed a glass storm door on him as he chased me into our house. The glass shattering on his head caused a deep gash requiring several stitches. I don’t think the bloody cut bothered him near as much as the large bald spot on his head that he had to explain to all his friends at school. Once, I grabbed a BB gun to aid in my revenge. He ran into the bathroom and locked the door to avoid being peppered with BBs. I was so fed up with his relentless teasing and tormenting that I knocked a hole in the door so I could stick the gun in and continue to shoot BBs at him. The standoff lasted for a few hours; until Mom returned home from work to save him. Several such incidents led to me being punished by my dad. He kept a big wide leather belt for such occasions. Thinking back, perhaps my brother knew the torment would escalate to me taking drastic actions and result in me getting spanked by Dad.
We fought each other, but my brother came to my rescue many times during my youth. We attended six different public schools before graduating high school. Always being the new kid in school, along with being the smallest, I was bullied quite often by the older and bigger kids. It was my brother who would make sure no one would bully me more than once. My brother was born with the ability to win every fist fight he encountered. So, keeping me safe from childhood and teenage bullies was easy for him. He also exhibited strong brotherly love when I ran my bike through a barbed wire fence while racing down a dirt road. I managed to slash my stomach open in three places. Seeing the blood spurting, my brother picked me up in his arms and ran over a mile to my grandma’s house so she could patch me up.
We grew even closer after we both left home. I was there for him when he needed me. I stayed with him in the hospital when a car wreck collapsed a lung, broke several ribs and his left leg. I sat with him for several days in an ICU when an industrial accident broke his neck, both jaws and cracked his skull. I was his best man in his wedding, and he was mine. My brother stayed close to where we grew up, but I moved far from where I was raised. My work kept me traveling around the states, around the world. It did not matter where I was, I knew he would give me a call on my birthday. We would catch up and always end the call in laughter as he recounted one of our younger day’s misdeeds. This was how it was for many years. It was enjoyable and became a day that I looked forward to each year.
In 2019, my birthday came on a Tuesday. I waited for his call. He never called. My mother called me the next day. She told me my brother was dead. His life was violently taken from him on my birthday. The how and why does not matter. He is no longer. Now I spend my birthdays on my motorcycle. Alone. In the wind so my tears are blown away and I can never hear anyone tell me happy birthday. It’s not just another day now and it is not a day I enjoy. It is a reminder that I am without my big brother. But when I am on my bike riding alone down a deserted backroad on this day, I smell and taste that great birthday meal mom would cook. I remember the many fun times my brother and I enjoyed together. I see his face and that big smile he so often flaunted. And I hear his voice telling me “Happy birthday, I love you”. I will never forget you, brother.
