Bro Mike

It is not very often that I look back on my life with any kind of magnifying glass. I have done what I did in full acceptance of the outcome and shoulder the full responsibility of my actions. Well, except for a few occasions and I am not about to put that into print at this time. My kids are at the stage right now where they seem to be cataloging my somewhat nefarious past and hold it up to their own pristine image. Some people on the other hand look back on their life with pride, maybe because they took a walk on the edge of life and lived to talk about it. My oldest brother Michael is one of those types. Whether it was barreling down a dusty country road and sliding into a four wheel drift around a corner, or lining his water skis up to a jump a rock formation or crawling through a jungle swamp. He did it all, albeit, sometimes without thinking about it too much before hand.

Back when he was a teenager and thinking that a rural Canadian life wasn’t exciting enough, he enlisted in the American Army en route to becoming a member of the famed Green Beret. During enlistment he endured a catastrophic earthquake measuring 9.2 on the Richter scale in Alaska in 1964 and then went on to serve a number of tours in Vietnam. He seemed to come out of it all with his sense of humor intact, granted, he has a little skewered outlook on the rest of the world, but at least he is breathing. Most people who have met him have all remarked in some way or another that God must have broken the mold when He came up with Mike. In all honesty, I think God more than likely was wondering where the Hell that mold come from in the first place.

Back in the early ‘60s when my brothers and I were very young and very little, we were all a little rambunctious. In those days, cars had interiors that were the size of a suburban living room. Given such a free reign, we bounced all over the place. From the front seat over into the backseat, from side to side and even reclining quite comfortably in the rear window, curled up like a cat sleeping in the sunlight. With this backdrop, Mike set up a safety practice for us that he must have picked up somewhere. He told us that in the event of an oncoming car swerving from their lane, hitting our car head-on and allowing our untethered bodies to be catapulted through the windscreen, he would at random “test” us. When he yelled the word, “crash”, the three of us would hit the floorboards of the car and in the case of an accident, we would be saved by not flying past him and messing up the front portion of the car. It became almost a game, as it would sometimes happen a few times in the same night. One recent evening, I was reflecting on how far forward Mike’s thinking was in those days. Way before the idea of seat belts were even thought about, here was this teenager planning how to save his little brothers in the case of an accident. As I thought about this for a while, I realized that I had lived under an illusion for over 45 years. The little light bulb that lay dimmed for so long, finally turned on in my mind. I do not doubt for a second that Mike was thinking of our safety in utilizing this practice, but I think another motive might have been the germ of the idea.

Take yourself back to a summers’ evening in the late 1950's or early 1960's. There was more than likely a new Beach Boys tune playing on the radio. Mike would have his bent elbow sticking out the window, the wind trying to blow through his richly Bryclemed hair, a pack of Exports rolled up in the sleeve of his shirt. He was just a cool kid cruisin’ the country roads. Well, as cool as you can be with 3 yammering, screaming brothers slithering about the car. Not a very cool sight indeed. There in the distance, he sees a couple of cute girls from Ernestown High School walking along the highway. He knows his image is on the line. Does he want to be seen ferrying around a marauding band of younger brothers? “CRASH!!” he yells, and the heads of those uncool brothers disappear as quick as a flash and he sails by the girls with a slight nod of his head, a crooked finger pointing at them and an Elvis smirk on his lips. In hindsight, I think it was a touch of genius.

I did pick up a few life lessons from Mike over the years. The first and foremost to me was that sex, drugs and rock and roll were far more fun and far less dangerous than guns, bullets and bombs (note to my children reading this... that was a phrase popularized in the ‘70s and neither a confession nor admission of any wrong doing on my behalf). I am happy to point out that he is now come over to my point of view on this matter. The other lesson he imparted was to always check your parachute before jumping out of a plane. Just where and when I will use this last piece of advice, I don’t know. As a metaphor, it seems to fit for a good many things in life and in a practical sense, it served him well. All in all, given some of the other lessons I could have learned from him, this seems like sound advice to pass along.