Brother

I have the best brother.

Don't argue with me.  It's true.

He's the glue that binds me to my sister.  She doesn't read The Burrow.  Therefore,  I'm free to say that she's often been a difficult presence in my life without running the risk of her not talking to me for months.  I enjoy her company when she's not being a lunatic.  I'm sure she'd say the same about me.  But every year, Brother creates a conference call so that we can sing her Happy Birthday.

He laughs when I promise to hang up when she misbehaves.  He doesn't scold.  He understands.

He understands that we are all screwed up in our own little ways, but that the common thread running through us is one deserving of respect.  I'm glad someone is alert to keeping the flame alive.

He's a collector of interesting pieces of wood, which he turns into interesting decor

or alligators with wheels and a jaw that opens and closes as it rolls along.

He's the occasional drop-in-for-dinner guest at Little Cuter's house.  It's just off the highway when he's driving to visit his daughter in Chicago; he calls from the road and leaves when the kids go to bed.  He's the perfect guest.

He came after my perforation and, for a week, he caulked and replaced and repaired and improved and installed, all while keeping us amused with what are now called Dad Jokes but which will always be, to me, Oh, Brother! jokes.

Every once in a while he'll send an edition of his personal newsletter, filled with riddles and conundrums and absurd articles from arcane sources.  Every part of the parcel is decorated.  I always learn something, even if I didn't know I didn't know it.  

He is the most comfortable-with-himself human I know.  

And today is his birthday, so raise a glass.... a beer.... a whiskey.... water with no ice, and celebrate.