Wednesday, January 2, 2013


                    Yesterday I found this note that Darla wrote when she was 7 and Harry was 4.

My brother Pete once drove me insane singing Volare for almost a day straight. Just the chorus bit. I had a 600 page (or close) paper due the next day that I hadn't even started and he was fully committed to bringing me down. Fully, tirelessly, unstoppably committed. He followed me around like my conscience. He sang while I ate. He sang while I was in the bathroom. He sang while I was on the phone. Lets put it this way: he sang while I breathed.

The thing about being the oldest kid is that we are not prepared for this kind of determination. Part of our role is superiority: "You think you can bring me down you pathetic, tongue chewing, mouth breather? Pppssshhh. Go ahead and try". In a million years, I never would have thought he had a strategy. He wasn't capable.

But he was! He did!

He'd sing over and over  and over. That part was a given. I could handle that. But then he'd stop. Sometimes for a few seconds. Sometimes for five minutes. Sometimes to fuel up, have a sandwich, walk the dog. This went on for hours. HOURS! By then the song had already wormed it's way into my brain and was releasing the poison. Releasing the poison that turned me into a drooling, babbling weeping idiot.

Once it gets into your own head, it's over.

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