Summary: My brother, Jim, is five years my senior, and growing up, he was really cool. I guess I should say that he is still really cool, as our youngest son wants Jim to chaperone his fraternity brothers on a spring break trip to Florida! So, I should probably be thankful for his "coolness," but growing up, it did tend to get in the way. For instance, when he was in high school, I was only in junior high. He could drive. I could not. He had clothes with logos on them. My mother made my clothes. While he enjoyed being out on Friday and Saturday nights, I was babysitting or watching TV with my parents. While I had one or two close friends, Jim had a whole posse of friends. Johnny Davis lived right next door but there were others: Bobby, Prairie Dog (whose real name I still don't know), Edward, Robert and Bill. They were well-behaved guests at our dinner table, but they were also the same crew my brother met up with when he snuck out of the house by climbing out of his second story bedroom window. All of these boys had brothers except for Jim. Jim lived in a house full of over-achieving, over-functioning, bossy, but sweet, sisters. So, whenever he and his friends had to take or pick me up at school, they would roll their eyes as I spilled my books climbing into the back seat of a two-door car. I spilled them because I took too many home and because I was also toting a band instrument. Please note, I did not play the piccolo that is easily carried. No, I played the bassoon, and its case is the equivalent of a suitcase. So besides being "Baby Sister," being a member of the band is probably the thing that made me the most uncool in their eyes. Perhaps they were being playful when they nicknamed me "The Little Bandsman," but I heard it as a damning statement of judgment. It made me feel like I was not even worthy to be in their presence.
