25 days 'til 45 (yesterday)

Let's get ready to rumble.

When we were kids, my brother and I fought almost every day. Not yelling at each other; we let our fists do the talking. He was a year older than me and taller, but I was stocky and determined. We were evenly matched. Our summer day would start with us lying on the opposite ends of the couch watching television (Dusty's Treehouse, New Zoo Revue, Three Stooges). Then one of us would offend the other person somehow--body noises were usually the culprit--and we would start fighting. Punches, headlocks,and any moves we saw on early morning wrestling were legal. It would be ferocious for a few minutes. Then it would be over. We would watch "The Young and the Restless," discuss the problems between Victor and Nikki or the Abbotts, and have lunch. Inevitably, one of us would breathe, and the fight would be on again. We would usually have at least one more before Mom got home at 4:00. She knew about these fights because one of us would blab. She told us to stop, that siblings shouldn't fight like that, and that she was very disappointed in us. We did not want to disappoint her, so we stopped--tattling, not fighting. First rule of sibling throw down is don't talk about sibling throw down.

These fights continued until my brother entered junior high. He had started playing football and was getting very strong. He was still very skinny, but there was muscle now covering those bones.

As always, the fight started over something trivial. By now, we were fighting with words as well as fists. We both knew that the verbal was just the preview of the coming attraction--the main event. Only this time, the feature would be very short. My football playing, athlete brother punched me in the stomach. Fight over. I clutched my stomach in pain, tears sprung to my eyes, and I said the one thing guaranteed to hit him where it hurt: "Momma said you're not suppose to hit girls." The look on his face was one of fear--fear that he had really hurt me. In all of our years of battle, I always knew that my brother would not hurt me for the world. Not really hurt me. This was the same brother who sat outside of the bathroom in the hallway to keep the monsters--rats--away from me. As long as I gave as well as I got in our fights, it was okay to hit me. Now, with me in tears, he was the one really hurting.

We never fist fought again and I never told momma about him punching me in the stomach.

My brother and I have a very good relationship now. I think we both feel free to tell each other the truth about our lives. My mom thinks it's good that we can talk this way to each other.

Of course we are close. We are war buddies.