 A Series About Childhood Memories |
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 Norm, left, and Ron Miller in days when they dressed a lot better. |
Being a tag-along isn't much fun, but there are a few trade-offs
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By NORM MILLER
Special to TheColumnists.com
MOST of the time when I was growing up, being a "little brother" really sucked. You were never old enough to be pals with your older brother and you always were too small for most of the games that Big Brother played.
But there was a period of time in the late 1940s that, for a few years, my older brother, Ron, was unwilling babysitter, mentor and just my pal.
In
those days, our hometown was Santa Cruz, a small town south of
San Francisco on the central coast of California. It was a paradise
for a kid: Very little street traffic, almost no crime and lots
of vacant lots and fields to play in. Naturally, Ron hoped to
play in those lots and fields without his little brother tagging
along.
Usually about mid-morning, after thoroughly scouting the house
and yard to make sure I wasn't around, my brother would climb
onto his bike and ride over to a friend's house several blocks
away. Lurking in the shadows, of course, was "little brother"
on his tricycle, wobbly wheels and all, ready for hot pursuit.
After a few blocks of riding, Big Brother would look back and
there would be his worst nightmare.
If he pedaled faster and used the usual "ditching" techniques, it made no difference. What Big Brothers don't know is that Little Brothers have a sixth sense. We always know where to go to catch up.
As I recall, the favorite phrase I heard when I arrived at my brother's destination was, "Oh, Jeez, why can't you get lost?"
So, after spending awhile getting ignored and being called a few names, I usually mounted up and rode back home to play by myself in the neighborhood, which had almost no kids my own age.
Our Dad had a job driving transport for Union Oil Co. and worked mostly at night in those days. Overtime was precious and Dad worked all he could so we could have our own house someday instead of living with our grandmother. Yet Grandma's house was a great place to play because she had lots of trees in the backyard and a ground level basement that became my refuge when the bigger boys refused to have me around. I could play for hours by myself with my trike. I tied a wagon to it and put an old solvent barrel in the wagon, so I could pretend to be driving my own gas truck like Dad.
I always had to be quiet in the morning so as not to wake my Dad. I could always count on my Big Brother to show up later to make sure I had gotten home OK. After calling me the standard names, he would find some time for us to "mess around" together before he left again.
I knew following him once a day was annoying, but acceptable. I also knew following him twice in the same day would mean "telling on me" to our Mom, who I feared might chase me around the house with her laundry stick, a wicked device used to push clothes through a wringer-style washer. After many years' use, it had taken on the shape of a kid's butt. Mom always caught me, once the chase was on, so I tried to avoid letting things get to that point.
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The big treat for me would be those days when my brother had his pals over to our house to play and they needed an extra person for their make-believe tank crew or spaceship flight crew. Or, if they needed a "victim." On those days, I was "in."
My brother was the master of those games. It was like being in a movie where you had a part to play and he was the director, star and script-writer all in one. I felt so good when I was involved because it felt like going to the movies. (Years later, my brother would become a writer of some note and hang out with people in Hollywood.)
In
1949, our family finally realized its dream by getting our own
house. It was in a neighborhood with kids my own age and I found
myself much less inclined to tag along with Big Brother. About
that time, my brother launched his "show biz" career.
If you are old enough to remember the Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland
flicks where the theme of every movie was "let's put on
a show," well, we did the same thing. Our garage, much to
our Dad's chagrin, became The Miller Theater, complete with curtains
made out of blankets, lights and seating for crowds. Admission
was paid in Popsycle bags, which in those days were redeemable
from the ice cream company's catalog.
Big Brother Ron was P.T. Barnum and C.B. DeMille all in one. Every few weeks, we put on a new play and overflow crowds of kids from all over the surrounding neighborhoods would show up with their Popsycle bags. Even though my job usually was cleaning up after everyone left, I felt really good to be known as the brother of the great showman. Kids would come up to me and ask when the next show was going to be put on. My standard answer was "soon."
I would know when I got the word from Big Brother that it was time to spread the news about the new show. This went on for several summers until my brother moved on to bigger things. And we finally reached a period where we saw each other very little except at dinner or when he occasionally beat the crap out of me for touching "his stuff."
But no matter how many times I was "thumped," if I ever got hurt playing with my friends, like the time a tree limb poked a hole in my leg and I started bleeding quite a bit, here would come Big Brother Ron to the rescue. He broke off the limb that day, threw me over his shoulder and, like John Wayne in "Sands of Iwo Jima," he ran all the way home with me. And he usually was crying more than me--and Mom always used to remind me of that.
He was my hero and he always was there when the chips were down, He would always say I was too stupid to cry, but what he never knew was I wouldn't cry in front of him.
Growing up before the days of television, video games and exotic toys, I still had the best childhood you could possibly have. If you had an older sibling like I had, the size of your imagination was the only limit to the fun you could have.
When I had children of my own, each of them loved hearing the stories about when I was a kid. I don't know if they believed the many stories I told them, but they never tired of hearing them--and they all think that their Uncle Ron is so cool, with his background in movies, TV and writing.
As for me, well I always have believed Ron was the real Peter Pan and someday we'll return to Neverland together and kick butt on Captain Hook.
© 2001 by Norman C. Miller. The photos are the property of the Miller family.
Norm Miller administers the service department of a large auto dealership in Carson City, Nevada. This is his first attempt at writing for publication. He lives in Minden, Nevada, with his wife, Nicky; daughter, Amy, and son Ron, a U.S. Marine Corps veteran, who's now a college student in Reno. He has another son, Frederick, who lives in California.
You can comment on this column or contact Norm Miller with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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