We grew up in Chicago, North Side, Ukranian Village, in the shadow of St. Mary's of Nazareth Hospital Center. A small yellow-brick bungalow, garage off the back alley, postage-stamped sized backyard with a swingset and no central air anywhere, nestled with six others between two shocking canary City signs plainly reading: DEAF.
Brian was bussed to a Catholic grade school with a deaf program, Jennifer went to St. Helen's just a couple blocks away. I didn't get the Parochial treatment 'cause I tested high enough to be sent cross town to a public school with a gifted program which, coincidentially enough, had its own Sign Language Club. Tim was so small during this time. My most vivid memory of him is my Mom giving him a bath in the kitchen sink. I marveled at seeing my brother getting scrubbed in a place usually reserved for dirty dishes, and I couldn't believe a human being could be small enough to even attempt that.
We'd play a lot of games together outside. Tag, water fights, Mother-May-I, Jennifer and I usually signing instructions for Brian because he was such an athletic and valuable player. We three had our own version of The Wizard of Oz we'd act out on the front sidewalk, all of us covering multiple parts but it usually ended up with Jennifer as Dorothy, me as the Tin Man, and Brian as the Cowardly Lion.
When it got dark or the weather was bad we were forced to play inside. Not many games we could all decide on for inside but Hide-and-Seek was always popular. When you're that small there are just endless amounts of nooks and crannies you can search out to get lost. No one would ever venture into the hall closets, which is where I'd usually be found 'cause I just got so damn predictable. Brian was always happy to play, but Jennifer and I had such an ulterior motive for always pushing for Hide-and -Seek.
The trick was to get Brian to be the Seeker early in the game. Then we'd all be holding glue, tell him to count, and we'd run off while he closed his eyes and did his thing. While Brian was out seeking, Jennifer and I would yell out our relative positions.
“Kev! Where are you?”
“I'm in the bathroom!”
“Why?”
“I thought I had to pee!”
“Need a book to read?”
“No! Thank you!”
“Where's Brian?
“He's looking underneath his bed!”
“Okay! I'm going downstairs to Mom and Dad's room!”
“'Kay! I'm gonna hide in your closet!”
We could keep this going on for a good half-hour. We could, if Brian weren't so quick and had such damn good eyesight. Actually, even with Jennifer and me playing off Brian's deficit, he was still a fearsome opponent. Throughout most of his life Brian was in competitive sports. He played hockey on multiple teams for decades. He was a four-letter Varsity athlete in high school. My Dad nicknamed him “Ox” because of his immense power and tireless drive. So, it wasn't even like cheating. If it were a level playing field Brian would have creamed our butts every time we played anything.
We had the last laugh, though. When Brian wasn't seeking it was always an option to stop playing and never let him know. Let him sit and stew in his cramped hiding space for who-knows-how-long. But we never did that.
Not often, at least.
That would be cruel.
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