Last Name 1
Student Sample- Narrative
Professor Asher
English 1180/1210
6 February 2013
Caught You Caring
As I was walking through my oldest brother Steve’s house one afternoon last summer, I came across some Father’s Day cards displayed on his mantle. I opened and read each hand written inscription. His youngest child, Julia, simply stated in her five-year-old scribble, “I love you, Daddy.” Rachel, the next oldest, was a little more personal with “Even though you get mad sometimes, you are the best dad, and you are handsome, and take me everywhere I need to go.” Then I looked at the cards from the oldest of the kids, the boys, Jack and Ryan. These both had notes assuring Steve that despite his tendency to go “psycho”, he is still the “greatest dad ever!” By the time I finished reading these insightful and personal notes, not only was I laughing out loud, but I had been able to quickly envision the many faces of my brother. I recalled the terrifying big brother of my childhood alongside the #1 Dad he had become. I remembered a specific time when a loving act of compassion changed my view of my brother forever.
As a young teenage boy, my brother was quite handsome. He had bleach blond hair perfectly parted down the middle and a little long in the back (it was the eighties, after all). He was athletic and popular; he played baseball for our city’s Little League and basketball for his high school. His friends thought he was the coolest and he lived up to his image with his witty remarks like, “You’re about as sharp as a marble,” or “You want some static? I’ll clean your attic!” These remarks were thrown my way, but he almost always had a smirk on his face. And then, there was the saying that mortified our mother the most. It was Steve’s twisted play on the famous Wendy’s commercial: “Where’s the beef? Between my legs!” Or, when Nike came out with “Just Do It,” Steve had a t-shirt that read “Just Do Me.” Steve was always able to make everyone laugh (or cringe), and I was usually laughing along, regardless of if I understood the joke or if I was the butt of any of his quips. I idolized my big brother, yet I also feared him. After all, he was my big brother, and it was his charge in life to bully me and toughen me up.
Steve never got tired of tormenting me. He would practice wrestling moves on me (the figure-four leg lock being his personal favorite), and in our living room, there was nothing fake about wrestling and I could not tap out. Sometimes he would lock his legs around my abdomen and squeeze like a vise until I thought my head was going to explode and spray the room with gore, which I would then have to clean up. It’s a wonder that never really happened. One of these more intolerable torture sessions consisted of Steve sitting on my chest, pinning my arms at my sides with his legs, and relentlessly knocking on my sternum. Just when I would think that I couldn’t take it anymore, he would stop poking at my chest and finish with a few hanging spit tricks, slurping his spit back into his mouth just before it would touch my face. Even after the anguish, I would still be happy to grill him a ham sandwich or scratch his back. After all, he was my big brother, and it was my charge in life to take the abuse quietly and treat Steve with esteem.
Our relationship carried on much this way through our adolescence: Steve, the big bully brother and me: the pain-in-the-neck little sister. However, peppered in between his snarky comments and physical ambushes, Steve would show chivalrous acts of protection on my part. It was as if, in his mind, he was the only one allowed to give me any grief. He was also quite supportive. He attended all my dance recitals andmy high school graduation; you could not convince me that our mother forced him to attend these events.
When Steve was around nineteen and I was about thirteen, our Grandma Flo became very ill and was dying form stomach cancer. We are a close family, so this was difficult, especially since it was out first experience with sickness and death in the immediate family. We used to spend a lot of time at our grandparent’s house. Their home was once a playground for me, with the sounds of Ping-Pong and shuffle board in the basement, and baseball forever on the radio; however, the scene was no longer typical. Right in the corner of the living room was a hospital bed in which my grandmother lay, and there seemed to be medical equipment scattered in each room I entered. There also seemed to be a priest there constantly. I remember one certain afternoon my mother and I went to take care of Grandma Flo. Since the time she had gotten sick, I usually spent my visits keeping busy in the basement or kitchen, just trying to avoid the whole situation and not see Grandma. She was no longer the same woman to me. Gone was the short, plump, rosy-cheeked, fairy godmother-like woman I loved. She was thin, her skin pulled tight over her skeleton and she hollered the most outrageous things. On this occasion, I was wiping the kitchen countertops and sink over and over again when Steve came in the front door where he was greeted by our mother.
“Hey, Mom. How yadoin?” he asked.
“Just fine, Stephen,” our mom replied. “How are your classes going today?”
“Good, Mom, I’m just here to take care of Grandma and grab a quick lunch.”
As I listened in from the kitchen, I heard our mother say how pleased she was that Steve had been coming over to tend to Grandma. I stood around the corner, and as I eavesdropped on their conversation I was surprised to hear that Steve had voluntarily come to see Grandma. I wondered what had motivated his visit. Just then he came around the corner.
“What’s up, Dork?” he jibed.
“Hey,” was all I could manage. I watched as he filled a glass with fresh cold water and grabbed some supplies from a table that was covered with what looked like the contents of twenty first aid kits.
“Come on,” he said, and I dutifully followed.
Steve began by ever so gently brushing Grandma’s hair, whispering that she was beautiful, and telling her how he loved her very much. He washed her face with a warm wash cloth; she was no longer very responsive, but this did not stop Steve from speaking to her. He then handed me the water glass; it now had a few small objects in it that looked like green Jolly Rancher lollipops. I soon learned their purpose. Steve grabbed one and placed it in Grandma’s mouth and used it to moisten and clean her mouth. He used each one gently and efficiently. I was in awe. This smart ass, tough guy, ogre of a big brother was now applying Vaseline to her freshened mouth. I could process no more! I fled into the kitchen, put down the glass, and ducked into the adjacent half-bath. After a minute (and an unnecessary flush), I slunk out of the bathroom and peeked around the corner. Steve and Mom were talking while he continued to pamper and fuss over Grandma. He fluffed her pillows and straightened her blankets. I felt as though I was watching a secret scene…a secret scene I was part of for only a fleeting moment.
Grandma lay in a partially seated position in her hospital bed and Steve was standing at her right side with Mom seated on the foot of the bed. The window directly behind Steve let the sun shine in and cast him in a heavenly glow. His hands were gentle and purposeful as he continued to find things in her immediate area to clean, adjust, and correct. All along, he smiled. In the presence of death, he was brave. His compassionate care of our grandmother and the willingness to participate in and share that intimate moment made me see another side of him. At that moment, I felt special and blessed. I was honored to have him as my brother.
Just as I was lost in thought about that revealing moment in time, reflecting on the many faces of my brother, and fondly remembering the care he gave, Steve came strutting into his living room with that wonderful smirk of his and said, “What are you grinning about, Dork?”
I just shook my head and smiled. “These Father’s Day cards are really great, Steve.”