New Year’s
One of the memorable events every year, in my brother’s world, were his New Year’s parties. They were never actually on New Year’s, because people tended to have other, outside world, plans on that day. Instead, they were scheduled a week or so later, to make sure that the select list of invitees could come.
Because of this slightly off timing, and this being the 70’s, the era of Polish jokes and before the idea of political correctness was even a gleam in anyone’s eye, they were referred to as Polish New Year’s parties. I know, I know. Apologies, after the fact. (Also, I was just a kid, I didn’t name them.)
The guest list was selective, with a core group of attendees, including his doctors and their families, Marc, his guitar teacher, Kevin, the DJ, and his best friend David. But there were others. To maximize the space, an accordion door, built into the wall of the non-sterile size of the room, was opened up, to allow entry to the room next door.
My mother cooked for weeks, not only to have enough food for the guests but so that they ladies in the kitchen could sterilize batches of food for my brother to have on the inside. The menu included Swedish meatballs on toothpicks, cheap champagne, and Cold Duck (a sweet wine I managed to get a swig of here and there) served in plastic champagne glasses.
My brother always dressed the same way, in my memory, in black jeans and a long sleeve black button up shirt, an ensemble we fondly referred to as his Johnny Cash look. I don’t remember specific conversations at these parties, events, or scenes. I remember the feel. People were happy. Laughing. Talking. Drinking.
There are two things I remember visually. The chafing dish, with candles underneath, keeping the tray of Swedish meatballs warm, sitting on top of the mini fridge that held my brother’s meds and the A&W root beer he used to take them. And my brother.
Sometimes, in my mind’s eye, I see him talking, half sitting on the bench that folded out from the wall on his side of the room, drinking Cold Duck. But sometimes I also see him, a quiet smile on his face, arms crossed, rocking back and forth on his heels, observing what he’d created in the outside room.
Him watching them, me watching him. It reminds me of when my kids were little. Henry was about three, and Luke was an infant. And we were walking on a trail somewhere, me with Luke strapped to my front in a carrier. As I walked, Luke would go through bouts of complaining and calming down.
Squawk, quiet. Squawk, quiet.
I couldn’t figure out what was bugging him. Then I realized. If I walked fast enough to outpace Henry for a second, so that Luke couldn’t see him, he’d squawk. Once Henry was visible again, by my side, he’d quiet down.
The mesmerizing power of the older sibling. My older brother has been out of sight for a long time. now. It’s only now, old as I am, that I’m realizing and remembering how much I watched him, and how much I learned….though I’m still just learning to articulate the latter, even to myself.