April 24th, 2008 | 29 Comments »

My long suffering younger brother, Dizzee, father of Wild Child, still speaks to me after all the torture Mr. Trick and I put him through. I’m grateful for this because he is basically kind and quite funny.

We had a period of estrangement in our adult lives that we decided to put aside when The Papa got really really sick. I think we did it for him, although I believe The Papa didn’t care much for Dizzee’s decision to associate with a Tool of Satan.

When we were kids, we lived the military life. No disobedience, no questioning orders. The Papa may have been a corporal at work, but he was the General at home.

When my parents separated, the kids went with The Papa. There were periods of time that we were only supervised by our older sister. This would be the one that made us smoke when she babysat us so we wouldn’t tell on her for smoking. I love her, really, but people? That is messed UP.

So older sister became the queen bee. Dizzee was around nine by the time he really started acting out because he missed his mom. We all did, but I think it hurt him the most.

He would have temper tantrums and Mr. Trick and I would fill a tub full of cold water and throw him in to “cool him off”. We really just wanted to shut him up because he was an annoying little brother. And because it was one thing we could get away with. We totally wanted to smack him, but we weren’t allowed.

He must have marvelled at what great parents we would be someday.

Our fun-loving favourite uncle visited often, and regaled us with what I now realize were inappropriate stories. We figured he could do no wrong.

One of the stories involved a friend passing out drunk, and to punish him, Unk and his other buddies painted the guy’s willy red, so he would have a lovely surprise when he woke up all hungover.

We thought that was the best story ever. We laughed and laughed.

And schemed how we could have that kind of fun without access to alcohol.

We secured a supply of red paint, and the next time Dizzee had a hissyfit while The Papa was at work, we held Dizzee down and painted that puppy red.

I still remember how gobsmacked we were when The Papa was furious with us over this particular stunt.

“But, Dad! We didn’t smack him!”

Oh, the injustice.

Like I said, it’s a wonder Dizzee talks to me at all.

(Dizzee didn’t mind whipping it out when it wasn’t red.)

And? He’s such a good sport, he gave me permission to publish this picture.

Posted in Dizzee, down home