Kith & Kin

Baby Keith. Mom ’ s idea of putting the baby ’ s age right in the photo was a stroke of genius. My mother often told me the story of the day she and Dad brought Keith home from the hospital. They laid him on the couch, and I, two-and-a-half years old, looked at him and said, “Where’s his mommy?” At some point thereafter I comprehended the fact that my mommy and daddy were also Keith’s mommy and daddy, and that meant we were brothers. When we were still quite young, Keith and I had our own TV program. It was broadcast every evening immediately after supper. The two of us would go into the living room, stand in front of a large mirror, and put on a comedy show. Its high-brow humor consisted mostly of two little boys dancing around and acting silly, the larger one repeatedly hitting the smaller one on the head and pushing him off camera because he had made a comment that was, in the estimation of the larger one, stupid—while the smaller one gamely played along, always smiling, willingly...

Some memories stay fresh in our minds because they are so special or so amazing or so shattering that we play them over and over throughout our lives. Some memories, though, are hidden in the haze of our history and then surprise us by appearing when a random event triggers them. For instance, a couple of days ago I saw a bicycle and one of those hidden memories jumped out suddenly. I stopped walking for a second and carefully turned it over in my mind. Yes, I remember now—it really happened that way. I had completely forgotten. . . . The Bike I had picked out the coolest bike I’d ever seen from the all the bikes available in the bike store in little old downtown Fredericksburg. This was the era of Footsies , hula-hoops , Jarts , bell bottoms—and banana bikes. AI generated by Copilot Banana bikes had a distinctively elongated seat. They were usually bright in color, with high handlebars decorated with tassels that flapped in the wind. At some point I put plastic clickers...

The other day I was trying to remember all the dogs I’ve ever owned. The first was Ella , short for “Cinderella,” a medium-sized black mix who barked incessantly. This was back in the era when a dog stayed outside, chained to her doghouse, and that was where she lived. No one thought of it as a cruel arrangement. But, as I s ay, she was a nonstop barker. In fact, one of the first phrases my little brother Eric learned to say—shouting at her from the kitchen window—was, “Ella! Be kawock!”   Which was his version of what he heard other family members shouting from the same location: “Ella! Be quiet!” We never bonded in any way (Ella and me, not Eric and me), and one day she was gone. This was also back in the era when you could call the dog catcher to remove your canine. Is that what happened to her? I don’t know, but I hope her next owner didn’t keep her chained to a doghouse. Our next dog was Missy . She was about the size of a chihuahua—no doubt she had some chihuahua blood mixe...

  I was playing with toys on the threadbare gray carpet in the dining room. Mom was working on supper in the kitchen—one of my favorite meals: waffles! But things didn’t seem to be going well. “Rrrrrr!” I could hear her say. “This stupid thing!” Apparently the waffle iron wasn’t the only thing heating up in the kitchen today. More groans and growls of frustration emanated from the kitchen. I peeked through the doorway to see what the problem was. Just then Mom opened the waffle iron. The top half of the waffle was stuck to the top heating element. The bottom half of the waffle was stuck to the bottom heating element. The middle of the waffle was goopy and dripping. The edges of the waffle were black, crispy, and smoking.   “Grrrrr! This is crazy ! I’ve about had it!” She began scraping the waffle remains off both surfaces with a spatula and flinging them into a wastebasket. For once in my life I didn’t ask any questions, deeming it wiser to go back to playing with ...