I hadn’t believed it, until my brother’s memorial service nine years ago. Where we grew up, there were four of us kids, me, my brother, and my two cousins, who lived next door. There were no other children nearby, and only two other houses in the area, both containing older adults. The rest was woods and fields.
My brother had requested that we not have a service, but we decided, if you can say the heck with us and go shoot yourself in the head, we’re entitled to do whatever makes us feel a smidgen better. So there. Friends and family met in one of the fields where we used to play as children. We gathered by the pond, which had been the focal point for us when we were kids. That's where we would launch and paddle the inflatable boat, which we would 'borrow' and carry through the woods, whenever no one was around to see us do it.
We had no real format for the service. My cousin, bless him, stood up and began to reminisce about our childhood, dredging up memories. Crying all the while, until the sheer silliness of it all began to hit us and make us smile though our tears, he told stories about the four of us together. Then he began telling us about all the things he and my brother had blown up, set on fire, and tried to smoke. I believe there was a tale of stuffing firecrackers up a dead raccoon’s butt to see the carcass explode. My female cousin and I looked at each other in amazement. “Did you do any of that stuff with the boys?” I whispered. “No, did you?” I shook my head. Later, I asked her, “Would you have even thought to do any of that stuff?” “No.” “Me neither.” Even though we had both been tomboys, up in trees, blazing trails through the woods, and having an occasional campfire. Even though we could crash our bikes with the best of them.
But blowing up dead raccoons? Never would have thought of it in a million years, even if you showed us a series of three pictures, one of a raccoon, one of firecrackers, and one of blown up bits.
Boys are sick puppies.
