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This is me with my brother and sister-in-law on New Year’s Eve. I’ve adopted my bro’s group of friends, because I was rubbish about keeping in touch with people from high school, and now if I know anyone on the Island, it’s probably from my days of working in the theatre here.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Of course, Ian and Ellen’s gang are all married and have children, and two of them are even ministers, so we don’t have that much in common, yet they’re all fun, open-minded people, as well as having each become successful in their chosen careers. The geeks, as they say, shall inherit the earth.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
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We started with dinner at Barry and Shannon’s. Barry shared an expression of his twin brother’s related to getting married: “Pulling the ring”. When I asked him what that meant, he illustrated by tugging at his ring finger then miming inflating like a life raft and the hair popping off the top of his head. I had a good laugh at that one. I don’t know if it’s my decade of attempted vegetarianism or my singledom, but I’m happy I’ve managed to dodge that one.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
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After dinner, we went to “The Guild”, the bank where I opened my first account, which has now been converted into an arts and performance space. The crowd wasn’t quite who I expected — more like the parents<\/em> of who I expected. These were not people accustomed to dancing more than once a year, either, so there were four styles on display that night:<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n — The Straight-Guy Two-Step<\/p>\n<\/p>\n — The Class-Takers. They danced well, but you could practically see their lips moving as they counted out their steps.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n — The Zombie. He shuffled back and forth and from time to time stretched his arms out.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n — The Electrocuted Chicken in Slow Motion. I loved this guy, with his hinged arms swinging from his shoulders. He was awful, but, dammit, he was expressive<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n The band was great. And I enjoyed being out with my bro’ and sis’. I don’t get to see that much of them, and whenever I hang out with my brother, I’m struck by how much I like him. Our ways of thinking, our sense of humour — it’s like we’re genetically predisposed to getting along.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n “¦Well, now<\/em>. A few hours ago, as Mom, Dad, and I struggled to shove the tree away under the stairs, Mom found a photo from a Christmas ages ago. In the picture, I was about five, and I’d just opened a present. I looked overjoyed, and my mum pointed out that, from the edge of my brother’s face, it seemed like he was smiling. “See,” she said. I conceded that, okay, there must have been a few rare moments when we weren’t being nasty to each other. (Except on our camping trips, when suddenly we became each other’s best friend.)<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n From the photo, my mum remembered a box, which she pointed out to me. “Could you take a look through that,” she asked, “and see if you want to keep it?”<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n So for the past two hours (with a break from some excellent corn chowder Dad made), I’ve been on an archaeological dig through my past. Most of the bulk was tax receipts I was obliged to keep, but now they’re so old I could chuck them. Same with the zillion headshots from my acting days (even then I was cursed with the awkward rictus of an expression I still get whenever a camera is aimed at me). I chucked those, too.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n <<\/p>\n<\/p>\n p><\/p>\n<\/p>\n
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