An Essay for my Brother, Christopher
Word Count: 1676
This began as a Debbie story, but turned out a Chris story. It’s okay, Bebbers – yours is coming.
When I think of my Aunt Debbie, I inevitably think of her homes. When I was a little girl, she lived in a series of
apartments in Beaumont’s historic district. They were what the newspaper ads would call charming or quaint,
and they were in their own way. Debbie always had a way of making them much more than the sum of their
parts, with her elegant Victorian lace and cabinets full of china and crystal and Depression glass.
One of her apartments shared the back portion of a remodeled bungalow with an orthodontist’s office. I
remember most that her parking space was at the end of a perilously narrow one-lane concrete driveway,
which she would have to navigate backwards in her little red Mazda. I can recall my own childhood anxiety at
imagining that treacherous over-the-shoulder maneuvering long before I even dreamed of driving. But for her, it
didn’t seem like a problem. If Debbie is one thing – she’s capable.
Our favorite of her houses was the one on Fonville, near Lamar University and the old Lamar Theater, where my
family saw Song of the South on one drenched Sunday afternoon. The house on Fonville was a two-story meant
to look like a Tudor. It was neither big, nor new, but felt comfortable enough to house our whole wild,
sprawling family for several Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters.
And for all of these things, Debbie’s house on Fonville was memorable, but more specifically, it was Alice Keith
Park that I recall most.
Debbie moved in to the Fonville house when I was a pre-teen – 12ish? – and Chris, my brother, was eight. I can
remember a lot from that age because in many ways it felt like I was waking up in the world. At that time, I had
begun to keep a journal, and its pages sang of the grand adventures my brother and I had together – many of
them at Alice Keith Park.
At 12, I was old enough by my Mom’s standards to be my brother’s keeper. When my Mom went to visit Debbie
in Beaumont (which was often; Beaumont’s only 20 minute’s drive from Vidor, and Mom and Debbie loved to
gossip about family stuff), Chris and I were able to trek off on our own to Alice Keith Park. Back then, it was a
safe journey along cracked, side-walked paths through quiet, leafy neighborhoods, past the Albertson’s
Grocery Store, and across College Avenue so there was only one traffic light, which we would cross together
by counting one, two, three, and running.
The park itself had the standard attractions: swing set, merry-go-round, sandbox, a swimming pool (which my
Mom said was for, and she would whisper this part, blacks), but the best part was The Structure.
Here’s what it was like: Three stories, painted alternately bright orange and yellow, with dozens of pyramids
made of bent metal bars. The bars fit together so that each vortex of the pyramid made a flat, climbable space
of about one foot square. Each pyramid was, and I’m guessing because grown-up specs are different from kid
specs, about three feet in height and width. The pyramids were stacked higher in the middle of The Structure
– 10 or 12 high at its tallest point, and three high on each end.
Which for us was perfect.
One of us could sit in the center pyramid (Chris, mostly – he was afraid of heights) and be the starship captain,
while the other (me. See above, re: heights) would climb to the peak pyramid to play the role of navigator or
gunner. Though, thinking back, I remember always being captain. Hmmm. Doesn’t matter. In this way, we could
play Starship Enterprise fighting to secure the ship and the galaxy from alien invaders. Because this was a
public playground, we never ran short of said invaders, though I do see the irony now in the fact that we were
the outsiders. I’m pretty sure we were violating the prime directive.
During that time in our lives, Chris and I were introduced to two brand new things that would change our
world. One was the Franklin IIe Personal Home Computer, which my dad bought and assembled himself. And on
it, he installed the second thing that would add a new dimension to our playtime: Ultima IV.
Now, in addition to the USS Enterprise, The Structure at Alice Keith Park became Castle Brittania. I was both
the fearless mage Starbuck, transported to Brittania from our own world to defend the nine virtues, and fair
and humble Katrina, whose kingdom had been destroyed because of its overwhelming pride. Odd, I find it now,
that I was both Starbuck and Katrina, and that my brother was the silent, stalwart Ranger, Shamino…
We would also play G. I. Joe. The Structure became Joe HQ, where I was Flynt and Lady Jaye. Chris was silent,
stalwart Snake Eyes.
When we played pirates, The Structure was our ship, and I would be Captain Mabel (originally Kristie MacNicol
in The Pirate Movie, the parody of the musical, The Pirates of Pensance). I would shout orders to my faithful
crew from the crow’s nest, while Chris would be… you know, I really can’t remember.
Why would he play with me at all?
Okay, so there was this one thing which we could play on equal ground, and that was Star Wars. He was Luke;
I was Leia. Although I’m fairly certain I was also Han Solo, while he played the roles of Chewbacca and R2.
Guess how many speaking lines they have?
It’s funny, writing this and remembering all those endless hours of play. In those games, I don’t remember a lot
of arguing or fighting (not like in card and board games, which ended in blood, tears, and on one occasion,
fire). I hope that my memories are true and consistent with his in this regard, and that Chris had as much fun
in them as I did.
I recall these times as an uninterrupted reel of childhood memories spliced together, ignoring – sometimes
intentionally – the effects of time. In them, my brother is still smaller than me, still the pudgy kid with his pre-
head-gear chin, which made his face seem endearingly goofy, you know, the way a sidekick should be. (Chris,
please don’t pound me now that you can, being all buff and so-much-bigger-than-me!) At least, that was how I
saw him, and he made me feel like the hero.
In these memories, those centurion pines and oaks spread their protecting arms over the park. The sky above
is a white haze, a backdrop. In them, I yell commands – “There are Klingons on the starboard bow!” “Go Joe!”
“Luke, we’re gonna have company!” More often, though, we would scale The Structure, screaming our hearts
out to whomever else was nearby, to the world, that “Fighters were boarding! Give no quarter! Fight for your
very lives!”
And we would. But not each other. We would defend our ship, whether it was the Millennium Falcon or The
Pirate Ship Revenge, against all foes. Brother and sister, side by side, us against them.
On the way back to Aunt Debbie’s, we would buy ice cream at the Albertson’s grocery store, my brother
and I. Those were perfect days.
Chris once paid me the ultimate compliment. I’ve carried it with me, my badge of honor. I think it may be the
best thing anyone has ever said to me.
He said, “The best toy I had growing up was your imagination.”
I mean, that’s huge. We had some pretty amazing toys.
Time has passed, as is its way. Gulf States Utilities, the company that employed half our family, including our
Dad, Aunt Debbie, our Grannye, and her sister, Aunt Avonne, was bought up by a company called Entergy in
one of those horrible hostile takeovers in the late 80s. Grannye and Aunt Avonne retired. My Dad was laid off
after 18 years, forcing us to leave the house in Vidor, which was, in the end, not so terrible a fate. Aunt
Debbie, newly re-married to Uncle Ken, was offered a transfer to a branch of Entergy in Baton Rouge (Ugh! Not
even in Texas!)
But by then, Chris and I were in college. Aunt Debbie’s neighborhood was no longer considered safe. A friend
of mine at Lamar University was having lunch at Alice Keith Park one afternoon and witnessed a shooting
between two young black men. It was a non-fatal drive-by deal, but still not something you want anywhere
near playground equipment. Debbie sold her house on Fonville and moved to Uncle Ken’s family land near
Clinton, Louisiana.
I had intended, when I sat down, to write about that house, and not about Chris and our adventures in Alice
Keith Park. I had meant to write about the plushly carpeted stairs, on which Debbie would let us play. And we
would: we’d play Poltergeist. I was Carol Ann getting sucked up the stairs in to the ether, and Chris would be
the Ghostbuster set to rescue me. Debbie would also let us toboggan down those stairs on flattened
cardboard boxes, which now that I think about it was insane, and I cannot believe she permitted it. I’d also
meant to write about the upstairs bedroom where she kept her dollhouse, which she’d built herself – a
charming Victoria affair with working ceiling fans and electric lights. For many years, this dollhouse was at the
top of the list of my most favorite things in the whole world.
Chris and I would kneel for hours on that cold, stiff pine hardplank floor and play like we were a family of giants
tormenting the tiny inhabitants of the house until eventually, we overcame the differences of our sizes and
became best friends.
I’d intended to write about all that, but it invariably comes back to Chris. And that is the story of my childhood.
Word Count: 1676
This began as a Debbie story, but turned out a Chris story. It’s okay, Bebbers – yours is coming.
When I think of my Aunt Debbie, I inevitably think of her homes. When I was a little girl, she lived in a series of
apartments in Beaumont’s historic district. They were what the newspaper ads would call charming or quaint,
and they were in their own way. Debbie always had a way of making them much more than the sum of their
parts, with her elegant Victorian lace and cabinets full of china and crystal and Depression glass.
One of her apartments shared the back portion of a remodeled bungalow with an orthodontist’s office. I
remember most that her parking space was at the end of a perilously narrow one-lane concrete driveway,
which she would have to navigate backwards in her little red Mazda. I can recall my own childhood anxiety at
imagining that treacherous over-the-shoulder maneuvering long before I even dreamed of driving. But for her, it
didn’t seem like a problem. If Debbie is one thing – she’s capable.
Our favorite of her houses was the one on Fonville, near Lamar University and the old Lamar Theater, where my
family saw Song of the South on one drenched Sunday afternoon. The house on Fonville was a two-story meant
to look like a Tudor. It was neither big, nor new, but felt comfortable enough to house our whole wild,
sprawling family for several Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters.
And for all of these things, Debbie’s house on Fonville was memorable, but more specifically, it was Alice Keith
Park that I recall most.
Debbie moved in to the Fonville house when I was a pre-teen – 12ish? – and Chris, my brother, was eight. I can
remember a lot from that age because in many ways it felt like I was waking up in the world. At that time, I had
begun to keep a journal, and its pages sang of the grand adventures my brother and I had together – many of
them at Alice Keith Park.
At 12, I was old enough by my Mom’s standards to be my brother’s keeper. When my Mom went to visit Debbie
in Beaumont (which was often; Beaumont’s only 20 minute’s drive from Vidor, and Mom and Debbie loved to
gossip about family stuff), Chris and I were able to trek off on our own to Alice Keith Park. Back then, it was a
safe journey along cracked, side-walked paths through quiet, leafy neighborhoods, past the Albertson’s
Grocery Store, and across College Avenue so there was only one traffic light, which we would cross together
by counting one, two, three, and running.
The park itself had the standard attractions: swing set, merry-go-round, sandbox, a swimming pool (which my
Mom said was for, and she would whisper this part, blacks), but the best part was The Structure.
Here’s what it was like: Three stories, painted alternately bright orange and yellow, with dozens of pyramids
made of bent metal bars. The bars fit together so that each vortex of the pyramid made a flat, climbable space
of about one foot square. Each pyramid was, and I’m guessing because grown-up specs are different from kid
specs, about three feet in height and width. The pyramids were stacked higher in the middle of The Structure
– 10 or 12 high at its tallest point, and three high on each end.
Which for us was perfect.
One of us could sit in the center pyramid (Chris, mostly – he was afraid of heights) and be the starship captain,
while the other (me. See above, re: heights) would climb to the peak pyramid to play the role of navigator or
gunner. Though, thinking back, I remember always being captain. Hmmm. Doesn’t matter. In this way, we could
play Starship Enterprise fighting to secure the ship and the galaxy from alien invaders. Because this was a
public playground, we never ran short of said invaders, though I do see the irony now in the fact that we were
the outsiders. I’m pretty sure we were violating the prime directive.
During that time in our lives, Chris and I were introduced to two brand new things that would change our
world. One was the Franklin IIe Personal Home Computer, which my dad bought and assembled himself. And on
it, he installed the second thing that would add a new dimension to our playtime: Ultima IV.
Now, in addition to the USS Enterprise, The Structure at Alice Keith Park became Castle Brittania. I was both
the fearless mage Starbuck, transported to Brittania from our own world to defend the nine virtues, and fair
and humble Katrina, whose kingdom had been destroyed because of its overwhelming pride. Odd, I find it now,
that I was both Starbuck and Katrina, and that my brother was the silent, stalwart Ranger, Shamino…
We would also play G. I. Joe. The Structure became Joe HQ, where I was Flynt and Lady Jaye. Chris was silent,
stalwart Snake Eyes.
When we played pirates, The Structure was our ship, and I would be Captain Mabel (originally Kristie MacNicol
in The Pirate Movie, the parody of the musical, The Pirates of Pensance). I would shout orders to my faithful
crew from the crow’s nest, while Chris would be… you know, I really can’t remember.
Why would he play with me at all?
Okay, so there was this one thing which we could play on equal ground, and that was Star Wars. He was Luke;
I was Leia. Although I’m fairly certain I was also Han Solo, while he played the roles of Chewbacca and R2.
Guess how many speaking lines they have?
It’s funny, writing this and remembering all those endless hours of play. In those games, I don’t remember a lot
of arguing or fighting (not like in card and board games, which ended in blood, tears, and on one occasion,
fire). I hope that my memories are true and consistent with his in this regard, and that Chris had as much fun
in them as I did.
I recall these times as an uninterrupted reel of childhood memories spliced together, ignoring – sometimes
intentionally – the effects of time. In them, my brother is still smaller than me, still the pudgy kid with his pre-
head-gear chin, which made his face seem endearingly goofy, you know, the way a sidekick should be. (Chris,
please don’t pound me now that you can, being all buff and so-much-bigger-than-me!) At least, that was how I
saw him, and he made me feel like the hero.
In these memories, those centurion pines and oaks spread their protecting arms over the park. The sky above
is a white haze, a backdrop. In them, I yell commands – “There are Klingons on the starboard bow!” “Go Joe!”
“Luke, we’re gonna have company!” More often, though, we would scale The Structure, screaming our hearts
out to whomever else was nearby, to the world, that “Fighters were boarding! Give no quarter! Fight for your
very lives!”
And we would. But not each other. We would defend our ship, whether it was the Millennium Falcon or The
Pirate Ship Revenge, against all foes. Brother and sister, side by side, us against them.
On the way back to Aunt Debbie’s, we would buy ice cream at the Albertson’s grocery store, my brother
and I. Those were perfect days.
Chris once paid me the ultimate compliment. I’ve carried it with me, my badge of honor. I think it may be the
best thing anyone has ever said to me.
He said, “The best toy I had growing up was your imagination.”
I mean, that’s huge. We had some pretty amazing toys.
Time has passed, as is its way. Gulf States Utilities, the company that employed half our family, including our
Dad, Aunt Debbie, our Grannye, and her sister, Aunt Avonne, was bought up by a company called Entergy in
one of those horrible hostile takeovers in the late 80s. Grannye and Aunt Avonne retired. My Dad was laid off
after 18 years, forcing us to leave the house in Vidor, which was, in the end, not so terrible a fate. Aunt
Debbie, newly re-married to Uncle Ken, was offered a transfer to a branch of Entergy in Baton Rouge (Ugh! Not
even in Texas!)
But by then, Chris and I were in college. Aunt Debbie’s neighborhood was no longer considered safe. A friend
of mine at Lamar University was having lunch at Alice Keith Park one afternoon and witnessed a shooting
between two young black men. It was a non-fatal drive-by deal, but still not something you want anywhere
near playground equipment. Debbie sold her house on Fonville and moved to Uncle Ken’s family land near
Clinton, Louisiana.
I had intended, when I sat down, to write about that house, and not about Chris and our adventures in Alice
Keith Park. I had meant to write about the plushly carpeted stairs, on which Debbie would let us play. And we
would: we’d play Poltergeist. I was Carol Ann getting sucked up the stairs in to the ether, and Chris would be
the Ghostbuster set to rescue me. Debbie would also let us toboggan down those stairs on flattened
cardboard boxes, which now that I think about it was insane, and I cannot believe she permitted it. I’d also
meant to write about the upstairs bedroom where she kept her dollhouse, which she’d built herself – a
charming Victoria affair with working ceiling fans and electric lights. For many years, this dollhouse was at the
top of the list of my most favorite things in the whole world.
Chris and I would kneel for hours on that cold, stiff pine hardplank floor and play like we were a family of giants
tormenting the tiny inhabitants of the house until eventually, we overcame the differences of our sizes and
became best friends.
I’d intended to write about all that, but it invariably comes back to Chris. And that is the story of my childhood.
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