My older brother Francis was autistic. Growing up, Mom and Dad told me to watch out for him. Not sure how old I was when I became his guardian. It was probably when my oldest brother, Michael, fell to polio. Learned a lot from Francis. He was a great one for forgiving people, turning the other cheek you might say. I took on a neighborhood bully once, thinking I was defending Francis, only to get a timeout from Mom. It was the start of a black eye that told Mom I had been fighting... Francis got to get on his bike and visit his friend Buggers, while I sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes while getting a lecture about reasoning with bullies. I thought I could outrun this bully so I hit him, grabbed Francis by the shirt, and tried to run. Francis didn't run though -he didn't even move. I was spun around with no time to duck. My new box of crayons was put away until I learned fighting was wrong.
There were grownups, too, who I had to keep Francis clear of. Mr Zebanower, on Francis's paper route, was one. Mr. Zebanower didn't like anyone walking on his grass. Dogs pooping on his lawn would get screamed at, or killed at worst. Mr Zeberanower used the term “dumb retard” with Francis a lot when the paper wasn't on the top step of his porch. My brother made a point to get everyone's paper just where they wanted it. Mr. Zebanower complained about everything though. He complained to the Beacon News people that I was too young to be collecting the money for the paper and Francis was too dumb to be delivering the paper, and said that to my brother's face.
I learned from Francis, words could hurt but not to let them stain my soul with anger. That lesson came from Mom, through Francis. Everyone else loved my brother and tipped him rather well. Mom told me I should pray for people like Mr. Zebanower.
When I was relieved of potato peeling duty, I snuck off into the basement and, using Dad's good paper and one of his pens I drew Mr. Zebanower as the evil old man from my Treasure Island book. The smile I gave myself lasted till Mom tapped me on the top of my head. Mom could walk very quietly when she wanted to. Two more days of no crayons. Francis split his tip money with me so I could buy pencils and a Hershey bar. One thing Francis was good at was fixing bikes. Several times, saving me from one of Dad's lectures on how to treat things… If I had to, I could take my bike to my Uncle Al's and get it fixed with no lecture. I liked getting my bike fixed by Uncle Al, he had interesting stories to tell about motorcycles he and Uncle Paul had. He had old photos of Indian Motorcycles lined up alongside Grandpa's house covered with snow and told how even with snow on the streets they still rode them to work. Like my Dad and my Uncles, my brother showed me how to fix a broken chain, replace a pedal, fix a flat and replace a spoke. We covered our bikes with canvas for the winter though, not attempting to ride them on the snow covered streets.
