Tomorrow my brother Mark turns seventy. He's the first of my brothers whose arrival I remember. I was about to turn eight. Brother Bill, my nemesis, had arrived when I was two, and Steve slipped in a couple of years later. In another six or seven years Mary-Jo would arrive. When I got a few years older I liked taking the subway downtown to explore and Mark was amenable to riding along. He remembers me taking him to restaurants and as soon as the water was poured and the waitress left us to peruse the menu, I would make him get up so we could sneak out of the place I had discovered was beyond my means. I only remember this happening once, or twice. I made three dollars a week from my paper route and had to watch the pennies. I've since learned to judge a place from the outside, but I recently forced Teresa to slip out of a restaurant in Venice on our most recent trip abroad. As our family grew I was moved to the attic. I had a finished room in which my father ...
We have met the enemy and he is us.—Pogo