First Inklings

The first inkling I had that my way of looking at things was different from my siblings happened when I was eight. 

My oldest brother & I  - a whopping 14 years between us – had gone out to buy a tree on Christmas Eve.  We bought it so late because the lumberyard where Dad had been a v.p. burned down the year before.  Instead of working for someone else, Dad decided to start his own tiny lumber & millwork shop.  All my parents’ money was tied up in that small but mighty dream, hence, buying a tree at 5:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

My oldest brother was none too happy about having to a) embarrass himself by buying a last-gasp tree  and  b) having to lug his little sister around with him in the bargain.

We found a tree – not perfect, but the perfect price - got it into the flatbed of the truck & headed home.  Well, almost home.

There was one stop my brother wanted to make.  

We drove down the long drive to his best friend’s house, where the entire family – including older brothers & sisters & their families – had gathered.  

My guess is that there was nothing my brother wanted more than to be snug in that cozy circle of family, family that he could relate to, not the one down in the little house that was a converted chicken coop, atop a hill without any driveway or even direct access to the road, with a coal furnace that needed to be tended to at least once during the night & even then only heated 4/5 of  the house.  

As we drove up to the big house, all its lights blazing, and he parked the car right outside the small door, not the main one, he explained to me that he was going in to say “Merry Christmas” and that I was to wait in the car until he came back out.

With that, he opened his door, got out, went up the stone step to the small door, opened it to a brightly-lit hallway, and closed it behind him.  Leaving me in the cab of the truck, in the dark, in the cold, alone.

Okay, I thought to myself.  Now what.  I wasn’t afraid, even though it was dark & I was stuck by myself in the cab of a truck in a familiar-but-it-didn’t-feel-that-way driveway.  I tried amusing myself, but it is pretty hard to do when there’s no radio in the car & even if I’d thought to bring a book, it would have been too dark to read.  I remember regretting not wearing gloves.  I tried keeping cold as I waited.  And waited.  And waited.

Now, imagine that you are a 22 year old guy, in the heart of a family you dearly would love to call your own, on Christmas Eve.  Not a one of them has a clue that your little sister is waiting out in their driveway in the cab of a red VW pick-up, her only company a Christmas tree in the back, so of course everyone – all dressed up for a holiday family party - is making a fuss over you & urging you to stay.   Time speeds by for you.

For your little sister, out in the increasing seriously cold cab, it drags by. 

My guess is that, if the roles had been reversed, my older brother might have stayed put until I came out.  Maybe he would have felt embarrassed to admit to a soul that an older sibling had left him on his own for however long or short a time. 

I had no such qualms.  I was cold.  And I had waited quite long enough, thank you. 

To this day, I remember that someone who worked there answered my knock on that small door, remember the look of shocked surprise on his face as I inquired, “Is Peter Lockhart still here?”  As he whipped me into the narrow hallway, two women came out of what I guessed was the kitchen – “You poor little thing, you look half frozen,” they said, rubbing my hands.  They sent the fellow to quietly get my brother’s best friend. 

I can still see the merriment in his eyes when he spotted me.  Today, at 61, I know that he knew there was going to be the devil for my brother to pay for leaving me out in the car, and he was looking forward to it.  Back then, I had no idea what was to come.  (Guys can be so mean to each other, even best friends.)  

He thanked the ladies for warming me up, took my hand, bent over to reassure me that all was well, and walked me through a long entry way with windows on both sides that lead to the HIGH ceiling living room with a vast fireplace, a room well-suited for the manor house it was in. 

“Look what I found!” he announced as we descended the steps into the great room.  

His mother, the one person I fully recognized, sat near the fire.  I was aware of being surrounded by a lot of older people (I don’t remember any children, certainly none of my schoolmates), as she beckoned me over.  She put her arm around me, drew me close, and said, with a piercing look & steel in her voice, “Peter, what were you thinking leaving this poor child out in the dark & cold all by herself?”

In that moment, my eyes met my brother’s & even I, at age eight, had no question what was going through his head.  And, I am proud to say, I didn’t care.  I was inside & warm & that was all I cared about.  Yes, it was nice to be fussed over by lots of older people who seemed to think I was the cutest thing ever, but it was being out of the cold that mattered.

I didn’t intend to totally & completely mortify my brother, to shame him in the eyes of the very people who mattered to him most in the world.  But he should have realized that I was not my older sister, was not someone who would wait & maybe even take an itsy bit of pleasure in my discomfort.

Neither of us spoke on the drive home.  Neither of us told anyone.  Mom only heard about it when his best friend’s mother spilled the beans, thinking our family already knew.  And he had to go through the embarrassment of it all over again.

Even now, I can recall the thoughts that ran through my head as I walked from the narrow hallway to the grand living room.  Looking around, soaking it all in, I could understand why my brother wanted to be there – it was the best sort of place to celebrate Christmas.  And then the people seemed so nice, so welcoming – who wouldn’t want to spend as much time as possible with them.  

Even at the remarkably young age of eight, a part of me felt sad for him, that he had to go home with me & with that less than perfect but perfectly affordable Christmas tree.  

Even at the remarkably young age of eight, part of me understood him better than he’d ever begin to understand me.  

It was the first inkling I had that we might be related by blood, but that might be the only thing we shared in common.