My brother Maurice

My brother Maurice and I were always thick as thieves, even though he was five years older. We were the closest in age  of our family of four children. When I was six years old, he scared me right out of my support system. He became very ill with a disease that was never really diagnosed. He was isolated in his room. On rare occasions, I was permitted to peek in and say “hello.” The shock of my infrequent visits always sent me into cold shivers.

His room was draped with white sheets. To me, they appeared like clouds and it seemed to be like heaven. No noise was permitted in the area of his room. There was a hush of death that existed around him. I was permitted to go to the door only once a day to say, “Hello, how are you?” He always answered in a monosyllable like “bad” or “fair”- never “good.” He was to expend all his efforts in recovery. It was scary.

We suffered an interminable time that summer. However we were rewarded for our patience by mid-summer. The doctor told us Maurice was out of the woods. He would recover. The grown-ups responded in quiet exultation. When I was told, I fell on my knees and let out a war-whoop. Jubilation! How should we thank God and the doctor for this gift? My brother was back again among the living. Mama Jackson, the innovator, the original surprise maker, suggested a picnic in the place we treasured most, Feather Bed Lane.

Feather Bed Lane was a hidden valley. A few oak trees grew in appropriate places in this expansive field so we could find shade when we wanted to rest. In summer, when Maurice began his convalescence, Feather Bed Lane was a blanket of daisies that swayed in unison in the wind as though being led by an orchestra conductor.

Mama Jackson, Sam, Mama, Papa and I kept our plan a secret from Maurice. We planned most efficiently. Weather was the essential ingredient for the event. Maurice, though better, couldn’t be exposed to raw elements like rain or cold. The lunch was to be Maurice’s favorite food. Papa would barbecue chicken on the fire we would build. Mama Jackson would make her specialties- potato salad and cole slaw. Mama would make hot biscuits with honey and butter to waft familiar smells from the picnic basket on the drive to our destination. Drinks of milk, coffee, and tea were in thermoses. Dessert was the surprise of surprises: Fruits, strawberries, dried apricots, dried peaches and fresh orange slices dipped in chocolate that chilled and hardened. All things were carefully wrapped to prevent spoilage. The picnic hamper groaned with Maurice’s favorite foods. Once plans were complete, the weatherman had to offer the perfect day.

Warm sun and mild temperatures were predicted and so we shifted into high gear. Everyone was up earlier than the crowing cocks. After breakfast, we piled foods, charcoal, drinks, toys, and ourselves in the surrey pulled by two prized prancing horses and off we went.

Maurice was languid, skinny, and wan but nevertheless attempted to force a smile of satisfaction. Fortunately, the trip was not long and once we got to our destination, he came to life. Show of shows, not even the Circus could call forth this height of elation. The birds in harmony sang welcome, the sun smiled on us, and the breeze just gave an appropriate flutter. The sky was azure blue with soft white cumulus clouds dancing quietly by. I felt the world held us, emphasis given my brother, in a warm embrace.

All hands on deck, Mama Jackson unpacked . I put the checkerboard tablecloth on the ground under the shading oak tree while Sam made the fire. Papa and Mama sat and wallowed in the joy of their son’s health and their scurrying helpers readying the feast. In minutes all hands were full of food, all mouth’s chomping. All senses were being indulged- taste, sight, sound, touch, and smell. Even Maurice rose to the occasion: for the first time he seemed to eat with relish. We enjoyed each lovingly prepared dish and, in our family pattern, we overate. That meant an enforced rest period for everyone after lunch.

Of course Mama Jackson remembered Maurice’s comforter. Ensconced on his handmade patchwork quilt, he looked like the happy prince. We all rested after lunch so he didn’t feel underprivileged. We really needed to. I spent rest period, gathering in my arms, the most perfect daisies that grew in that pasture. I wanted him to enjoy the beauty of them in his room.

When he awoke, it was play time. For Maur, it was the high point of the outing. Papa and Sam knew best how to amuse children. Each of us received insect collection kits and bottles with leaves inside. With our botany equipment, we looked for lady bugs and fire flies  and actually found them. We brought them home, fed them, and saw the fire flies light up in the dark. To our amazement, at home, the ladybugs didn’t fly away even though we gave them the opportunity. Onviously, the ambience persuaded them to stay.

In my bible, given me at my birth, I still see the daisy I pressed that day. Etched in my mind is the glory of my brother’s recovery. I am grateful to say in my lifetime I always introduced him saying, ” Meet my best friend and brother Maurice.”