Ode to Mon Frere et Ami

There's a lot of history there avec mon frere, little of it French-flavoured -- although there was a period in Paris ten years ago when we were 19 and 21, and a memorable incident involving Coca at the base of the Tour Eiffel. And then there was his grade eight homeroom teacher, who'd majored in French in university and taught it to my class during the French-Science swap. I was in seventh grade at the time and my class was apparently much more civil to Mlle.; she barely survived her first year of teaching and it was rumoured she abandoned the profession after the year with my brother's class. She told me "zut" was the vilest swear en francais. I know several more vile phrases now, all of which make zut blush by comparison.

Anyway, mon frere just turned 31, which is a little shocking after all my reminiscing... I suppose I can indulge a little longer: I'm enjoying the boomerang effect. There was the underground rec room we tried to dig in the garden. If we'd spent less time planning how great it would be, where we'd put the TV and half-pipe, how we would carpet it, and more time actually digging, we might have at least managed a trench. As it was, we got distracted after scattering the topsoil and hitting the in-ground sprinkler pipe (which we unsuccessfully tried to rip out of the ground). So we went off to something else. Perhaps our detective agency or a race around the medium-sized block on our BMXs. Whatever it was, I'm sure we had the time of our young lives doing it.

Sharing so much of the past and having a best friend for a brother, that's about the most graceful thing I've received in my life. And wherever we end up -- him with a family now, two beautiful daughters and a brilliant wife, and me with my books and words, and all the excitement of amour toujours nouveau -- wherever these days take us, there's a thick history that will always join us as brothers and friends.

Happy birthday, brother.