The Flâneur's Turtle

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

My sister Theresa’s love for me is extraordinary. She is so solicitous of my welfare that when I call her on her mobile phone, she typically answers not with “hello,” but “is everything all right?” or “what’s wrong?” If something is wrong, by god, she’s going to set it right. The precedent for this aspect of her sisterly devotion seems to have been established when I was in the 2^nd grade, though I am sure this extreme form of loyalty emanates from the core of her being.

When I was in the second grade, a boy in my class made me cry: cue Theresa’s wrath. Poor Samuel (his name has been changed to protect his identity) had elected to “flip up” my skirt on the playground (do little boys still do this?). Surprised and embarrassed, I burst into tears. The extremity of Theresa’s response to this injustice typifies her displeasure with any perceived mistreatment of me, known to her as “Tishy.” The next day, Theresa, who was a 6^th grader, approached the boy in question, and aggressively dared him to flip up her skirt. His tears were more immediate and intense than mine had been.

Twenty years later, Theresa was no less anxious for my safety. I was vacationing in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico, in 2001, and a tropical storm hit the city. I was aware of a strong storm outside the windows of the club where my friends and I were dancing all night. I didn’t realize it was a significant tropical storm until I got a call from Theresa the next morning. She knew more about the storm than I did as she had been anxiously checking the weather channel every five minutes. The only awareness I had of the unusual weather was as we left the club, we saw locals grab fish off the flooded streets to take home for Sunday dinner. The fact that fish were on the street did strike me as abnormal. When my friends and I returned to our hotel, one of the larger trees had been uprooted in the courtyard, but no real damage had occurred. As is so often the case, I was fine, and Theresa worried needlessly.

Theresa’s anxiety is also a storm: a swirling mass of concern and affection and love, awful and beautiful and powerful. Fortunately, the men who have broken my heart have done so stealthily, without attracting her indignation. One word would be enough to summon her to my defense. In a fearsome world, how incredible to have the steadfast protection only a big sister can provide.

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty

Whenever I think of my brother Bobby, I think of him either outdoors, or in his truck. Of course, he’s had many trucks over the years, but I never think of a particular truck, I just think of him and a pick-up. When he’s not in his pick-up truck, he’s likely outside, or as close to outside as is feasible.

In the houses in which he’s lived as a man, he has carved out for himself (probably not even consciously) an indoor space as close to the outdoors as possible. In his house in Medina, Ohio, his office was the room directly through the back door, a room with windows covering two of the four walls, a pair of his muddy boots ever at the ready. In his current house, in Gahanna, Ohio, he spends his time not in a room at all, but in the “breezeway” (aka gangway) between the garage and the house. He has fitted this breezeway with an old chair, a preposterously small television, and a cooler for beer. Bobby is a man of simple tastes.

There are few pictures of Bobby online, but this is a fairly accurate depiction. He is seen here with our nephew, Billy (our nephew has the beard). Mental note: I need to take a picture of Bobby in his truck immediately. Of all my brothers and sisters, Bobby is the most unchanged since youth, at least he seems that way to me.

I heard somewhere that a man’s character can be defined by what he does when he thinks no one is looking, a sentiment that encapsulates what I know about Bobby. He drove me back home after my first year of college (in his truck), and I fell asleep. I was roused by the familiar feeling of the truck slowing down, so I thought we were pulling off the highway into our hometown. Before I could properly gather my senses, Bobby began repeatedly blasting the horn. At that point, I realized that we were pulling off onto the highway shoulder. I looked and saw a family of deer turning from their course toward the highway, bounding safely back into the bushes instead. I looked over at Bobby. Without being asked, he explained; “I had to frighten them off, or someone could have been hurt.”

I’ve learned a lot more about safety and security since then. I know that they are often illusions. Still, I like knowing that there are men in the world like my big brother, Bobby.