a letter to my bubby

I don’t remember who taught me how to ride a bike, but you inspired me to do so without fear. You attempted to teach me various sports, and stuck with me, though I was never any good at them. You let me tag along with you and your friends on various adventures, and not even tease me that much. We’d rough house, but never (intentionally) get too rough. And we’d fight, but always forgive each other. I bit your arm. You head-butted my nose. Twice.

You never seemed to care that I was practically your shadow. Wherever you were, I wanted to be. Whatever you did, I wanted to do. Model cars, video games, riding bike by the creek, scouts, custom cars with too loud stereos… I played the same instruments as you did in band — with the exception of the tuba, because yeah, that’s too much for me. And I joined the boys track team as manager my freshman year so I could come to all your meets during your senior year. Given our lives together, it shouldn’t seem surprising that my first word was your name.

You always watch over me, and I always feel safe knowing you are around. We don’t always see eye-to-eye, but we understand each other. We may not be as close as we once were — time and distance can have that affect. But we love each other.

I’m so happy to call you my big brother. Happy birthday, bubby. Thank you for giving me three beautiful, amazing nieces for me to love on and spoil.

A toast, to the crazy kid I’m happy I got to share my childhood with!



Tim’s first word was “kitty”… He was quite fond of our grandfather’s cat. Even stuck the cat’s face in his mouth — a toddler’s kiss. (However, the cat pictured was the cat we got in 1989, when I was in kindergarden. Named “Kitty” though. Of course.)