he was born ten years after me. at barely seven months, the doctors didn't think he was going to live past his first year. they kept him in an incubator for two months hooked to so many tubes and needles he could barely move. when he was brought home after three months, our father placed him in a shoe box, his shoe box; that's how small he was. the neighbour's cat just had a litter, and basil was the size of two kittens.
well, he grew and lived past his first year. he was a happy baby, seldom cried, always smiling. he liked music. if he as much cried, all we needed to do was sing to him or play a record on the phonograph. there was one time he was having a tantrum so we played a 45 that he loved over and over and over. but then there was a power failure. i think he was about two or three and he was still in his playpen then. but the little bugger wanted me to sing. so i did. i must have sang a double album before i took a stand and told him enough. my sister vilma volunteered to sing for him but he didn't want to, he'd put his hands over his ears because vilma, even if her life depended on it, could not sing. well, she could but she's a through and through desafinado. whenever vilma insisted, he would throw a fit. thank goodness power went back on shortly after.
he didn't learn to walk until he was four and he didn't learn to speak until he was almost six. he was, the doctor said, retarded. my mother, who taught us how to read and write from as early as three, almost gave up on him. but in the end, he was only two years behind in school.
we had a big dictionary that he fancied reading when he was in high school. every time he hears a 'big' word from me, he would recite its meaning, whether it's a noun or a verb, etc., as well as the page number. it took us a week to realize he had memorized the whole dictionary. i had to give him money every time he started to define any word so he would stop. he could tell us how many matchsticks there were in a matchbox, and the gullible in us would take the trouble of actually counting the matchsticks. he'd be off by two or three sticks but he would say that we had already used some of it. in 1981 i had him examined. the psychologists at the hospital determined he had the mentality of a six-year old child. but a six-year old could not memorize a whole dictionary nor count to the thousands.
he loves the bee-gees, he knows the title of all their albums and all the hit songs, their chart placements, in the U.S., in the UK and in manila. he knew everything about that group. around that time, he had a crush on the niece of my friend. one day he handed me a sealed envelope to give to the girl. it was supposed to be a love letter. the bad sister that i was, i opened it and read it. was i impressed! my brother wrote a very moving love letter, correct grammar, usage, spelling and all. then at the end of the letter, he wrote "every single word you read here, girl, is coming from this heart of mine." i thought that sounded familiar so i read the letter again. all sentences were from the songs of the bee-gees! he made a very moving and believable declaration of love out of the lyrics of the bee-gees' songs!
The story of my Aunt Leslie is somewhat like this. But that is for another essay and not a response here! You always weave a wonderful story with your memories. This is no exception.
