You and I were sitting in the back. We were debating. We didn’t realize it at the time that others called it arguing. Our father called it arguing. It’s unfortunate because I believe they were of the best debates. I wish they weren’t cut short. While riding in the backseat I would click the ashtray open and closed. Our father told us, ‘You can only open that a certain amount of times. It will break. You will be at fault for breaking it.” I brushed his words off and watched you talk. You are my big brother. I can’t always keep up with your thinking, but I try. I don’t agree with you on the dirt, but who cares. If it’s baseball, or dirt, we need to destroy the backseat of our fathers vehicle to understand. I now find myself looking for debates of any kind. Men and women seem to shrink from individual thought. I recall reading a paragraph in the book Travels with Charlie where Steinbeck is upset with his fellow country-men for not having opinions. I now think to myself, ‘Why the hell do people complain when we do?’ I know this- My brother helped to sharpen my mind. To this day I can call him and debate over football, the crisis in West Africa, how children are being educated, Heaven, why many people forget to see themselves, life. He’ll continue on with a passion most can’t keep up with. He’ll leave me wondering, ‘How did I?’ Chris continues to sharpen my mind. We shared the same bedroom. He created worlds with words as bedtime stories. He’s shared this gift with many. His children don’t yet realize- they’ve won the envy.