May 15, 2013 4 min read

On a Saturday several years ago, my late father and I traveled to Winchester, Va., to take in a semi-annual program we had enjoyed for some years. That’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive. So, we had time to talk.

Part of the conversation turned to my brother, John, who passed away in 2001. Specifically we were trying to figure out why he was always trying to pull some kind of rough prank on me when we were growing up.

Like the time he flung himself off the couch and landed on top of me. Or the occasions (you will note that is plural) that he pushed my head under water at some lake or pool. Or the time he hogtied me so tightly I couldn’t move (in his defense, I asked for that. I had been reading a biography of the magician and escape artist Harry Houdini at the time).

“I don’t know where he got that,” Dad said.

“Maybe he was just jealous,” I offered, since he was the first born. When I came along, he was no longer the only child. I have a photo of John, myself and my cousin. My grandmother is holding me, and John is crying his head off.

But Dad started to relate some things that his sisters did to him when they were children.

“We’d be sitting in the living room, and they’d start saying, ‘Jim, stop that,’ when I was doing nothing. Dad (my grandfather) would be at his desk, hear it and come in and take me by the arm and make me sit in the room with him.”

Seems one of Dad’s older sisters also bore responsibility for cleaning his room, a task she deplored. In order to get even with him for being a little messy, she glued all his pocket change to the chair he put it on. (My 90-year-old aunt confirmed that story on a recent visit).

Of course, Dad wasn’t an innocent. While he didn’t speak about retaliating against his sisters, he told stories of other things he had done. For example, he wired his car battery to the door of his vehicle. Why? To shock a fellow in his town so he’d no longer lean on the car door while incessantly talking to Dad. The trick backfired, and Dad wound up getting the jolt.

In those days, many people in Dad’s community still had outhouses they used (or didn’t any longer). He and some of his chums would lift the framework toilets onto the owner’s porch roof. (My 90-year-old aunt also confirmed that tale).

Somehow, I must not have inherited this strain.

Unless you consider the time I had to make soup for my older brother.

He was feeble in the kitchen but, since he was diabetic, had to have regular meals. When our parents would go on vacation, it was my role to make sure John got something to eat.

Now, when I say he was feeble in the kitchen, he couldn’t even boil water. He would try in vain. Often, he would turn on one burner and set the kettle of water on another that wasn’t on.

For some reason I was pretty miffed at him (I think I was upset because it grounded me having to fix him his meals when I felt he was old enough to do it himself) and decided to get even. I opened a can of soup, mixed in some water and then doused it so liberally with pepper I thought it would melt the pot I warmed it in.

I served him a bowl of the mixture. The surface was about as black as midnight.

And I waited for the explosion.

“Hey, this soup is really good. Is there more?” he asked.

He ate the entire potful.

There’s a moral there somewhere. Probably something like don’t use pranks to get even.

Or, the next time you make pepper soup, use cayenne pepper.

Have a good day.

James Pletcher Jr. is retired from the Herald-Standard. He can be reached by email at J.Pletcherjr@att.net or jpletcher@heraldstandard.com.