Some brothers grow up inseparable. Jeff and I didn’t. There were four years and ten months between us — an eternity when one of you is in middle school and the other still believes in Santa. We played together when geography forced us to, mostly because we lived out in the country where neighbors were measured in acres, not houses. That’s where we invented things like “bazooka wars,” which were basically bottle-rocket fights at close range. We survived, but I’m convinced divine intervention played a role.
For a long time, Jeff was more of an authority figure than a playmate — older, stronger, faster, and blessed with the kind of confidence that little brothers either admire or resent. It wasn’t until my late teens that we started to find common ground, and by then, the foundation for a lifelong friendship was finally poured. We don’t talk every day, but we stay connected, and those check-ins matter more now that our parents and stepfather are gone.
Jeff’s had a remarkable life — husband, father, Marine, Navy retiree, and now contractor. He’s spent decades solving problems most people never hear about. His last Navy posting was in Hawaii, where he learned things he’ll never tell me. And that’s fine; my ignorance probably keeps both of us off a watchlist.
But the real legacy of Jeff’s younger years isn’t strategy — it’s mischief. His pranks were legendary. There was the shrimp hidden in a friend’s car, the stolen honeymoon underwear, the limburger cheese dressing in the air intake. But none of them, not a single one, can top the night he blew me up.
I was in high school then, working late at Dad’s newspaper. Before I left for home, Jeff called the office and told me Dad had some work done on the door from the garage — said it was jammed and I’d have to come around the side and use the sliding glass door instead. I didn’t think much of it. The man had a way of sounding credible, which in hindsight should have been my first warning.
I parked in the driveway, walked toward the side gate, and reached for the latch. The instant I opened it, the world turned white and thunder cracked right in my face. A blinding flash, a deafening boom, the smell of burning hair — all real, not metaphor. I stumbled backward, half-blind, half-furious, and completely aware that something on my head was still smoldering.
When I finally made it through the sliding glass door, there he was — only the top of his head visible above his blanket, eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. Apparently, the explosion had been bigger than he intended. He swore later it was supposed to be “just a flare” and that he “picked up the wrong thing.” To this day, I don’t want to know what the right thing was supposed to be.
I was ready to kill him. “You blew me up!” I shouted — just as Dad opened the bedroom door, flipping on the light. He took one look at us — me, wild-eyed and singed, Jeff pretending to sleep — and barked, “Stop playing grabass and go to bed.” Then he turned off the light and shut the door, which effectively saved Jeff’s life.
Jeff peeked out from under the covers, saw my face in the dark, and grinned. And though I didn’t know it then, that moment — the explosion, the fury, the ridiculousness of it all — became one of our defining stories.
We laugh about it now, decades later. The older we get, the more it feels like a scene from another life — one that somehow explains who we became. He’s still my brother, still my friend, and still the only person I’ve ever loved enough not to strangle after being blown up.
He’s been there since the beginning — which, as it happens, was 59 years ago today. And through every loud, messy, beautiful moment, I’ve been grateful to call him my brother.
Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.
What a great memory, your affection for your brother radiates through your post. 🥰