My brother would have been 65 today.

He died in 2000, a few weeks after we had moved our parents from New England to Spokane in September of that year. He was going about his day back home in Aurora, Colo., when his heart stopped. Totally out of the blue.

Because he was so much older, we had lived our lives on different sets of tracks. But he was a good big brother.

Sometimes just being his sibling was enough.

Once on Halloween night when I was a kid, some significantly older boys approached me and made noises about stealing my trick or treat bag, laden with a typical mid-1960s haul.

Then one of them said, "I think that's John Turner's brother."

The would-be candy crooks contemplated the choice before them. Yes, they could rip off my candy. I was just a grade-school kid.

But if I could identify them, there existed the very real possibility that a swift and severe brand of suburban-frontier justice (in the form of the aforementioned John Turner) would soon rain down on their sorry asses like teenage thunder.

They walked away.

---

---