When my brother Ken and I were younger, we used to fight like two cats with their tails tied together and tossed over a clothesline. We had a few fist-to- cuffs before we grew up and became buddies. There were four years between my birth and his and four years between his birth and our sister Kathy. We boys always shared a bedroom which often was an irritation the caused a flare up between us, like a match struck on the side of a match box.
Of the fights in our bedroom, they were usually settled by pillow fights. Now, you may be thinking about the light poly fiber filled ones of today. No, these were the ones filled with feathers. Again, someone is going to think, light puffy feathers, what kind of weapon is that, but what I am talking about are the feather filled pillows that have been passed down through the family, where the fluffiness has broken down and all that is left is a hardened brick. When swung, they could knock a person off their feet and could possible give a concussion.
Two battles that I can remember, my brother was knocked into a metal trash can, butt first and he wasn’t able to extricate himself. That ended the battle when we both started laughing and the offense that instigated the skirmish was forgotten. The second that I can recall, my brother made a direct hit on me and I was knocked against the plasterboard wall and a hole magically appeared the size and shape of my buttocks. Again the skirmish was abandoned, but not because of laughter. It was out of fear. Fear of what our mom would say and fear of what our dad would do when he saw the gaping crater.
There were other battles, but not so many outside. My brother was more agile and would often run away dodging my wrath. I was faster and could run him down, if I could deduce which way his next maneuver would be. So, we would often tire out, before any real confrontation took place.