No, it is not Elvis. Yes, the individual about whom I am writing has always been treated royally within his family. Sometimes he does think himself the quintessential cat’s pajamas. He is a physical fitness fanatic who prides himself on his taut, muscular corpus. He eats food with gusto, and then runs miles in mini-marathons. The truth is that he has been more of a grazer throughout the day. This may have been a carry over of his Wild West days as a child cowboy in his derigour: Cowboy hat, fringed vest with a badge, and fringed chaps. Cowboys chowed down when the chuck wagon served up the viddles. In-between times the child cowboy snacked on Pop Tarts and fruit.
He is as smart as a witty whip and is particularly sly with family members. He has mellowed in his barbs over the years, though he has sacrificed none of the intelligence. He is of a sensitive nature, which he wears overtly so that the world does not easily perceive how truly sentimental he really is. He manifests generosity to those in need and to those not. His business acumen is dazzling, but his spirit and heart are more so. His is unfailingly kind to my daughter and is the embodiment of the best of a father figure to her. For that alone he will always be my hero.
Growing up, he could be as annoying as a mosquito buzzing around my ear. He could be indifferent and self-absorbed. In his youth he could be adolescent in his jock attitudes, and then win me back with a zany song. He was, in short, human. His mother was 43 and his father 48 when he was born on January 6, a promising sign for staunch Roman Catholic parents. He believed his life enriched by having loving, mature parents. No matter where he is, no matter what he is doing, I know I can text him, e-mail him, telephone him, and he will respond, eventually. For he is my brother, and I love him dearly.
Happy Birthday, Frankie!
Ciao for now.