Brethren

Every reading of an epistle in the Greek Orthodox liturgy starts with the word "Adelphi," which means "brethren." At my church, which is tucked into a little corner of the Bay Area, the chantor, a venerable old guy named Demitri, says the epistle with just the right mixture of wisdom, the patience of ages, and fatigue. He has a Greek accent, which ensures that everyone listens. But it's that word, "adelphi," that always draws me in. Not sure why--probably because it sounds so collegial.

I have two brethren, one younger and one older. The older one, Frank, is very slightly autistic. He's highly functioning, meaning he drives, he has a steady job, he helps our mom around the house. The younger one, John, is not slightly autistic; he's solidly black-sheepish. I never hear from him and see him only on holidays. My older brother, however, is coming to visit this weekend. Being slightly autistic, Frank has a collector's mind and a mania for detail. His focus: vinyl. Specifically, the kind that can be spun on a turntable (he recently laxened his purist views and began adding CDs to his stacks). Frank makes no bones about the fact that when he comes to see me, visiting his sister is the second best part about the trip. It's used-record-store shopping that gets center stage. Nevertheless, I've insisted that one day of this weekend be taken up with campy tourist things to do. So I booked us tickets to Alcatraz for Sunday. He says I'm going to lock him up there and leave him for life. Depending on how many record stores we go to on Saturday (the average number is four, but we've visited as many as six in one day during past visits), he may be right.