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As a very young child, I had a vivid imagination and a vulnerable younger brother (Dennis).  The combination was usually fun and safe (meaning we never actually killed each other), but sometimes resulted in battle scars and someone in tears. Deanie (our aunt Goldie's nickname) was often times tasked with being our live-in sitter.  She would sometimes come into the basement rec-room only to find the aftermath of one of our "adventures."  One particularly messy event had to do with Dennis, me a canister vacuum cleaner with the hose attached to the "blowing end," and a box of small, pink, GLASS Christmas balls.  I placed about five of the balls into the hose and when I yelled "fire," Dennis would step on the foot switch and the balls came flying out and shattered all over the place.  We took turns shooting and manning the foot switch until every ball was broken.  Deanie looked over the railing of the basement stairs and said " I won't tell your mother, but you had better get this cleaned up.  And while you're at it, make sure that you clean the shelves and mop the floor."  Just one of the many, "I won't tell your mother, but..." stories she kept between us.  I really miss you, Deanie.

Love, Donald