Letters From Phil

My older brother and I went our separate ways: he to the Air Force, me to a marriage that didn't last. He lived a rough-and-tumble life, but that's not what really worried me

- LOU DEAN

Making my Thanksgiving shopping list, I thought of my older brother, Phil, his memory an indelible part of the holiday for me. As adults, we seldom saw each other and never sat down to a turkey dinner together. But I always tried to call him on Thanksgiving. He’d given me much to be grateful for.

John Phillip Jacobs was born with a love for cooking. He took joy in whipping up simple, tasty dishes with whatever we had on hand. More than 50 years later, I can still picture him, a shirt tied around his waist like an apron, sleeves flopping as he danced around our Oklahoma farmhouse kitchen.

Too bad my father, raising the four of us children on his own after my mother had left us, believed boys had no place in the kitchen.

One day, Dad came home unexpectedly from work. He appeared in the kitchen doorway just as Phil glided across the floor, singing a ditty about beans and wieners. Dad grabbed Phil by the shoulder. They tussled until Phil shoved Dad against a cabinet and bolted out the screen door.

I dashed out to catch Phil. “I’ll soon be 17,” he said. “I’m gonna join the Air Force. Since Dad wants me to be tough, I’m sure he’ll sign for me to do that.”

I took a ragged breath. The thought of my older brother leaving ripped at my heart. “Write to me,” I blurted.

Phil tugged gently on one of my pigtails. “I promise.”

He enlisted. I waited six weeks before a letter arrived. I ran to the creek to read it in private.