When my brother was about 7, my father awakened him early one morning for something he used to call a “fishing trip.” And that term was knowingly used loosely because fishing, per se, wasn’t the only goal. Of course, there was time spent together between a father and his son, but there was even more. Far more. You see, on that particular morning, like so many others, my brother and father were joined by a few of my father’s friends. And their sons. And thus this “fishing trip” was more what you’d think of as a flask-draining, worm-drowning expedition.

They’d left the house before daybreak and were skimming across the still lake as the sun rose. And rose. And rose. And my brother spent that warm summer morning stuck in a boat, a boat that was filled with strangers, rods and reels, tackle boxes, empty Scotch bottles, and guns. That’s right: whiskey and guns, because, as surely you know, there is no family bonding experience like one filled with fishing, booze, firearms…and small children.

The kids aboard were hot and sweaty, clinging to fishing poles with one hand, the sides of the boat with the other, their eyes and ears committed to their fathers. The air around them, already heavy with humidity, was made thicker with swarms of biting insects and the constant hum of testosterone-filled chatter, the kind that tumbles forth from the mouths of half-drunk men engaging in that time-honored tradition of ball-wagging for their boys, an exercise in one-upmanship that falls somewhere between being shit-faced drunk before lunch in a rather public way and teaching your sons how to be men.

Their voices were loud, louder, and then louder as the morning matured and the men on board did their very best to paint themselves as giants, the other men as fools. And my father gave the others ample opportunity when the hook at the end of his long-forgotten fishing line snagged the aquatic version of Jerry Falwell, a decidedly ugly fish that’s good for nothing other than menacing anything with a tinge of respectability: a gar.

Now if you’re unfamiliar with a gar, it’s a long, gaunt fish comprised of fins, scales, and teeth. But mostly teeth. And anyone who has ever caught one can tell you one thing: after you experience the exhilarating fight they give, the exciting struggle of reeling one in, you think twice, far too late, mind you, and remember that you don’t want to catch ‘em. Because they’ve got teeth. And more teeth. And then a few more. And oh yeah—they’ll use ‘em.

The men rolled around the boat in laughter, pointing at my father, mocking his skills as a sportsman, challenging his manhood. “How in the hell,” they asked between hoots of merriment and derision, “are you going to get that gar off your hook?”

My father, with a genius IQ, a gut full of whiskey, and a shamefaced son looking on, returned the challenge. “There’s nothing to getting these things off your hooks—what—you guys don’t know how to get a gar off a hook?”

The other men fell quiet and looked at one another, shrugging their shoulders, when, KABLAM, the gar, at the other end of my father’s still smoking pistol, rather messily plopped back into the water.

My brother told me this story the other evening. And midway through our rather lengthy phone call, he made a seemingly simple request: “You write about our family, our childhood, and all kinds of things, but please, will you write something nice about me? My friends who visit your site think that you think I’m an idiot.”

“And….?,” I thought.

I mean, on some days, he is an idiot. Like on election day. Or thoses days when he talks about politics. Or music. And sometimes when he’s talking about sports. And just about any other time when he disagrees with me. “So,” I thought, “I’ll have to make up something.” But I said nothing.

He’s been my brother for a long time, though, and he read the gap in my side of the conversation rather well. “You know I’m a good cook—you should write something about that. Or what about my son—don’t you think I’m a good father?”

And I had no snarky comeback for that because, admittedly, he’s the best daddy I know. And I don’t know how that can be because, well, his shortcomings are innumerable. And our father, while one helluva guy, was likely not a good role model, especially in a modern world, one that frowns upon, um, drunken gunplay in the presence of kids.

But in other ways, my father was an amazing role model for my brother for one main reason: he adored spending time with his kids. And because of that, his kids (and everyone else’s kids) wanted to spend time with him, to be around him, to see what he’d say next, to see what he’d do next. And he used everything, every single thing, as an opportunity for a lesson.

My brother is the same. Kids, as they always have, flock to him. I don’t know why, really, given his political leanings, his outdated sense of music, and his unjustified love of FSU. But for some reason, kids, including my own, have always been blind to these faults. And they just want to be around him.

Nonetheless, he’s my brother. My big brother. The one who spent his youth sitting on my face, farting, waiting for my cheekbones to melt into the couch. The one who told me that every boy I liked was gay, that every pimple I had was gargantuan and noticeable a football field away, and who broadcast the news of me being “on the rag” every single day for what seemed like ten years straight. All of this makes it difficult for me to say these things, these good things, about him.

So I thought of the stories I could tell, the ones of him with his son, and I struggled, wondering if he'd approve of my favorite story of his parenting.

You see, his kid, his adorable, tree-trunk-shaped, mop-haired kid, is the light of his life. And my brother, my creative, smart, oh-so-funny brother, has a knack for assigning on-the-spot nicknames, sometimes to his kid. And the one that stuck, the one that made me laugh every time I heard it was “PlowBoy,” a name given to my nephew for his propensity to barrel through things to get what he’s after. Sometimes it’s toys, sometimes it’s the dog, sometimes it’s the furniture, but by golly, if he wants it, he takes the straightest path towards it, tucks his chin, clinches his fists, lowers his shoulders, and rams his way there. The occasion upon which he was so deemed occurred when my brother stopped by his preschool to pick him up. When my nephew looked up and saw his father, he raced towards him, a wake of tumbling children falling down behind him. And thus was born “PlowBoy.”

My brother told me this tale on a recent visit and, not long after, he asked me to watch my nephew while he ran an errand. And then my phone rang. It was my cousin, wondering where I was, what I was doing.

I sat down next to him and said, “I’m just hanging with my nephew while my brother’s out. You really need to meet this kid—he’s so cool.”

“What’s his name?” she asked.

After I told her, I added, “Well, that’s not what his father calls him, though.”

She followed with the obvious: “What does he call him?”

I held the phone towards my nephew and said, “Tell my cousin what your daddy calls you.”

He shied from the phone, his hands wringing, his shoulders twisting, his face curling into a bashful smile.

“Go on,” I encouraged, “she’s your family—tell her what your daddy calls you!”

He warily edged towards the phone, pausing ever so slightly before he bent towards the mouthpiece then quickly recoiled into the couch, burying his head into a pillow.

I pinched his leg in encouragement and pleaded. “C’mon, now, tell her what your daddy calls you because of the way you act when there’s something you want!”

His head turned slowly away from the pillow and towards me, towards the phone I held in my extended hand. And then, in a swift, fluid movement, he lunged towards the phone and said, loudly and clearly, “KNUCKLEHEAD.”

“Geez,” my brother lamented when I told him the story, “she probably thinks I’m a terrible parent.”

“Nah,” I told him. “With a kid that funny, she knows everything in his world is just fine.” And there isn’t even a gar’s head dangling from a fishing line anywhere.