Binderama60for60

I swear this is a true Mike story.

When I was 5 or 6, my older Brother Mike and I were staying at our Gran’s home in Ithaca, Michigan. There was a tiny store a few blocks away that sold penny candies, sodas and girlie magazines. Hanner’s. It was across from the fire station, next to the library and a block off the main drag.

One afternoon as we were heading home after loading up on sweets, I got my candies mixed up and bit into a Red Hot. I started screaming holy hell.

Mike hustled me along the main street sidewalk, past the movie house and into the five and dime. My head was on fire and everybody in town knew it by then. At the soda counter, Mike rushed me a grape Nehi. I guzzled it. Cold, fuzzy, distracting nectar. That was a total baller, big Brother move.

The impetus behind this yearlong 60|60 project is to say the things that need to be said while we’re still here, while I’m still here. Lots of shoutouts to close friends and family dating back decades. And a few thousand words for some few precious people in my life. Mike ranks way up there.

He’s four years older than me, which is a big gap when you’re young. Even so, we spent a lot of time together. Mom referred to us in her diary as the “little guys;” our oldest Brother Tim couldn’t be bothered. At home, I slept in the top bunk and sometimes emitted bodily fluids prone to gravity and/or osmosis. When we camped in the Family’s 18-foot trailer, Mike and I shared the suffocating upper bunk, his head at my feet and vice versa. There was blood.

We had very little in common, at least that’s what I thought back then. He was a sci-fi-obsessed, cosplaying Trekkie nerd who also excelled at real science. I liked sports and avoided science. He studied hard, I coasted. For decades, if he zigged, I zagged. We were agreeably antagonistic, in a brotherly way.

In hindsight, I appreciate that we shared a lot more in common. We were both outliers and loners, smart and creative but awkward. One key difference: I wanted to be popular, Mike did not. That’s my observation anyway.

(Btw, I call him Miko; it’s not a typo. And Hanner’s is now the home of the county’s historical society.)

It’s about time.

It took me until I was in my 40s before I came to appreciate that Mike Binder is just about the best human I’ve known in this life. Earnest, hard-working, creative and clever, mightily intelligent, empathic and generous.

In the past few years, we’ve grown closer. Some of it spurred by crises and losses in the Family. As much, we’ve been brought back together by the inevitability of aging, mortality and the fact that we are the last of our Binder lines. The four-year gap is inconsequential now, though I am thankful that Mike undergoes “procedures” first and passes on the skinny.

He hasn’t wasted much of his 65 years. His first job was as a fry cook at McDonalds. He was a camp counselor, a park ranger and an Eagle Scout. A survivor of Outward Bound. He drove a bus at the University of Virginia to put himself through school–and a lot of other prestigious schools thereafter. He was Phi Beta Kappa.

Later, he smashed atoms at CERN, was an engineer with IBM and a rocket scientist at NASA. He became an architect and worked on the leading edge of sustainable and regenerative design. He closed out his career (for the time being) passing forward his immense knowledge as a professor at Maryland.

On top of that, he’s a volunteer, an activist, a community builder, a safe driver and a general goodie-two-shoes.

Drives. Me. Nuts.

Another Mike story

One of my favorite stories of Mike’s career happened before it actually started.

We were at Walt Disney World at Christmastime, just before Space Mountain opened. Rumor had it they were letting a few guests in for soft-open testing. Very Wonka-esque. Mom bought Mike an extra day’s ticket. He sat on a curb in Tomorrowland for hours, doodling on his sketchpad to pass the time: spaceships mostly, and some other Mike eccentricities. IYKYK.

A passer-by stopped to admire his work and offered him five bucks for one of his drawings. Boom: professional artist. A. while later, he also became one of the first people ever to be launched into Space Mountain.

Tough row

Mike’s seen some low moments in the past few years. He was sitting with our Mom when she passed during the pandemic. A year later, his dear wife Martha passed rather suddenly; he was at her bedside too. In both cases, he engineered some grand tributes: a gathering for Mom up in Michigan and a regal and rustic celebration of Martha’s life in Virginia and West Virginia.

A few years after that he goes and gets himself retired and throws another big party. Seems to me he might be overcompensating: he and I didn’t get invited to many parties back in the day. Now we make our own. Truth.

We had shirts made for Mike’s retirement party. He made the cake. It was a big cake. I think it probably still is, somewhere in a freezer in West Virginia.

All of these shindigs have been held in the eastern panhandle of West Virginia. Ever been there? Of course you haven’t. Okay, okay, if you love someone who lives there, or you took a field trip to Harpers Ferry back in school, or you got horribly lost for several hours and didn’t even try to course-correct, maybe you have. And yet, when it’s for Mike, we come.

Another Mike story

Let’s go way back to the mid-late 70s. One of our pet guinea pigs, Paul (Mike’s middle name), died. We were the kind of Family that buried its own. Dad built a lined casket. Tim officiated. Mom watched from the window (as did the neighbors). Mike was to play “Taps” on the trombone. Not sure of my role.

A very solemn procession through the back yard led to the opened grave behind the shed. Once Tim had delivered the homily, the casket was lowered. This was Mike’s cue.

Turns out, the first few notes of “Taps” are very similar to those of “Here Comes the Bride.” Mike meandered into the latter, surprising us all, but only for a measure or two. “Damn.” He started over, nailing the dirge the second time. Flowers were dropped, the grave filled, and we’ve never let Mike forget it.

The beat goes on

When Mike joined the online dating community a few years after Martha’s passing, I was worried for him. I sort of begged him not to. It can be ego-crushing, as I knew from experience (a long time ago). He plowed right ahead, using a picture that looked just like him (uh oh) and a bio that sounded just like Mike (oh no!). I stood ready to console him when he was ready to reach out.

She’s good people. Welcome to the Family, Robin.

O’Binders’ Beachhead

There’s property on the shores of Lake Michigan that’s been in our Family for almost 80 years. Our Parents built their retirement house there, next door to siblings and now Cousins. Our Dad called the place Binder’s Beachhead. Mom corrected his punctuation: Binders’ Beachhead.

When Mary (O’Neill) and I bought the place during the pandemic, we added the O’.

It has always meant Family to me, and I hope it does for the rest of our lives. The beach goes on forever, ideal for long walks, talks and reflection, inspiration and celebration. Mike knows he has a standing invitation to visit any time and for as long as he wants.

Some nights we walk down our boardwalk toward the water. On a clear, moonless night, when you look to the sky, after a while your eyes adjust and you almost have to squint, it’s so bright. You can see just about every star and planet in the universe. Humbling and exhilarating.

Coda

I really wanted to wrap this post with a clever universe metaphor about existence: micro-moments and the infinite, grape sodas and Space Mountain. Mike as the star-traveling Trekkie. Time, space, all that. Nothing was clicking.

So I will close with this: I’m fortunate in this life to have a smart, caring and unique big brother like my big Brother Mike.

And then, as we sit there, staring up at the heavens in wonder, he goes and ruins it by pointing out some dumb-ass constellation or a satellite streaking overhead or some Einstein-level bullshit.

That’s so Mike.

Happy Birthday, Miko! Love you.