There was the time my brother pinned me down and threatened to drop loogies on my face—and then did.

Then there was the time he dragged me down the stairs in the bottom of a sleeping bag to "cure" my claustrophobia.

Or all the times he cradled me in his arms and held me over the edge of the deck above the driveway—which was two stories down—and threatened to drop me if I squirmed too much.

Not to mention the unending tickle tortures. And the long months he forced me to play ping pong when he was bored—and flipped out when I got good enough to beat him.

My childhood experience with a big brother might not be all that unique, but I'm betting otherwise. How many others—besides my sisters—can point to a scar received at the hand of their brother? (Mine is what's left from half a dozen stitches on my chin.)

Since we were seven years apart, my brother always seemed practically grown up, not someone I could play with, but someone much stronger than myself. Quite frankly, I feared him most of the time. That can happen when a person is locked in a closet for the afternoon while Mom is shopping.

As I got older, the two of us had moments of growing closer, but they were few and far between, especially after he and his family moved across the country. When they moved back some five or so years later, I was in high school and didn't feel like I knew my brother at all. But I was still afraid of him.

Not that I thought he would put me in a headlock again. It was his wit that had me on edge. He had developed an amazing sense of humor, something that no doubt helped him get through nearly losing his son to a serious illness several times the first years of life. My brother put the family in stitches recounting his antics in the military ("Hello? This is General Motors . . ."). His humor kept those around him on their toes, but I kept tripping over mine. Somehow in an effort to keep up and make the next good joke, I either offended or ended up looking the part of a doofus. So I clammed up instead of risking opening my mouth and finding my foot planted firmly in it.

As a result, my brother and I rarely talked, and we grew further and further apart. We couldn't relate to each other, and often small things would lead to big misunderstandings that we, of course, never discussed—because, well, we didn't discuss anything.

What he didn't know was that I had been watching him over the years. Now that I was no longer hiding under the dining room table to avoid him, I could see the man he had grown into and admire what I saw. He had no idea that I was proud of him and his job in law enforcement. Or that I often mentioned his accomplishments to other people. Or that I admired how his wife pursued a nursing career after their experiences with their son's medical problems. Or that I thought the world of his two sons.

In the middle of all this I realized a life-long pursuit with the publication of a novel, Lost Without You. I had worked toward publishing my fiction for upwards of eight years before it finally happened. I was all but giddy at seeing my name on the bookshelf attached to a book that I wrote myself.

On the day of my first book signing, I walked into the bookstore, knees jittery and heart unable to decide how fast to beat. I greeted the manager, found the chair at my table, and rummaged through my purse to find a ballpoint pen I could use should anyone actually buy my book and want my signature on it.

Not five minutes later, the door opened to reveal my brother, his wife, and their two boys. At the sight, my heart did a leap of surprise, and I know I must have worn a goofy grin across my face. My brother not only bought the book, but the audio version as well and had me sign both. Then he pulled out his camera and began snapping pictures of me at the table, which had a poster of my book with the words "Meet the Author." He made his boys stand by their aunt for another snapshot, and after jokingly ordering several customers to buy my book, he gave me a hug and said he was proud of me.

As I watched his family leave, I felt a surge of something I hadn't experienced toward my brother—intense joy. My first signed book at my first signing was for my brother. He and his whole family had come out of their way by half an hour for my sake. I could hardly fathom it.

About twenty minutes later he came through the door again, this time alone. He strode to my side at the table and slid a gray box in front of me. "You can't do your first book signing with a Bic," he said in my ear. "It's not that fancy, but it's the best I could do on such short notice."

I watched him walk out the second time, then opened the box to find a beautiful silver pen with gold trim. My eyes began to burn, and I had to swallow hard to keep the knot in my throat at bay.

For the remaining ninety minutes of my book signing, I held that pen in my hands. I stroked the smooth metal, punched the button on the top to reveal the ballpoint and pushed the button again to retract the tip. Over and over it would hit me that it was a gift from my brother.

My brother, who was proud of me. My brother, who really did love me after all these years, as I loved him.

There's a zippered pocket on one side of my purse that is home to that pen. I carry it everywhere I go, but I use it only to sign books. And I use it every time I sign books. I consider it my good luck charm.

And each time I take it out and run my fingers along its length, I am reminded that blood really is thicker than water.

Or loogies.

Postscript:

This piece was written about five years ago. Since then, the pen has gone the way of all the earth.

When my brother first read this, he said, "I had no idea that pen meant so much. And you forgot one. I also set your hair on fire."