Big Brother

Maybe it’s just the age and stage we’re in, but ever since we lost Willie’s mom, we’ve been making a real effort to get the siblings together more often. Currently in the works: a family trip to Branson. Yes—that Branson.

Now, the rocker in me is mildly horrified. I came of age in the time of gloriously misbehaving boy bands and guitar solos that lasted entire albums. But I also have a deeply buried (okay, not that buried) love for Neil Diamond that spans decades. That part of me is absolutely giddy about the abundance of tribute singers and sequined nostalgia on tap.

But let’s be real: it ain’t cheap, y’all. The entertainment options are abundant—but so are the price tags. Here in North Carolina, we can catch some pretty fantastic live music most Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays from May to October for the low, low price of FREE. So when Willie’s big brother mentioned the ticket cost for one particular Branson show, Willie—lover of all things guitar and disciple of the Guitar Gods—responded with, “I’d have a hard time paying that to see Eric Clapton!”

To put that in context: we’ve now waited several years to see one of Willie’s absolute favorites, because the ticket price made him want to write a strongly worded letter to capitalism itself.

Big brother, however, came back with a reasonable entreaty—there are cheaper tickets, and everyone says the show is absolutely worth it. I braced myself, half-expecting Willie to suggest they go and we would stay back at the (very lovely, very peaceful) cabin. It’s all good as long as we have snacks. Instead, he just said, “Well… cheaper would be better.”

Translation: the big-brother-Jedi-mind-trick is working.

I’ve come to believe there’s a kind of mystic, magnetic force that gives older brothers the uncanny ability to convince their younger siblings to do things no one else—not even a spouse of several decades— could ever talk them into. If you see us grinning in a group photo outside Yakov Smirnoff’s theater, just know: it wasn’t the wife, it wasn’t the music—it was big brother sorcery, plain and simple.

Now, I haven’t said a word, but let’s just say I can already see how this plays out. One of Willie’s guitar heroes is scheduled to perform here next spring—right around my birthday. My thoughtful husband, freshly marinated in brotherly bonding and Branson-induced peer pressure, will finally cave and buy the tickets to Joe Bonamassa that he’s been side-eyeing for years.

He’ll call it my birthday present.
I’ll call it adorable.
And his big brother? He’ll have no idea he just accidentally orchestrated the greatest gift exchange of the year.

Bless the subtle power of sibling manipulation—and may it forever work in my favor.