My brother never helped with anything. My father, a teacher, would plead with exasperation to get him interested in things. He was quite frankly lazy, unenthusiastic, and lacked curiosity in any way. He was the opposite of me. One winter, my father and I were working in the garage. Even though this was typically less of a place for a teenage girl to be in those days, I offered to help with the Christmas decoration project knowing my ten-year-old useless brother would refuse. We were making wooden letters to spell N-O-E-L on the front lawn (less complicated than Merry Christmas). My artistic nature came in handy as we prepared the templates and designed the structures to stand up in the snow. To our amazement, my brother came out to help. For the first time ever in my memory he appeared to care about something. I stepped back and let him take over. He worked the jigsaw, sanded the edges and later helped with the painting. I had never seen my father so happy. The next afternoon, the paint was dry. Without being asked, my brother marched to the garage, carted out the four-foot high letters and trenched them into the front lawn snow. When he was done, he proudly announced his accomplishment to my mother and I who were busy baking in the kitchen. Before we had a chance to admire his work, the doorbell rang. It was a neighbour. Who's Leon? he asked.