BY CLIFF DUNCAN

Most of the time, older siblings are our role models, the people that we copy, and pattern ourselves after. The look in a young boys eyes when he looks at "big brother" is priceless. You can just see his mind working, the thoughts flowing..."I want to be just like him."

I would like to share with you some of my memories of my big brother, David.

One of the earliest memories of my brother came when I was 7 or 8 years old. David had a girlfriend, and her name was Pat. She was probably the most beautiful girl my young eyes had ever beheld. And, of course, her being Davids girl made her even more special.

Well, as it would happen, one day Pat had ridden her bicycle over to our house, to visit my brother. Naturally, David being 7 and a half years older than me, he didn't want me around while he and his girl had their visit. And, of course, naturally, I tried my best to make as big a pest of myself as I possibly could.

As the day progressed, and it came time for Pat to go home, David told our mother that he was going to ride his bike along with her, to make sure she got home allright. Immediately, I started in on my mother to make David allow me to ride along too. Being a mother, like any other mother, she gave in to my incessant whining, and told David he was to allow me to ride along.

Well, David had a plan of his own. He agreed to allow me to ride along on my bicycle, but, as we went along the street, I noticed that he and Pat were getting farther and farther ahead of me.

Just as fast as my little legs would take me, I pedaled and pedaled trying to catch up to my big brother on the dark street. I payed no attention to the stop sign standing there on the corner..didn't even slow down. Nor did I notice the car coming from the left, until it slammed into me, dragging me down the road, and finally slamming me head first into the pavement.

Thanks big brother.

Then, there was the time when I was about 9. We were poor, very poor. What income we had came from my dad, who was in the army. My dad wasn't the greatest man there ever was, and he would go for months at a time without sending anything.

We lived in a small 3 room house, with only one bedroom. My brother and I shared the bed, while my mother, bless her heart, slept on the couch. It was a folding couch, and it would be folded out when my dad decided to make one of his rare homecomings.

Well, on this particular night, my brother had decided to go to bed early, and I had stayed up, to watch television. Probably I Dream of Jeannie. Unknown to us, my brother had taken a can of spraypaint into the bedroom with him. What he would do, is roll a sock up real tight, paint one side with the spray paint, and then inhale the fumes through the other side of the sock.

As the night went on, I decided that I also would turn in. I go into the bedroom, and see the shape of my brother, passed out on the left side of the bed, laying on his back. Immediately, the smell of paint fills my nostrils, and I know what has been taking place here in the bedroom. I pay no attention to it, as it is a common routine for my big brother, and I crawl into bed beside him.Before very long I am asleep.

I don't know how long it was before I was awakened by the crushing weight of my brother, as he rolled over on top of me. I lay there helpless, as he is twice my size, and completely intoxicated. There is no waking him, and there sure isn't any moving his nearly 200 lbs. of passed out flesh. I open my eyes, and to my suprize and dismay, he has glowing embers on his back.

I manage to turn my head to the left just enough to see that the whole left side of the cotton matress is aglow with an eerie orange glow. He has went to sleep with a cigarette, and now, I am trapped under his virtually dead weight, in a bed that is on fire.

Finally, I manage somehow to slide out from underneath his carcass, and I go into the living room where Mom is asleep on the couch. She awakens at the sound of the door, and asks me what is the matter. "David set the bed on fire." is my breathless reply, nearly asphixiated by smoke, paint fumes, and the crushing weight of my big brother.

Thanks big brother.

Also, I can recall when I was 13, there was an incident that will forever reside in my mind, as a constant reminder of the "protector" role that big brothers play.

My brother was an entrepeneur. He had a small business that he ran right from our living room. Unfortunately, this business was illegal, and he constantly had to live in fear of his "financeers". He would sell drugs to the neighborhood junkies that just happened to come by. My mother and I were constantly forced to live in a house with no lights on, and all the curtains drawn, because my big brother was afraid that his suppliers would come and want their money, which he had either spent, or smoked up.

My mother had to work, because the "old man" had by this time quit sending anything, and she was left to support the family. My brother called himself "helping out" with his dope operation, but in reality, he was just doing enough to supply his own habits, and keep the suppliers from killing him.

This particular night, I was left in the care of my big brother, as my mom couldn't afford a sitter. Of course, I was 13, and I didn't feel the need of any supervision. And that is just what I got. As soon as my mother would leave the house, my brother would announce that I was to stay there, and he would be back later. This I didn't mind, because alone was far better than his company.

It wasn't very long after he had left, that there was a knock on the door. I, being 13, and thinking I am a grown man now, went to the door and opened it wide. There stood a ragged looking young man, probably 16 or so, and obviously very high.

"Is Dave here, dude?" was his slurred question. "No, he said he will be back later." I replied, and started to shut the door. What happened next was probably one of the greatest shocks I have ever experienced. The young junky kicks the door out of my hand, steps inside the house and proceeds to hit me in the face with his fist.

The wild eyed drug customer, who was obviously disappointed at my announcement, decided to take his frustrations out on me. As I tried to defend myself as best I could from my much larger and more vicious attacker, he proceeded to give me the worst beating I have ever had before, or since.

When, finally, he decided that he had given me just recompence for my disturbing announcement, I was bleeding from my mouth, nose, one eye, and several cuts on my face and head. I was left curled in a corner, crying and wishing my big brother was there.

Thanks big brother.

The stories are endless, I could go on for days, telling the stories of heartbreak and misery caused by my alcoholic, drug addict big brother. I could tell you of the time he beat the crap out of my mother. I could tell you about the many times he beat the crap out of me. I could tell you about how he would steal any money I might happen to get. I could tell you how that he would force me to do drugs with him. I could tell you about how he and his druggy buddies would get together and mock and ridicule me, and use me for their community punching bag.

Instead, I want to tell you about the last time I saw my big brother. I was grown then. Long past were the days of terror and fear that he had brought for so many years to my household.Gone were the days of drugs and alcohol flowing freely in the Duncan home. Replacing them were days filled with peace and contentment, for my mother and I had found the saving grace of Jesus Christ.

David had long since left our home, deciding to pursue his ambition of being a panhandler, and street bum in Dallas, Texas. After a long stretch at this illustrious occupation, he had reached the climax to his career. He lay in a hospital bed, tubes running from almost every orifice. Bandages adorning his head, and the half of a right foot he had left. He had lost the right foot some time earlier, or so we were told, because he had passed out on the streets during winter, and frostbite had set in.

The once large and imposing figure that had struck terror in my heart all those years, was now a small frail frame, barely 150 lbs. The bones of his 6' 3" skeleton clearly visible through the thin hospital gown.

He had apparently either fell and hit his head, or someone had knocked him in the head, but, there was a growing bloodclot in his skull, and he had no chance of recovery.The option was put to my mother, wether to pull the plug on the life support, or just wait until even that wouldnt keep him alive, which could be weeks or even months.

Through many tears, and much philosophical and moral discussion, my mother and I came to the only reasonable conclusion. To end the life that had not, or would never contribute anything to himself, or society.

As we were allowed one last visit to his bedside, I watched as my mother cried and spoke softly to her oldest son. I too, had tears running, but for a completely different reason than hers.My tears were for her, the mother that had suffered so much heartache and disappointment at the hands of the son that she had loved so much.

When it came my turn to say my last farewell to my big brother, there was only one thing that I could bring myself to say...