My oldest friend is Adrian, who I met in Cub Scouts when I was ten. Everybody liked him. His specific talent was that he could talk like Donald Duck, which we all thought was neat. A couple years later, his family moved into the house behind ours, and he and my brothers became best friends. He spent a lot of time at our house and with our family, to the point where my mother (and my aunt, and my grandmother, for that matter) began to treat him as one of her own.

The four of spent a lot of time together. We camped out in the backyard a lot, built tree houses, hiked up to the national park, put on shows, played wargames, listened to Bill Cosby records endlessly, and played baseball. I broke his collar bone when I fell on him in a collision at home plate one time. When I got my driver's license, the others got their freedom from pedestrianism as well. We'd drive around in my old VW Bus, and Adrian would blow bugel calls out the window on his trumpet.

That was a long time ago. He and I have drifted apart over the years, what with living in different states, and interests diverging. He is still close to both of my brothers, and they all still share many of the same interests, so when I do see him, it's usually up at the farm. And we all still consider him to be the fourth brother in the family.

Today he is fifty years old. He can still talk like Donald Duck. Happy birthday, bro!