Jack was 3 years and a day older than me, but through our early years, close to the same size, which made it appear that we were close to the same age.

Growing up we had an Airdale, which we got as a tiny puppy, but grew into a large dog. But he was never as big as the love we shared with each other. We called him Ted or Teddy, and the good fun my brothers and I had with him are warm memories indeed.

Together Jack and I built a platform bridging our garage with the neighbor's immediately to our south. This served as a hideaway for us, since looking up from the ground nobody could see what was going on.

There was a clothesline wire that angled down from our platform to a point about 4 feet off the ground. It was summer and the sun was hot, and this wire was probably as hot as an oven. Jack, whether intentionally or by accident, slid down this wire using his hands. The hot wire almost severed the end joint of his little finger; it seemed like something like this was always happening with six boys in the family.

Remembering my brother even in his grade school years gives a mental picture of a cocked hat and a crooked grin, and he managed to keep that his entire life. As an adult, he fit the picture of the movie gangster -- Edward G. Robinson or George Raft.

I believe that because of Jack's smaller stature, he felt he had to always prove his toughness -- and he was tough. When I was about 14 or 15, Jack entered the "Golden Gloves" competition, and since he and I were the same size and weight, I was designated as his sparring partner. During one session, I thought I was holding my own pretty well, when with a short punch straight to my chin I found myself flat on the ground seeing stars.

The competition in his weight class took him to the semi-finals, and I was at ringside cheering him on. Jack was doing well, and I thought winning, when I saw him grimace at the moment he landed a good punch. After that he started back-pedalling and only using his left hand for punching. Following a couple of solid blows from his opponent, which knocked him once to the canvas, he was strictly on the defensive. The second time he was knocked down, he just sat there and took the count, losing the fight.

What had happened was that he had broken his thumb, and I remember healing time was many weeks. That ended his competitive boxing, but he was never one to shy away from a pugilistic confrontation, and it seemed a lot of his friends were of the same persuasion.

One of the jobs Jack had after high school was driving a candy truck for a theater chain, requiring travel over a good part of the state. He took me along for company on several of those trips, and I remember one in particular. We were going to stay overnight at Clinton, Iowa, but the hotel where he usually stayed was full, and we were told that a local resident had made good in the movies, and the movie premier was being shown that evening. The only place in town that had any rooms was a "fleabag" hotel a few blocks away.

Normally Jack would stop at a bank to get rid of the cash he collected from the theater concessions along his route, but on this day the banks were closed before the opportunity arose. When we arrived at the 2nd hotel, the clerk looked at us in our old clothes, then looked at the tattered old Gladstone leather suitcase (once Dad's) we were carrying, and said "that will be four dollars, in advance." I could see Jack getting red in the face, and still carrying the cash, pulled out that envelope and spread several thousand dollars over the counter. "See if you can find four dollars in there," he said.

Going to the room, I kept looking back over my shoulder and said to Jack, "are you nuts, you're going to get us killed." I don't think I slept all night worrying about getting robbed, but I don't think it bothered him a bit.

Jack and I got along quite well, in fact well enough to buy a car together. Each of us had owned several cars on our own before, but this time by pooling our money we were able to buy a 1939 Ford V8 less than a year old. I don't remember a single argument between us during that co-ownership, which says a lot. But Jack went into the service soon after Pearl Harbor, and I bought out his interest in the car.

When Jack finished his basic training, he was sent to a post which he could not divulge to his family. My dad had a short wave radio, and I remember him scanning the airwaves for hours on end hoping to find some word about Jack's place in the rotten business of war. Dad aged a lot in a short time, and passed away after an ulcer perforated and they were not able to save him. He was only 53 years old.

I was living in Springfield, Illinois working in a defense plant when Mom called to tell me that Dad was in the hospital and not expected to live. I raced home, and fortunately got to see and talk to him before he passed away. But all the while he thought I was Jack, and I made no attempt to convince him otherwise, as I could see his sense of relief thinking that Jack was OK.

In the few days before Dad's passing we attempted to get word to Jack through the Red Cross, first to prepare him for the worst, and then finally Dad's death. We didn't learn until later that only the last message got through. At the moment the message came to him, he was "pulling" guard duty at the Entry shack at the Army base. He was probably in shock at reading the telegram and failed to challenge the car that arrived at the entrance. The driver, a 2nd Lieutenant, seeing no one, came inside the shack raising hell. Jack, true to his combative nature and upset at this invasion of his time of grief, knocked the Lieutenant on his can. Not only was he denied attending his father's funeral, but spent time in the guardhouse for this incident. The family was quite upset with the way the Red Cross handled the communication.

After the war, Jack managed both of the ballrooms in Des Moines, and we saw each other frequently because in the era of the big bands the place to be was at the Tromar or the ValAir. The ValAir was the open air ballroom at the edge of town, and one evening stands out in my memory. Vinci and I were close to the entrance talking to Jack in the midst of a throng coming in before the dance, when some guy bumped into Vinci and was about to go on without an apology. We stopped him, and Jack told him, "apologize to the lady." The guy made some smart remark and Jack sent him flying. I was glad I was no longer his sparring partner.

When Jack and Hilma, his wife, and the kids later lived in Humboldt, Iowa, we had many pleasant visits, and I will always remember the great chicken he would cook on the charcoal broiler. The only time I tried to do it, it caught on fire.

One summer Hilma and Jack asked us to go to Hot Springs, Arkansas with them for the horse racing and the betting. It was then I learned that they both studied race results, and from their knowledge of jockeys and trainers, as much as the horses, they were able to usually win enough to pay all trip expenses.

On this trip, there were 46,000 people at the race track, and the population of Hot Springs at that time was 36,000. Our daughter Michele was with us, and only 14, wasn't supposed to have been allowed in, but somehow was overlooked. She was absolutely in awe of the people standing in line at the betting windows with sheafs of big bills in their hands.

Almost 20 years ago, we were summoned to Humboldt on the news that Jack had suffered a sudden heart attack while having lunch with Susan, their daughter, and died almost instantly. The sad part is that he had complained to the doctor only a few days before about pains in his arm, and instead of a thorough checkup, the doctor gave him some pain pills.

Jack's passing left me the lone survivor of the six Flanagan brothers, who as youths we thought of ourselves as indestructible. I could not stop the tears as I wrote this tribute to my brother.

I love you, Jack.