The first memory I have of Neal is being carried around by him and being dropped. The next was when Dad had installed a clothes hanger in the hallway by the bathroom. I made a space between the clothes and was climbing and hanging on the metal rod when suddenly it gave way, hit me on the head, and then buried me in shirts and pants. Neal came in, dug me out from under the remains, and chewed me out for being so stupid. They were rather painful beginnings to an otherwise positive relationship. 
Janet and I were the victims of a few of Neal and Dale's jokes. One Christmas Eve we boys were sleeping in the "boys bedroom" in the northeast corner of the house. There was a folding accordion door between the living room and the bedroom. We were so excited that sleep was impossible. Neal and Dale peeked out the door and then told me they had seen Santa's boot going out the door. When I tried to see for myself they would not let me. I was certain I had missed the chance of a five-year-old's lifetime.
Our house was a quarter mile from Virgin's house, which was to the west. The local "hoods," (a.k.a. teenage punks, fore bearers of future gang bangers) would start at Virgin's house, then drag race the quarter mile to the intersection by our house, then go screaming past in both lanes. We would hear the engines roaring a quarter mile away, then come running out to see who won. On one occasion, after the drag was over, a police car showed up with two of the hoods in tow. They were a year or so older than Neal. They insisted they had not been racing. We all knew they had. The officer looked at Neal and asked him point-blank if the older boys had been racing. Everyone looked at Neal. He looked at the officer directly and said, "Yes, they were." The boys looked like a hot-air balloon going flat. Neal taught me an important lesson that day about telling the truth, no matter what. Had he lied, it would have taught me something entirely different.
Dad would often come home after work and read the paper. The three of us little boys would get our heads together and make a plan. One would sneak up and flick his paper. He would pretend not to see us. We would flick it again, then pull the paper from him and the wrestling match was on. Neal and Dale would grab his legs and pull him from the couch. I would grab whatever I could and just hang on. We would end up in a big pile on the floor. Dad told me years later that after one such encounter he told Mom that he would have to start wrestling the boys one at a time because they were getting too big to handle and he was getting older.
Neal loved to flex in front of the big mirror in Mom and Dad's bedroom. He would take his shirt off and make the muscles bulge. Dad loved to box with us, so boxing gloves were always handy. Neal would often be working out and then seeing me sitting on the couch would throw the gloves at me and say, "You have one minute to defend yourself." I would throw the gloves at him, then wait for his attack. I would then lie on the couch at kick at him while he punched my feet. It was all in good fun, but I honestly tried my best to take his head off. I never could.
Our house was a quarter mile from Virgin's house, which was to the west. The local "hoods," (a.k.a. teenage punks, fore bearers of future gang bangers) would start at Virgin's house, then drag race the quarter mile to the intersection by our house, then go screaming past in both lanes. We would hear the engines roaring a quarter mile away, then come running out to see who won. On one occasion, after the drag was over, a police car showed up with two of the hoods in tow. They were a year or so older than Neal. They insisted they had not been racing. We all knew they had. The officer looked at Neal and asked him point-blank if the older boys had been racing. Everyone looked at Neal. He looked at the officer directly and said, "Yes, they were." The boys looked like a hot-air balloon going flat. Neal taught me an important lesson that day about telling the truth, no matter what. Had he lied, it would have taught me something entirely different. Neal took Hawaiian guitar lessons, which got me interested in guitar. It was just expected of us to be able to play a variety of instruments. Neal formed a folk group which would practice at our house. I would hide behind the couch and sing along, which irritated Neal to no end. I would play around with Neal's acoustic guitar and ask him how to do different chords, etc. He would show me something, then let me work on it by myself. He wanted to de-string his 12-string guitar while he was on his mission, but I made a deal with him that if I learned how to play it, then I could use it while he was gone. I passed the test.
When I was in Jr. High, Neal and I started our first band. It was 1966. Neal played guitar and I had a set of drums. We wanted to be different than the Beatles (and believe me, we were), so instead of having long hair we shaved our head and called ourselves The Bald Ones. We entered a battle of the bands in West Yellowstone, which was a disaster, but we learned from the experience. We also did a show in Jackson Hole.
Neal and I have been in a variety of musical groups ever since. We have played folk, rock, country western, and bluegrass. We have performed at senior citizens centers, rest homes, church activities, bars, theaters, the Rexburg Tabernacle, elementary schools (both Madison and Teton Basin), as well as appearing three different times at the Ricks College Guitars Unplugged (Brandon played guitar with us for one of those). We also had a comedy number where I played the accordion, he played the trombone, and I sang Shaduppa You Face in an Italian accent. I have been on stage with Neal so many times that it seems only natural to look over and see him. Neal is a stickler for having the guitars in tune. I am rather unpredictable on stage, but Neal has learned to adapt. Some of my favorite memories are family get-togethers where we all get out the guitars and sing. Dad would often come over, sit in the middle of us, tap his feet and enjoy the songs.
When Neal was dating Cathie, I enjoyed being the obnoxious little brother. When Neal would bring her to the house I would always try to sit between them and watch Neal get mad. On one occasion I was giving Cathie a bad time when the song Chapel of Love came on. I told Cathie, "This song talks about going to the chapel and getting married. Don't listen to it!"
Dad would often come home after work and read the paper. The three of us little boys would get our heads together and make a plan. One would sneak up and flick his paper. He would pretend not to see us. We would flick it again, then pull the paper from him and the wrestling match was on. Neal and Dale would grab his legs and pull him from the couch. I would grab whatever I could and just hang on. We would end up in a big pile on the floor. Dad told me years later that after one such encounter he told Mom that he would have to start wrestling the boys one at a time because they were getting too big to handle and he was getting older. After Neal's mission he needed money, so I 
bought his 12-stringer. Whenever we would get together to play I would play his Brazilian guitar and he would play my 12-stringer. Finally I suggested that we trade and he agreed. We have both been happy ever since.
bought his 12-stringer. Whenever we would get together to play I would play his Brazilian guitar and he would play my 12-stringer. Finally I suggested that we trade and he agreed. We have both been happy ever since. When I left to go on my mission, Neal and Cathie were living in Utah in their trailer. Mom, Dad and I spent my last night staying with them. Brian had just been born and was so tiny. While I was on my mission in Guatemala I received a letter one night telling me that Neal and Cathie had lost a child due to complications. They told me that they had named their son Jared Scott Shirley. I felt so homesick and sad that I went upstairs to the top of the flat roof on our apartment building to be alone in the dark. There, through the tears, I saw a distant lightning storm and heard the delayed rumble. I felt a feeling of peace and comfort. Storms come and go, but are necessary to leave life-giving waters behind, even if it comes in the form of tears. With a renewed sense of purpose, I went back down to my apartment and went to work. After all, I wanted to be as good a missionary as Neal and Dale had been.
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