February 11^th, 2026

by James Banakis

Whenever I look at that picture, I know what we are thinking at the moment it was taken: Ever brothers. Ever young. Ever summer. 

– Charles Krauthammer

There are over 8 billion people in the world. Despite this we all possess an exclusive road map. Following the itinerary, we have travel companions, chapters in our exclusive memoir.  They join us for a while and then peel off, and others replace them. They are all in one way or another witnesses to all aspects of our time on this planet. From the beginning of my memory to now, my constant traveling companion, my prime witness has been my brother Chris. It’s been said that a brother is your first friend bequeathed by God.

Chris is two years younger than I. Growing up we were inseparable with a lasting bond of intense loyalty and security. We shared everything, toys, socks, baseball cards, but the most important shared items have always been experiences, memories, and anecdotes.

My first recollection of this was when Chris was about four. It took place shortly after the picture at the top of this page was taken at Silver Lake Wisconsin.

Chris, as was common at the time was having his tonsils removed.  On returning from the hospital, I wanted to know what it was like. He explained that he remembered changing out of his clothes, talking to the doctor, and then with wonder in his eyes, he said, “I disappeared.  When I got back, they gave me ice cream.” To this day I can recall the amazement we both felt that he was made to disappear on an adventure which is how he explained anesthesia.

We always described experiences to each other, as adventures.  Like the times he listened intently as I explained what he could expect going to kindergarten and much later high school. What it feels like to hit a baseball on the sweet spot. There were always a lot of follow-up questions as he wanted to make sure that he learned from my missteps. Even though I was older there was many experiences he faced first.

When Chris was ten, he developed an early interest in girls. He would effortlessly engage them in conversations at school, in the neighborhood, and on the phone. In 1961 he asked a girl on his first date to see Elvis in Blue Hawaii at the Lamar theater. He described to me how he put his arm around her and they started kissing. He was 11. On leaving the movie, Chris hand in hand with the girl was crossing Marion Street.

Completely by chance he looked over to the car that had stopped in front of them. It was our old man. He abruptly pushed the confused girl aside and started running 10 blocks home. Once home he told me that for some reason he panicked, and it may have had something to do with the kissing. I was intrigued because I didn’t kiss a girl until I was a junior in high school. Even then Chris would volunteer to call the girls I asked out, pretending to be me.  He enjoyed the banter, and I dreaded the potential rejection.

When our father got home, he attempted to tell Chris he was too young to hold a girl’s hand, and then began laughing until tears came to his eyes, and asked,” Why did you run?”  Chris was at a rare loss of words.

I’ve always surrounded myself with friends and people who make me laugh. I married a girl who always made me laugh. Of them all, Chris was the funniest. Growing up I always had to constantly fight off laughing at inappropriate places like church. In school he was the class clown. Teachers in high school would leave time at the end of class for him to do standup routines. He was confident, self-effacing, and popular. Think, Billy Crystal. He was all-state in wrestling, and class president.

In college he was involved in drama and improvisational comedy. This is where he met his wife, Gayle. They married. Chris became an executive for Motorola living and traveling around the world. When Motorola founder Robert Galvin asked writer Harry Mark Petrakis to write his and Motorola’s story, Chris was asked to be the corporate facilitator. This developed into a lifelong friendship between Harry and Chris.

Chris was my first of many esteemed business partners. We operated a morning paper route together, he at 9 years old and I at 11. We kept our business until we both finished high school.  We always started before the sun came up. I always felt like he and I were the first people greeting the new day together while the rest of the world slept. Our modest business put us in that distinctive realm between yesterday and tomorrow.

Regardless of the weather, the air always seemed fresh and clean. Each day always appeared as a new undertaking, and the paper route became not only a responsibility, but an addictive shared time together. As we walked with our large pushcart, we talked and entertained each other.  When he wasn’t talking, he was singing or doing impressions.

We were both always at our most creative. Because it was dark, it was also frightening with obstacles like dogs and thunderstorms to navigate. Many a morning we hatched plans to outsmart the dogs and the weather. Once the sun came up, the world awakened.

During that predawn hour, we could create a world that we alone controlled. Trying to sort out yesterday and circumnavigating the promise the day to be. It was empowering. When the route finished and the sun appeared, the adults were awake and back in charge, but on that predawn hour, we were.

I have two other brothers. The wonderful thing about our relationship is that we could always provide each other forgiveness and the unvarnished truth. It’s something our father instilled in us. After our kids had grown, we started playing golf together each week.

Chris and I were always cart mates. Of all of us Chris was the most committed to the game. As a result, he and I would play on days that my other two brothers opted out. Chris always booked the earliest tee times. We would play as the sun came up, both of us alone, entertaining and reminiscing. We’d encourage each other many times marveling at how beautiful the world was in the still morning. There’s something about blissfully playing for 3 or 4 hours that highlights that each day is a blessing.

Through the years on each of our birthdays the other three would pay for the birthday boy’s round and lunch or dinner. Last September 24^th on Chris’ birthday he broke tradition and insisted on picking up the entire round at his favorite course, Geneva National. We played for two days spending the night at Ted’s summer home on Silver Lake. We had dinner at Pisano’s in Richmond Illinois. We all ordered our favorite

Pappardelle Bolognaise, and Chanti. The following week Chris played out of town with friends. Returning he complained of pulling a muscle under his rib cage. This was not unusual, as at our age aches are common.

The pain persisted and he went to the doctor who advised him to stop golf for the season. Since it was the end of October we all stopped. Sometime in November I received a call from Dr. Jaime Kerns, Chris’ son in law. I thought maybe he was going to ask me a question on breadmaking a hobby we both shared. He got right to the point and told me Chris entered the hospital and they found a large mass on his liver.  Chris started treatment, and like so many times I’ve witnessed in my life the news was bad and just kept getting worse. Like a Hemingway story, this one ends in death, as all true stories must.

The last time we were together he could hardly raise his head, but he wanted to reminisce. We talked about dying, and about missing each other over the years.  Then he reminded me of a story I had forgotten until then.

When I left for college, it was the first time we were ever apart. After six weeks, he went to Ohare without telling anyone and took a United Airlines DC3 to Lincoln Nebraska. He couldn’t adjust to the chemistry at home with me gone. I returned from class unaware, and walking into the large entry room of the dormitory; Chris was standing on a chair entertaining about 50 guys with stories of my zany Greek American family.

There were waves of infectious laughter that was so familiar to me.  This went on for about another hour. He made 50 new friends. My roommate Mike Loshkagian argued with others over who would fix Chris up with a girl, so that they could double date.  He held another comedy hour for people who missed the opening act.

The following morning my mother called. It was not an easy thing to track people down in the 60’s. She was frantic when she realized that Chris was missing. I reassured her, and she said he had been miserable having a difficult time adjusting to the changes. I told her he was in great spirits, and having an epic time.

He returned home the next evening. Somehow sharing my experience in college allowed us to relate to a common involvement. Afterwards when we talked, he would ask how all his new friends were. If I said we went to Valentino’s for pizza, or a football game, he was able to envision it. Becoming an active participant corrected his melancholy and made both of us happy. In recounting this story just now I realize there were a thousand similar.

Chris was my primary witness. If you’re lucky you have had one too. He knew most all my confidences, and I knew most of his. It’s that special person you can ask if he thinks you did the right thing with choices you made in life. When you need the unvarnished truth, they deliver it, because they were there.  It’s that overpowering requirement for someone to see, recognize and validate our existence.

So last week Chris, just like when he was four, disappeared again. I like to think that I didn’t lose a brother I gained another guardian angel. Like the time he lowered a bed sheet out our bedroom window so I could repel up defying the missed curfew set by my parents. We’ve always been brothers protecting each other in adversity navigating life’s challenges together. The older I get; my collection of angels just continues to multiply. Somehow, I think that must be our divine purpose and design.

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Jimmy Banakis is a life-long restaurateur.  He was an honorary batboy for the White Sox in 1964. He attended Oak Park River Forest High School, Nebraska Wesleyan University, and Chicago-Kent Law School.  He claims the kitchen is the room he’s most comfortable in anywhere in the world. He published an extremely limited-edition family cookbook. He’s a father and grandfather, and lives in Downers Grove Il.