The Bro-less Brocation

I booked the place. I bought the food. I packed the games. I had absolutely everything for Brocation 2026. The only thing missing was my brothers. Oops.

I came up with the idea of brocation as a way to reconnect with my male siblings. I’m the oldest of seven kids: five boys and two girls. Growing up, I was incredibly close with Harry and Mitchell, born second and third respectively. Well, we were close for the later part of growing up. Early in life, I was their greatest antagonist. When they were finally big enough to fight back, we declared a truce and became friends. As for Arthur and Nathaniel, born sixth and seventh, I barely knew them at all. Arthur was three when I left for college, and Nathaniel was an infant at my wedding. There are advantages to that kind of unconventional family planning. My parents were grateful that they never had to deal with all of us at once. The human mind wasn’t built to withstand the stress of seven simultaneous children.

As adults in our thirties and forties (okay, only I’m in my forties, but we don’t need to talk about that), my brothers and I are in the same place at the same time for maybe a day or two a year. At those giant family gatherings, with twenty plus people in one house, my brothers and I sometimes find a random hour to stand around the kitchen island and banter like we did in the old days. I want more of that. I’m hopelessly nostalgic, which is a polite way of saying I’m incapable of growing up or moving on. Two Christmases ago, I proposed that we get together for a guys-only weekend once a year to reconnect. Everybody was excited about the idea until I actually started planning it. The dangerous thing about me is that I follow through.

I started a group chat as an open forum for ideas on where to go and what to do. It was a disaster. No one had any strong opinions on anything or could commit to definite dates. I learned the lesson my mom already knew from trying to schedule major holidays: The time when everyone is available is never. Pivoting, I picked a date, booked a place, and said make it if you can. I chose a condo in a resort community on the Lake of the Ozarks. The place was full of options that freed us from choosing what we wanted to do until we got there. We could boat, swim, golf, ride horses, bowl, or just eat and drink too much while never leaving the rental. I was partial to that last option. The fewer sunburns, the better.

If you wondered what the end of humanity looks like, it’s this.

Months after I made the reservation, I finally got the first confirmations from my brothers and almost brothers-in-law. (There needs to be a better title for boyfriends who have been in the family for years but never got married. Maybe boyfriend-in-law? Although saying “my boyfriend-in-law” makes it sound like I’m the one dating him.) With all the answers in, we still had extra beds. I asked if we should expand the invitations beyond brothers and boyfriend-in-laws to friends to lower the collective cost. The consensus was to cast a wide net. The trip expanded from biological bros and bros by almost marriage to metaphorical bros as well. The brotherhood of men has no limits.

Despite the planning challenges, the first brocation went well. Some people came late or left early, but, at our peak, we had nine guys, which may or may not have been one over the limit of our Airbnb. I’ll tell you for sure when the statute of limitations runs out. For brothers, we had everyone but Nathanial, who my mom and wife both forbid me from bringing along because he was still under twenty-one. It was my own fault for not booking the first brocation in Wisconsin, where the drinking age is twelve.

Everyone had fun, or at least said they did to be polite, but I identified some room for improvement. A four-day weekend was too much, especially with a drive of that magnitude. It was a six hour road trip for those of us starting in Indianapolis. At our ages, alcohol and long car trips are equally hard on our bodies. We needed something closer and shorter. For Brocation 2026, I picked a place halfway between Indianapolis and St. Louis. It was cheaper because it lacked the entertainment options we hadn’t used the first time. I also made sure there were twelve beds this time instead of eight so we didn’t have to worry about going over the limit if someone was able to come at the last minute. The place was close enough that some people could make it Friday afternoon without taking off work. It was the least commitment I could ask for with the most notice I could give. I was still expecting entirely too much.

Mitchell was the first to decline. He simply said he couldn’t make it without providing any details. That’s the right way to pass. There was nothing for me to argue against. I needed more data to put up a fight. I assume the only thing more important than me is work. He’s a nuclear engineer. Obviously the plant would have exploded into a miniature sun if he wasn’t there this weekend. I suppose I’ll give him a pass for skipping a hangout with me to save the world. My sister’s boyfriend, George, likewise declined without further comment. That was a hard loss because he’s an accountant. Last year, he calculated exactly what everyone owed based on how long they stayed, what they ate, and what they did. There was a spreadsheet. It was heroism by pivot table. This year, without his math skills, I just asked everyone to throw random wads of bills at me until they feel like they’ve paid enough. I even invited my other sister’s new boyfriend, who I’ve only met once. I’m sure he was very weirded out by the offer, but I’m as inclusive as I am desperate. To the shock and surprise of no one, he said no.

It wasn’t just my brothers and my sisters’ boyfriends who were out. My friend Peter, who cooked gourmet steaks on last year’s trip, declined this time. He’ll have to be away from home for work for three weeks later this summer and decided not to abandon his wife for an extra time. He saved his marriage to the detriment of the brotherhood. We will never forgive or forget. Without him, our menu wasn’t quite downgraded to the point of eating ramen noodles, but it was close. My brother-in-law Jerry, who’s married to Lola’s sister, also passed on our adventure. He cashed in all of his husband points to go on our overnight trip to Cedar Point earlier this summer. He didn’t want to push the issue of getting away for a second weekend. I respect his math. If he went, he knew he’d have to pay for food, lodging, and a divorce.

The toughest loss was Harry. He never knows his schedule until the start of the month. In early June, he said he could make it this year. I was elated. Then, a few days before the trip, he sent me a text. He said this would be his last ever brocation because he didn’t like drinking or board games. Those are literally the two best things on earth, but I accept that other people can have bad taste. I offered to ditch the booze and cardboard to do literally anything else he wanted that weekend. The itinerary was wide open. It didn’t matter what we did as long as we did it together. He didn’t propose anything. His favorite hobby is staying home. Sometimes, even I can take a hint. I suggested that he go ahead and skip this year, too. He gladly accepted. A few days later, he announced to the family that he and his wife are expecting baby number three. His denial now makes more sense, but pregnancy didn’t mean he had to preemptively opt out of all future brocations. You can decline one occurrence without deleting the entire series. My understanding of all social arrangements is based entirely on Microsoft Teams.

Brocation 2026 wasn’t entirely brotherless. Arthur, the second youngest in our family, committed for the second year in a row. He, along with Nathaniel, also joined me on the roller coaster trip at the start of June. If the women in the family had allowed me to extend the invitation, I have no doubt that Nathaniel would have attended this year’s brocation as well. It’s not a coincidence that the only brothers open to going were the ones who know me the least. I’m hoping they don’t learn enough about me to know better before Nathaniel turns twenty-one. Ironically, the brocation with the fewest brothers taught me the most about them. Last year, Arthur was quiet and fell asleep early. This year, he was riled up. I watched him passionately argue about inane topics, then realized he was having fun doing it. He’s me, but younger, unmarried, childless, and vegan. We made opposite choices at nearly every major crossroads, yet underneath it all, with a few drinks in us on a dark night surrounded by deer and lightning bugs, I discovered we’re more or less the same person. I failed to recruit many brothers, but I got to know one brother really well. It was a rare victory for quality over quantity. I’ll take it.

If you look at this picture and don’t feel a profound sense of regret because you weren’t there, you have no soul.

It ended up being an amazing weekend. We played board games the entire time except for a few breaks for meals or sleep. If humans didn’t have to be unconscious for eight hours per rotation of the earth, we could have gotten in so many more turns. Besides Arthur, I was joined by three non-literal brothers who chose to come of their own free will without the pressure of family guilt. We played the games from our collections that our wives had vowed to never touch again for reasons ranging from unreasonable play times to unreasonable numbers of wooden dwarves. We got them to the table at a neutral location where they couldn’t hurt our loved ones. Multiple relationships were saved. It was a day and a half of us sitting at a table and not moving while staring intently at cardboard. If heaven is anything less, it has no right to call itself paradise. In two years, maybe Nathaniel will get to experience that joy as well. Please, nobody tell him anything about me before then.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James