Sista!

I am the oldest of three daughters, which makes me Older Sister. Little Sister is three years younger, while Baby Sister is nine years down the line. One of my earliest memories is of Little Sister strapped in what Mom called a "pumpkin seat," thinking she looked nothing like a pumpkin, and befuddled by the claim that she was "a present just for you, a real-life baby doll!" If she was my present, why did she get held by Mom and Dad all the time? And why was I always relegated somewhere that was not their lap? I would watch them in studied silence thinking I was missing something very important. I never did quite figure it out. 

I also recall standing by Baby Sister's crib when she was newborn and - while admitting she was another very pretty baby doll - telling my parents they had pretty much ruined everything. I wanted to be an only child and had a clear vision of how my life should have commenced from birth on. The sister issue made it virtually impossible. One sister I might have been able to dispose of, but two made it  tough and a lot more obviously my fault. Yes, I was a brat.

Oh, Little Sister. Three years now is a mere gasp in the breath of time, but during childhood it was ... Well, a lot.  She was, in my estimation, gross. Christmas was particularly disgusting. We always received giant candy canes in our stockings that took me a week to lick a good point on, whilst hers practically dissolved in her hands by bedtime. She'd squeal when she saw it cradled in the red felt of her holiday sock, pull it out in the wee hours of the morning, clamp her little moist hand upon it, and keep it there until its sad sliver was pulled from her hand at the point her head hit the pillow. From the moment she beheld it, that stick of sugar was in her mouth, around her mouth, in her ear, in her hair, in her poket, and then back in her mouth. Revolting. By the end of Christmas Day she looked like the most effective lint brush known to man - a pink-glazed face adorned by lint, dustbunnies, Santa's beard and small pets. She would totter toward me and I would shrink in horror, twisting and turning to evade her touch, gasping when her digits became one with my hair, groaning when her palm became one with my face. I would beseech my parents with silent, breathless looks of terror while they sat smoking their end-of-Christmas-Day cigarettes, acting as though they were spent and exhausted. They did not care.

Little Sister was always there, the tag-along kid. One afternoon when I was around eight a friend name to spend the afternoon and my mother's inevitable "let your sister tag along" followed us out the back door. We played in the sand, she tagged along. We played "house" in the playhouse, she tagged along. We played "Salem Witch Burning" at the burn pile, she tagged along - although she did look very confused by the theme. We played "Nurse Nightingale" under the mulberry tree, and she tagged along. Actually, in such cases she proved valuable as we needed a wounded person and a dead person and the dog could only be one. 

Revenge came when we played "Tarzan and Jane" on the swingset. My friend and I worked to shimmy up a pole and hang around, creating dialogue as we swung, suspended for as long as our pre-pubescent arms would allow. We weren't a mere few feet above ground, as this was no ordinary swingset. It was crafted of big, heavy pieces of pipe welded together by my dad. It seemed bigger than our house and heavier than our car, which was typically a hulking beast, so that swingset was like the Titanic. Little Sister began to whine. "I wanna be Tarzan. I wanna be Jane." I hung there, staring down into her pleading face and feeling annoyed. Then I was overcome with that lovely sensation when a great plan comes to mind. I dropped to the ground, sprung up and shocked her by saying, "Okay." Her eyes widened in surprise and delight, mine narrowed with cunning determination, as I headed to Dad's work shed. I used all my eight-year-old muscle to drag a hand-built sawhorse to the swingset, balanced on top and hoisted Little Sister up into the same stance, then lifted her so that she could grab the top bar. Oh, she was ever so pleased, as was I when I jumped down and pulled the sawhorse away. At first, she seemed very impressed that she was copying the feat of her big sister and friend. As we headed to the playhouse at the back of our large yard, she began to yell. Sure, she yelled a lot, but we got used to it. We occupied ourselves with the duties that come with playing in a playhouse built by a talented craftsman who spared nothing when it came to details. We opened the shuttered windows, opened interior cabinets and closets to survey their contents, sat on the windowsills and talked about fixing dinner with bologna and Pixie Straw candy. Then a realization dawned. It was very quiet in the neighborhood. I made a trip to the shed, then peered around its corner to view the swingset. Little Sister was gone. I glanced at the back door of the house and saw that the screen door wasn't completely shut - a tell-tale sign that a non-adult had recently gone through it. 

She fell. She cried. She told.

I decided to hide out. After all, the playhouse was a perfect place, as the shutters and door could lock from the inside as well. If they came after me I could hitch a ride on any train that ran the tracks right behind our yard. Inside my hideout I had a very nice Mulberry stick, a bandanna (we played a lot of "Hobo'", and some emergency goods (we also played "Tornado"). I had a dollar coin given to me by my grandfather that I always kept in a pocket, and the knowledge I could eat VandeCamp's pork and beans out of the can. I also had a mini can opener, and I knew how to use it.

My friend's mother eventually arrived and she ran off, throwing an apologetic look over her shoulder. That's when I started to feel worried. I watched as Dad came home from work and waved toward the playhouse as he went into the work shed. Mom came out to give him a hug and she waved as well. The dog lazed about in the sunshine, the cat played with whispery dandelion seeds, butterflies lofted in the warm breeze and birds twittered from the trees. Mom's lilting voice called, "Johnny Lee, Leandra Jean ... time for dinner!" I just watched it all from behind my plexi-glass door window - sweaty, lonely, and with an overwhelming need for the toilet. I also realized it was cheeseburger night; I was starving.

I decided to go in. Take the long walk. Swallow my pride and take it like a man. Or a girl. As I started across the lawn it was with swaggering bravado, but 20 feet from the back door I began to hiccup, then sort of choke, then just started bawling. When I walked through the back door my mother gasped, ran to me, hugged me and asked what had happened. Dad lifted me up to the sink counter and wiped my face with a damp towel. I stared at them in desperate, hopeful surprise, then at Little Sister, who sat at the kitchen table eating french fries soaked with ketchup.

She didn't tell? She really didn't tell. She smiled at me in all her ketchup-smeared glory (which was on her teeth, her nose, around her mouth, and in her hair), and I smiled back. I decided that day she wasn't so bad and I liked her for two weeks.

Funny how things work out. As adults, Little Sister is fastidious. She's the type with the kitchen floor so clean that one could eat from it. If one did such things. Her children were always pink from bathtime scrubbings. She gets highly annoyed if her car gets cluttered and dirty. I turn out to be the slob of we three girls. Yet she is always polite when she comes to my place, saying "Oh, your house looks nice." Like I don't see her eyeing the floor and the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and my latest unfinished project strewn about the place. And when I am at her house, and her friends come around, she always invites me to play. She is kind, funny, smart, and tries to take care of everyone - whether we like it or not. Tomorrow is her birthday. I hope it is a good one and she has a day filled with joy and laughter and a few moments of blessed peace. She deserves it.  And I want to tell her that, in the end, she was one of the best presents Mom and Dad ever gave to me.

I would go on to tell you about how Little Sister and I actually bonded on occasion, such as when we mummified Baby Sister with duct tape. But that's a tale for another time. Her birthday is in August. See ya then!

Content copyright 2014 by Shugacans/Leandra J. Sullivan. All rights reserved.