Birthday girl
My sister and I were lucky to get along as kids. The worst fight I remember was over the comic books I sold before she had a chance to read them.
We shared a conspiracy to never tell the folks about how often we got hurt riding. That’s me on the horse in the foreground … Sis is to the back. Note the babushkas and tennis shoes vs helmets and boots.
We even managed to survive my terrible jealousy of her boyfriends; she’s three years older so she seemed pretty exotic to me. I’m still pissed that her actions led to my curfews. Note to Linda: I have lots to say about second-child-itis.
She was my matron of honor 36 years ago; she’s the one on the right. As you can tell, there was no strict color theme or dress code about my wedding. In fact, the best man wore hunting boots. At least they were new.
She’s always been a fun travel companion. Here we were dropped off on a glacier by helicopter — notice we have our purses just in case a souvenir vendor happened by.
She was my first smoking companion, and we stole a watermelon together (we meant to pay, really). While parking on a double date, we managed to let a farmer’s cows out of his field. I was so drunk with her one night, I couldn’t find the car much less drive it. All this is pretty normal sister stuff, but what is not so normal is what she has done for me lately.
When the Mister went to the hospital never to return home, the person I called was my sister. She stayed with me for many days and helped me through the experience as well as the legal quagmire of a spouse who would need care forever. She helped me clarify that the Mister’s choices were his choices, and that I should not drown in guilt — that sorrow was enough of a load. Eventually, she sold her house and found one we could share, with private areas for each of us. We bought it together and I moved in. The Mister is in a nursing home just eight blocks away.
She has changed her life for me. So happy birthday, Sis. And I’m really sorry I sold those comic books.
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