My sister Debbie was born in 1950 when I was three. It took a couple weeks for me to stop calling her my baby brother as my dad had kept telling me throughout my mom's pregnancy that they were getting me a baby brother to play with and, on her birth, I soon found out that she was a sister and that as a playmate she was pretty much a washout. Even when she got older we were not soul mates but we mostly got along unless my mother got involved and she reverted to "mama's girl". Fortunately, my dad seemed to prefer me. I looked like him. Right now I can look in the mirror and I see my Aunt Eileen who my mom hated and said was ugly.
Deb liked dolls and girlie stuff. I liked games and books and sports. She was my mother's perfect child who never sassed or misbehaved and always got straight As. I was a rowdy lil' hell-raiser who spent a lot of time day-dreaming (or chatting with my classmates) but still got mostly As except for math (which I still hate to this day). She was the pretty one. I was too tall, too gawky, and too skinny. Debbie always had a boyfriend -- even in kindergarten. I didn't date until I went away to college and even then rarely "went steady" with anyone and that still hasn't changed. Still we were sort of friends. She was maid of honor in my wedding. I taught her how to cook.
She died on Thanksgiving Day in 1972 in a small plane crash that also took the lives of her boyfriend, his younger brother, and his brother's girlfriend. Three days later I gave birth to my son -- my mother's first grandchild. Talk about difficult. I was just glad that he was a boy. My mother never recovered from her death and I really believe she resents that I'm alive and her favorite isn't. My brother who was born when I was fifteen and she was twelve was too much like our dad to reach favorite status. To listen to my mom, my sister was a saint. It's really quite sad that she didn't appreciate our strengths but oh well . . . Mike and I are survivors and tough enough to get through without mom's dubious blessing.
While I was waxing nostalgic about my lost youth, I recalled more differences between us. In 1962 when the British invasion began she hung a poster of the Beatles in our room to my chagrin.
I retaliated with what Mom called an ugly photo of The Stones. I never said they were pretty but I liked their sound!!! Still do!!!
1962 was also a big year for medical shows and Debbie taped a photo of Dr. Kildare
on her side of the mirror over our dresser . . .
. . .while Ben Casey glared at me as I combed my hair in the morning.
Both of these instances showed her propensity for pretty while I appreciated (and still do) intensity. Hard to believe we grew up with the same mother. Then again, in high school my son liked Rap (he has since recovered) and Kate was into jazz and classical. (Guess which one was asked to turn her stereo UP? LOL)
Thanks for letting me share these memories with y'all!!!
AND what about y'all? Stones or Beatles? Kildare or Casey?