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| From a high school yearbook... years ago! |
Later today, my two sisters will fly in for a get together for the weekend. Looking forward to it. Although my little sister returns every year or so, I haven't seen my middle sister in about four or five years.
I sometimes think all this misogyny in the world would be lessened if more men had sisters in their lives. It's a rather naive thing to embrace, but I'm sticking to it.
I grew up with three sisters and feel very fortunate to have two of them still around. In a round about way, they give me balance.
My older sister, Adele, (better known as Mickey!) was almost three years older than me. She was the feminine one who loved to practice her feminine ways on her little brother. At the time, I guess I was about ten or so, I didn't know how to handle her "come ons!"
My best memories as a kid were of her dancing with the door knob when I didn't want to play along. She was a big Elvis, Sam Cooke and Irma Thomas fan. She locked herself in her room for days when she heard that Sam Cooke was killed. She was the emotional one.
My little sister, Betsy, who is about twelve years younger than me was my little Ramette. After each football game, I return home to have her get a running start to jump into my exhausted arms to celebrate our win... or loss. I don't think, at the time, it mattered.
Betsy made me her hero and I made sure that I kept it that way for her. She cried when we left home for Southern California. I guess she understood the ramifications of that move better than I did.
But, for many years, my middle sister and I were the closest if only because we were just two years apart. We did everything together. Ride bikes, climb trees, go to "the Beach" and spend the day in the pool. She was a tomboy's tomboy.
Becky was the first to take music lessons and beg mom for a guitar. In high school, she was one of the band's first clarinetist even though every one thought she should perform as a "Ramette!" Although the band director understood the situation, he needed her as a musician and not a drum majorette. I think Becky was glad a decision was made for her.
She was a pretty good jock as tomboys go. I don't believe I ever spent the time to show her how to throw a baseball. She did not throw like a girl. She loved playing football too.
Although I'm proud of all of my sister's accomplishments, I'm posting this photo of Rebecca, as she now wants to be called, as a sophomore sweetheart to illustrate a point. It's about watching a girl go through the many changes that slowly and sometimes abruptly happen in the "wonder years!"
After a few good tackles one year, Becky came to me teary eyed to tell me she could no longer play with us because it hurt too much to get hit in the chest. I knew it was a tough decision to make because a year or so earlier, I had to grow up and decide to stop playing army with my friends when I made the high school varsity team.
The thought of being found out would be just too embarrassing, though I really did not want to let go of those good times saving the world from oppression and fascism in the form of 'dem Japs and Krauts.
I wish that I could find a photograph I took of Becky in jeans and a sweatshirt with one of those plastic football helmets that was really more decoration than protection. In the photo, with the football neatly tucked under her arm, she jumped over my cousin, the would be tackler, to gain a few more extra yards for a touchdown.
Gotta love that!
One year later, she is voted as the Sophomore Sweetheart for 1968. I just know she did not know how to handle all the attention that she received as a "woman" or how to deal with all the male suitors that soon wanted her attention.
I learned a lot being the little brother as well as the big brother with my sisters. It made me a better person. A better lover. A better father. A better husband and a better son.
The world would be a better place, I think, with a healthier understanding of the human condition, if every brother had a sister... or two!
First early morning cup!
