“They told me to have two. They said they’d play together!” was my frazzled mother’s mantra while refereeing disagreements between me and my older sister.
True, we did play together, often pretending we were cowboys eating over an imaginary campfire beneath a palm tree at our Miami home.
Problem was, we sometimes clashed over details like where to park our invisible horses, and then there’d be cries of “Mommy! Tell her it’s my turn,” or “She isn’t playing fair!”
We butted heads over things like sharing a piece of cake, because we couldn’t bear the thought that one sister might get a few extra morsels. We soon devised a rule that the sister who divided the slice must give the other one first choice in selecting her piece.
On summer vacations, we shared double beds in motel rooms and drew an imaginary line down the middle, with various threats about dire punishments that would ensue for trespassers.
Still, despite all the mishaps and misunderstandings, I’m delighted I had a sister — and thoroughly agree with the saying, “The greatest gift parents can give their children is siblings.”
A sister can teach you so much about love, as expressed by St. Paul, who said, “Love bears all things, endures all things.”
Rosemary valiantly endured her little sister, who begged our mother to let her go with the older girls on their movie outings.
My mother eventually caved to my pleas, and my sister put up with my presence patiently.
And although I cringe to admit it, I was a tattletale and would share tidbits of information about the older girls’ behavior with my mother, much to the annoyance of my sister.
When we learned in school that Jesus said we must forgive others’ trespasses “seventy times seven times,” I figured that applied to sisters, and tried my best.
Still, my weekly confessions at church contained the admission, “I fought with my sister 100 times” — an exaggerated number I hoped would cover my bases.
At times, my sister lost her patience and resorted to grabbing my favorite stuffed dog and threatening to put him through agonizing punishments.
I believed this beloved dog had feelings just like people did, so when she strung him from the light fixture, I wept and promised her I’d stop my teasing and tattling.
She always relented, and I still have that stuffed dog, although his body bears the scars of various emergency surgical procedures performed by my mother, including re-attaching his head to his torso.
Our names were always entwined, and I can still hear my father whistling at the front door and calling “Rosemary and Lorraine” to get us home for supper.
We both got turtles and let them roam freely in our beds, unbeknownst to our parents — and we both lavished love on our parakeets.
On Saturday mornings, we trailed our mother through the department stores in downtown Miami, exulting in the moment when she treated us to corn dogs and ice cream at the local five-and-dime store.
My sister married at 18 and devoted herself to raising three children, while yours truly headed to college and majored in philosophy, casting a dark eye at traditional activities like homemaking.
However, whenever I visited her, I discovered that cuddling the babies who gazed at me adoringly and called me “Auntie Raine” helped me glimpse the fervent, unconditional love that shines forth from children.
All these years later, I still love visiting Rosemary and now basking in the love of her grown grandchildren. We share recipes, we savor memories, we shop — and we’re both delighted that my mother had two.
