The Rose Garden, Chapter 8 – Sisters

Sisters (PD)

“Two are better than one, Because they have a good reward for their labor.  For if they fall, one will lift up his companion” (Eccl. 4: 9-10).

I have kept for nearly five decades now the letters my sister wrote me from France the summer she studied abroad.  Like her, they are interesting, funny, warm, forceful, and full of life.

My stereo and the cabinet on which it sits, my DVD player and television stand, my best china, the sculpture in my living room, the chef’s knives and appliances in my kitchen (microwave, coffee maker, tea maker, cappuccino machine, grill), the barbecue on my porch, in fact, the majority of jewelry in my jewelry box, were all gifts from my sister.

She is the real gift in my life.  Had she given me none of these things, I would feel the same.

My sister and I laughed together, played together, fought with one another, and clung to one another on the frequent occasions our father’s anger erupted.  My sister, in those days, was more reticent than I.  Quiet and shy, she kept her feelings to herself, where mine were always on the surface.

In the early years we slept together in a trundle bed.  This allowed us to share secrets and small jokes with each other, even after the lights were turned off.  I would lie awake making up stories after my younger sister had fallen asleep.

Sometimes we would be allowed to jump on our grandparents’ bed.  This was a great treat, since they had an old fashioned feather bed.  The feather bed enfolded us, the same way I imagined a fluffy cloud would.

My sister favored dolls.  Prominent among these was a talented doll which could talk when a string at the base of her neck was pulled.  Even more mysterious, the doll would drink from a bottle that appeared to refill with milk.

Envy prompted me one afternoon to throw the doll’s bottle across the room.  My sister was heartbroken that the bottle would no longer refill, as a result.

My sister lost another doll entirely to me.  This one, a fashion doll, was co-opted for a school project of mine.  My class had been studying the Middle Ages.  Against the doll’s wishes (or my sister’s, at any rate), this petite model was outfitted in a blue velvet gown and tiny headdress by our grandmother.

More often than not, my sister and I got along.  Grandma would not tolerate bad behavior.  Her demeanor toward my sister was, however, less rigid than towards me.

My sister loved to sit with Grandma while she ironed.  The two would sing together, as the aroma of fresh starch filled the garage where Grandma did the family laundry.

My grandmother made sure we had clean clothes, always well-mended.  She sometimes dressed us in identical outfits — whether out of pleasure at the picture we made or convenience at buying the same article of clothing in two sizes, she never revealed.

We can remember wearing cotton pull-over shirts and pajamas with feet.  Fancy dresses were reserved for Sundays.  Since these were more often outgrown than outworn, they were regularly passed down by me to my sister.

On rainy Saturdays, my sister and I would watch Abbott and Costello, “The Bowery Boys,” or old Hope/Crosby “Road” pictures on what was then local Channel 11.  Sunday evenings, we kissed “Lassie” goodnight on the TV screen.  Summers, we would romp through the sprinkler together, in matching bathing suits.

The Fleeting Nature of Time

Even when summer days still seemed long and languid to me, I was aware of the precious nature of time.  Grandma succeeded well in instilling that awareness.

She sharpened it nightly by insisting that my sister and I kiss and make up for any ill feelings incurred during the day.  “Kiss your sister goodnight.  You never know what will come.”  The practice became a lifelong habit.

Compliments

My greatest problem with my sister was accepting her compliments.  She was proud of my accomplishments, and felt rejected when I denied any positive statements about myself.  Neither of us understood why I felt compelled to do that.

Neither understood why I reacted so strongly to the portrait she drew of me.  My sister had put a great deal of effort into the picture, taking care to capture my features.

The portrait was exceptional for a child her age.  To me, however, the face in the picture was the reflection of a reality I wanted with every fiber to deny.

I felt undeserving of compliments.  As a child, this stemmed from feeling “ugly.” Paradoxically, I could not be pretty.  Pretty girls made their fathers do terrible things.  Or so it seemed to me.

I forgot to pick my sister up after school her first day.  I ran the six blocks back, when the school called to indicate she was still waiting there.  I will never forget the sight of her in the empty school hall.  A tiny figure.  That image stands as witness to my every shortcoming as a sister.

I was uncomfortable with my sister’s admiration.  Hungry for attention, I competed for her friends.  I failed to protect her against our father’s tirades.  And, worst of all, I deserted her during my teens.

All this she has forgiven me, which is the measure of her love.

Copyright © 2008 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60247-890-9

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