If you don’t have a sister or two, you’ve missed something. Having three sisters is even better…in a snippy, tormenting and creative sort of way. And I mean that in the best sense of course.
I have three sisters. One thing I can tell you about family life with sisters is that it is much like the old saying for business: shit rolls downhill. Tormenting started with my oldest sister, who passed it to the next one, who occasionally got me in trouble with my parents then laughed at me behind their back, and it ended with me working the family tradition on my youngest sister Susan. By the time little Susie came along, my bag of tricks was full.
I invented an act which I named the Flying Wambeezees. My little sister was the Flying part of the Wambeezee act. Cool. I would lie on the bed and she would sit on my feet as I elevated them toward the ceiling. I could spin her around and around with the greatest of ease. She was so limber…like a flying Gumby Baby Doll Sister. I could bend her any which way and she gave it her best to stay aloft on my platform feet. Her little face would harden with concentration and determination to keep each pose as she bumped up and down, around and around. Oh sure, she had the occasional tumble now and again, but that didn’t deter her from getting back on the Wambeezee feet for another spin. One thing about Susan, she didn’t let a few knocks hold her back from flying through the air.
We had a lot of fun perfecting our act until the door opened one day and my mother appeared. Mothers ruin a good circus performance. She apparently was shocked that we even had a circus act. I imagine she was worried that we might run off and join a carnival like our Great Uncle Orson did. He rarely came home for a visit and sent postcards to his mother every few years that said “Doing Fine. Hope you are well”. A man of few words. Mom probably saw herself holding a handful of cheap postcards from her wayward carnie daughters and wondering where she had gone wrong. Our budding career came to an end. The Wambeezee Sisters are just a fond family memory now that gets retold in sad tones of what could have been.
My older sisters played house--with the oldest as the mother, her friend as the father and my sister Mary as the dog. You weren’t expecting that were you? We weren’t ready to add more children to our household. Pets are easier to keep than children. Sometimes my sister-dog pulled the sled in winter. If you don’t have a real dog, a sister will do just as well for most everything.
In turn, I played the dog (or horse) and Susan played the dutiful owner. Dogs and horses got the treats. See my ploy? I could always count on Susan to slip into the kitchen and climb up to find the treats. And who did Mom blame when she caught poor Susan pilfering food before dinner? Not me. No one suspects the family dog/horse.
My best games were Betsy Hand Puppet and Raging Bull. Betsy was actually my hand that I made into a flattened fist and then used my thumb and curled forefinger to create a mouth. Betsy had a history. She sadly wept it to poor Susan each time she came to life.
Besty came from a broken home with parents who flung her out into the streets as they could not abide her ugly little hand face. She had little food (hence another way to get good treats), and slept in dirty boxes at night. At other times, Betsy was an orphan who was constantly looking for her parents or someone (like Susan) who could be her parent and love her unconditionally. Pretty sad huh? And Susan, like the little gullible moppet that she was, believed every word. She was putty in my blubbering Betsy hand.
Raging Bull entailed the sudden and unexpected ability to turn myself from a sweet sister into a maniacal child-eating bull that chased Susan in a potentially body stomping snorting rage until she hopped up on the sofa and cowered in the corner. The sofa was the “safe” place. As long as she was there, Raging Bull couldn’t stomp her. Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just your sister. See me? La la la why don’t you come down and we’ll play a game. Or maybe I’ll read you this really good book. Susan loved books. Susan ALWAYS took the bait. What a sucker.
Off the sofa she came. One step, two steps toward me. Me the sister. Poof. Me the Raging Bull. Scared that little Susan more times than I can count. What fun.
I still can’t believe how my sister could suspend belief in all logical reality to envision a hand as a person or me as a killer bull. I must have some incredible acting ability.
I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about convincing Susan that she was adopted or that she would turn from a girl into a boy and we would have to send her to the boy’s military academy down the road.
Sisters. Aren’t they fun?
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