It’s established fact. Older sisters are fairly useless beings. Until they’re not.
I can’t quote any scientific facts to back my claim, but c’mon, it’s documented, older sisters don’t serve much purpose in life. Until they do.
I didn’t have an older brother, or a younger one, so I hold minimal points of reference. I have written about some brother/sister escapades in the past, so you know dear diary, I did love my older sister … sort of.
I won’t go into detail about our co-conspirator efforts to make dandelion wine in the cellar in an old Westinghouse washing machine, supposedly unknown to unsuspecting parents.
I also won’t relate why and how she got even with me by baking a chocolate cake, just for me, using dishwater (complete with detergent) as one of the main ingredients. Actually, it didn’t taste that bad, just different, compared with her usual prize-winning efforts. I won’t bother relating what I had done that prompted her reaction, because space is limited in this column, and we don’t need to dig up my misadventures. Besides, it’s my column.
I have mentioned before how as an eight-year-old she made me “play circus” with her best friend Patsy that led to a four-inch gash on my head and eight stitches. By the way, I didn’t have to go through any concussion protocol. Doc Polec sewed me up at 9 p.m. and sent me home with my dangerous sister and Patsy. Our mother didn’t find out about it until she saw the patch on my skull a day later. Apparently, it was my fault. I was an accidental martyr. Took a bullet for good ol’ sis.
Then there was the argument with her first husband while I was visiting them as a teenager.
“You’re being stupid Oralee,” he said. “Your argument has no logic, you’re not looking at it reasonably.”
“I can’t argue logic, I can only argue emotion,” she yelled back.
End of argument, as three people broke into laughter. You can’t argue against the logic of emotion can you?
My sister introduced me to a great group of older people, meaning people who were three to five years my senior. Many of these people continue to be my friends decades later, after my sister met an untimely death, also a couple of decades ago.
These friends still touch base and our conversations are easy, never stilted and always honest. I am still referred to as Oralee’s younger brother. You don’t escape those labels, not with “the older folk” as I like to call them.
A few years ago, they claimed I qualified for their annual class reunion, even though I was four years their junior. I showed up at one of them, even though I’m not prone to making solid commitments. I had to see what was going on.
While I was in their company, rehashing old teen and pre-teen war stories, it suddenly dawned on me how useful my sister had been. I was reminded how good she had been those many years ago when she’d utter statements like, “I’m running over to see Patsy,” or, “I’m gonna go see Dave and Audrey,” or, “Verna, Vic and Diane are at the Vogue and I’m going to join ‘em.”
She would inevitably then add, “wanna come?”
Of course I did. Everybody wants to be included. She knew that. She knew me. She knew her friends, who became my friends.
So, older sisters, I guess, aren’t that bad. It just takes time to get to know them.
I learned that too late.
