When I was very young I believed sisters were a dark penance for little brothers who had strayed from God’s will. I had three elder sisters whom I thought were strange and cruel beings dedicated for a mission that was to ensure that a brother’s time on the Earth would be as heartwarming as a stay on Devil’s Island .
My good mother was preoccupied with cleaning, cooking, and stretching Depression dollars, and often gave my care and feeding over to my sisters, who took the job too seriously. They loved harsh soap and hot water. They would bathe and scrub my frail body at least three or four times a day as though they were really my mothers.
In the case of my youngest sister, a certified perfectionist at the age of five, the motive for tearing at my face was her repugnance for freckles. My large raisin-shaped facial stigmata were a disgrace to the family, she contended. Often she pleaded with my mother not to let me out of the house until I was 28.
My sisters hated baseball bats, hammers, sticks, rocks-all the things I loved to brandish with mad determination. I was never allowed to play with any object they considered lethal. Early on, I was convinced my sisters believed that hands were made only for food handling, itchy woolen gloves and prayer. Sisters were ugly, bony giants whose only purpose was to make life miserable. Sisters ate their vegetables, enjoyed milk. Sisters carried tiny handkerchiefs with embroidered hems. Sisters liked bathing, school and teachers, did homework neatly and never spill ink.
I remember days with beautiful blue skies and warm breeze ruffling my hair, days when I should have been off in some green field, but instead my sisters would crushed the golden opportunity with their menacing and merciless invisible claws. It was agony to sit there dreaming of freedom, while they pursued the idiotic work that after half a lifetime produced a foolish knitted strip that had no proper use at all. Torment struck me continuously as I sat there listening to their clattering voices and high pitch giggles.
There were times I escaped and ran off seeking for excitement. My sisters would scream threats of death and other dire consequences while they chased me around the neighborhood as if I were a psychotic freak.
On occasion, my wardresses would drag me to the movie theater. Even though they fed me caramel popcorns, I rolled around the gum-checkered floor, shouting encouragement to the villains on the screen, until the usher, and then the manager warned me to tone down. Often one of my sisters would upend my seat and jam my tiny body between it and the backrest. I would plead to be released. As soon as my bruised body was pulled out, I would break free and run about shooting the audience with my thumb-and forefinger handgun gleefully. Then my sisters, the usher and the manager would chase me up and down the aisle, in and out of the empty rows, until they cornered me. For my crimes at the movies, sooner or later my sisters would embark on a quiet vendetta. When my mother was off shopping, they tied me to the backyard fence like a mongrel and make me eat spinach or disgusting tasteless boiled cabbage!
When I was 11 or 12, my sisters began to date boys. I remembered Saturday nights were a nightmare where my sisters will ran all around the house looking for shoes, belts, dresses and ribbons. They sulked, they screamed, they argued as who used the bathroom first. But I loved those crazy nights. Their nervous hysteria and panicked frowns were the best joy to behold-especially when my sisters invariably remembered something that was needed from the store such as stockings, nail polish et cetera. And each Saturday night, I straddled a kitchen chair waiting to do business-full of ‘brotherly love’, of course. I would run to the store for one sister at a time, and only one item could be purchased on each trip. Each trip cost them five bucks. They hated me, but I was their only ‘24hours on guard’ service at that time. Most Saturdays I exploited their needs to the tune of 20 to 30bucks.
Though their Saturday-night anxiety supplied me with a tidy sum each week, I was not above the mean surprise that made life with sisters worthwhile. After we had a telephone installed, it became my sisters’ link to the wonderful world of boys. I was instructed to take messages. Upon their return home, my most popular sister would ask, “Any calls?” I would reply, “A boy named Frank called.” She would take the bait eagerly. “Frank who?” I would stifle a laugh and say, “Frankenstein,”
There was once I played a prank on my youngest sister who thought she was Juliet Roberts. She walked and talked like the movie star and even wore her hair in the Roberts style. I called home with a public phone across the street and asked for my youngest sister. When she answered the phone, I explained that I was an agent for Metro’s Film Company and was struck by her walk, he long hair and asked if she was interested to come to Hollywood to work as a stand in. she promptly inquired in her most articulate silver-screen voice, “A stand in for whom?” I would muffle my joy at her gullibility and reply, “King Kong.”
In time our gentle war came to an end, and I realized that my sister were beautiful, kind and loving. Suddenly I became protective of them. I resented when slick-haired young men came to pick up my sisters for dates. I discovered their generous hearts as many thoughtful gifts came my way at Christmas and on my birthdays. They wept when I left for the Marine’s Force, and during my time in the Pacific they wrote many warm, sweet letters that helped still the fear.
As I looked back to the trials they had to endure with their little brother, I saluted their patience and devotion and I thanked that special muse who brought them into my life.
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