Day 17: Big Brothers Big Sisters

I deeply admire my two sisters, ordinary women, perhaps, to some, but to me extraordinary women who have overcome a great deal and have worked hard to build good lives for themselves and their children. They're strong and intelligent and funny and loving.

Since I was only five when my oldest sister, J, left for college, my early childhood memories of her are hazy. She was a bit of a hellraiser -- I do remember my parents arguing with her -- but somehow she always managed to get her way! I remember that she pierced a friend's ears at our house, and that she called me Nina. She had a car accident once and wore a big white bandage on her chin afterwards. She clicked sheets between her fingers and liked to pick at my fingernails, which I hated but which I endured because it was time spent close to her. I thought she was very glamorous and very beautiful. She wore eyeliner and teased her hair. She invited A and me to visit her after she got married and I was awestruck by her inflatable chair. She took us to a mall (I'd never heard of such a thing) and to the beach. She introduced us to penuche. She loves Chuckles. In fact, she's the only person I know who loves sugar more than I do. She's knitting me a beautiful vest. She's very friendly and outgoing and makes friends wherever she goes.

My sister A (for Ayon) and I did grow up together, at least until I was in eighth grade and she left for college. We got along except for the times when we fought violently. We played with our Tammy dolls (our mom thought Barbie's boobs were obscene) and rode our bikes and played Tip It and Booby Trap and Sardines. We squeezed into the gold armchair together to watch "Wonderama" and "My Three Sons" until the chair's arms finally gave way. We shared a bedroom for many years and played bridge on our beds; she'd stretch out between the two and I'd crawl across her body, trying not to fall into the raging river below. I'd beg her to get the cat off my head when he was attacking my hair in the middle of the night. We were juvenile delinquents together: we snuck up to the Cenacle late at night and knocked on the nuns' windows, went skinnydipping in Mrs. Haas's pool and swam in the Croton Reservoir, and flung Swedish Fish from the widow's walk of The Chatham Inn at the people below. She bought me my first record, which I believe was Toulouse Street by The Doobie Brothers. I longed to be just like her, which I'm sure she found very annoying.

I also have two older, cherished brothers. They were right when they told me as a little girl that I would never be as smart as they are. Their lives, too, haven't always been easy, but they've persevered and stayed true to themselves. They are honest and proud and loyal. They're wonderful big brothers.

My oldest brother, J, left for college when I was just three. He was tall and handsome and bounced me on his knees. I once bounced so enthusiastically that I broke his tooth. He was in the Marines during the Vietnam War but his considerable intelligence saved him from combat; he was sent to Jefferson City, Missouri for computer training. He taught me how to wrap a present and helped me with my math homework. He took me skiing. He introduced me to the Beach Boys and Dick Dale. He was really good at scaring us silly when we played Home Free All around the house. He'd make stink bombs in his chemistry lab out in the old tool shed. He was the idolized big brother. He made heirloom rocking horses for his children and his nieces and nephews; they're replicas of the rocking horse that our grandfather made for him. When our much-climbed-in old apple trees had to be cut down, he made each of us a simple but exquisite bowl out of the wood. He walked me down the aisle at my wedding. He's very sentimental and might actually cry more easily than I do. I know we both had tears in our eyes that day.

My brother D left for prep school when I was in second grade. Big brother J beat him up so he beat me up. He liked to nap curled up in front of the radiator in the living room. He played the electric guitar and introduced me to The Ventures and "96 Tears" and "Devil with the Blue Dress On". He taught me how to play Spit and War and I Doubt It. He loved to play table hockey and would beg me to play with him even though I was no good. He also liked to play ping pong. He was a fast runner but sometimes I could beat him when we'd race around my grandmother's apartment building (or maybe he just let me). I remember going to watch him run cross country at school and cheering him on, feeling quite proud that he was my brother. He was impressive in his Army uniform, serving as a Military Policeman in Germany during the war. He sent me a fabulous pair of carved red wooden shoes and a music box from his travels during those years. The music box is in my daughter H's room now. Later, he walked our mom down the aisle at my wedding. He likes donuts, too. He always calls me right after I've replied to one of his e-mails (he sends a lot of funny ones) because he knows I'll pick up then. I hate picking up the phone. His somewhat abrupt manner -- "Okay, gotta go, see ya" click -- belies his big heart.

My brothers and sisters and I are all our own people. We certainly have a lot in common but we also have our differences of opinion. Sometimes we get angry -- when a Martin gets angry look out. We no longer have parents to act as the glue and the peacemakers and the news anchors. I'm not so good at keeping in touch. It's easy for me to get bogged down with day-to-day matters and to rely upon an occasional e-mail or news through the grapevine to keep up-to-date. I just hope that my brothers and sisters know that my silence isn't indicative of a lack of care and concern and love. The ties that bind. I love them all. I'm adding "Reach out and touch more" to my bucket list for fifty and beyond.