I have this older sister who is a lot smarter than I. In
fact, she’s scary smart. She once received an A+ on a report card in high
school and was a two-year inductee into the National Honor Society. I had to
follow her and try to measure up. Didn’t always work.
She started out, in her working career, in the basement of
an office building in our home town, punching those old IBM cards. She retired
from the same outfit, but in an office way up in a high-rise building in
Little Rock, running a major department. We’ve become pretty good friends as we have grown older. We don't talk politics and we avoid discussing a few ancient incidents, but we enjoy one another's company, and each comes when the other needs help. All is good.
I’ve even forgiven her for, with the aid of a cousin,
dressing me in girl’s clothing when I was about six, and taking a photograph of
me. I’m eternally hopeful that she has forgiven me for some of my transgressions
aimed specifically toward her. She hasn’t mentioned them lately at any rate.
In addition to being smart and successful, she is a
survivor. She’s lost immediate family members in tragic circumstances and still suffers from the effects of a fall off a horse years ago. But, she still
gets up and goes after it, life that is, every single day. She lives quietly now, surrounded
by grandchildren, content and peaceful. We call her “The General,” for she is quite the commanding officer of our family. She takes it all in stride … I think.
I started thinking about her this morning when I noticed it
is the month in which her birthday falls. She wouldn’t want me to mention her
age, so I won’t. Let’s just say she is a handsome senior citizen, and I'm always proud to be seen with her.
When we were young, I always felt my parents were partial to
her since she was the firstborn, and because Mother and Daddy were still poor sharecroppers
then. Poverty seems to form bonds in the South. When we got older, we were both certain that our parents were partial to
our younger brother because he was “the baby.”
As for me, the middle child, I always felt my parents would
have traded me to a band of gypsies on any given day for a good pickup truck and another baby girl.
I guess all families are like that. The important
thing is that ours was stable, and that accounts for a lot in this
world. The gypsies never showed, and we kids all reached maturity without major
problems. Our parents were hard-working, honest, and well-respected. They maintained high expectations for us, and we knew it. My sister met them, and that’s an
inspiration for me.
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| A few extra pounds ago |
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