They say a person’s earliest memory is often the birth of
their first sibling. In my case, this is true. I have a memory of visiting
Katey in the hospital, looking at her through the glass that separated the
infants from us curious toddlers. But not to worry, Mom and Dad soon brought
her home and no glass could keep me from touching her. Or carrying her around.
But I was only trying to help Mom who was running Katey’s bath and needed
someone to carry the infant to her. Right?
Katey’s arrival certainly made an impact on my life. My two
dolls were named Kate and Katy. (Please don’t ask what happened to Kate…one day
I shall have to see a psychologist about that.) I slept on the floor of her
room – who wants a room of their own when they can share? I had a built-in
playmate. And someone to blame things on. To think I could have gotten away
with little Katey taking the blame for the coloring of the wall if my conscious
hadn’t set in.
Katey and I spent hours in our swimsuits playing the rain.
Or flipping around the swing set. Or taking care of our dolls and cooking meals
in our little kitchen. (And, yes, mixing together concoctions from stuff in the
bathroom we shouldn’t have.) But even as kids, we were very different. Katey
didn’t want to be Mary Lou Retton or play library all the time. And I didn’t
find throwing imaginary coconut bombs down upon oncoming pirates a game to play
every single day. We had regular fights on Fridays when we had to clean our
room (some much worse than others – I could be ruthless), and she found
organizing everything before it could be played with just a little annoying.
(What?!?!?) But, all in all, we were best friends.
It would be easy to say my quirks rubbed off on her more
than hers did on me. After all, wasn’t it thanks to all my pre-playing sorting
that she kept her chalk art box in such neat order? On the other hand, I never
could look at a blank slate and make it into a lovely piece of art. But she did
lead me to the joy of writing. When I just didn’t have the patience to wait for
her to write the next page of her story (because two-thirds of the page had to
be an illustration and she wouldn’t write the next page until she had completed
the drawing), I just finished writing the story. And I haven’t stopped writing
since.
Growing up and chasing after what interested us moved us
apart. Ever artistic, Katey followed music and art. A born organizer, I can’t
seem to find a way out of an office. I moved around. She married and stayed in
New Hampshire. And now has a little boy, who when I sit on the floor to play
with, is like looking back 30 years to another red head I sat on the floor and
played with. He reminds me of the little sister who has changed my life in so
many ways. And, mostly, I’m glad.
Happy 32nd birthday, Katey!
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