After a conversation last weekend

with The Sister, I found out some important details of our growing up

together. The innocent and defenseless little sister I grew up with was

anything but. Us boys never did anything to deserve what she admitted

she did to us; well, maybe we did do a few things to her first.

There weren't many days around

our house that we didn't hear Mom say, "Please, please, PLEASE!"

Seems she said that all the time. "Will you please stop pulling your

sister's hair? Will you please not put bugs down your sister's shirt?"

and the one I liked the best, "Will you please stop giving your sister

a cherry-belly?"

You'd think with all of that

pleasing going on, people would be happy. Well, some of us were; The Sister

sure wasn't. After all, she didn't have much of a chance; it was four

against one. Well, four against two; I think the parakeet was on her side.

Our house at 110 Flamingo Street

was crowded, very crowded. Older Brother Richard had the small room downstairs

next to the front room. He had a room all by himself. Big Brother James

lived upstairs in the first small room to the right. He had a room all

to himself also. Twin Brother Mark and I had to share the small room next

to Big Brother James, and Mom and Dad had the huge room at the end of

the hallway. That only leaves The Sister and her room, or should I say,

"The Princess Suite."

From an early age I learned

from Big Brother James that pigtails were meant to be pulled. Since The

Sister was the only one in the family who had them, naturally we'd pull

them. It was right after we started pulling her pigtails that the salt

and flour started to show up in our beds. When it found its way into my

bed, I blamed it on Big Brother James. We got into many a fight over it.

The salt and flour in the bed? The Sister did that.

With a household of four boys,

one girl, two dogs, and a green parakeet that ate hushpuppies off Dad's

head, there was never a moment of peace and quiet. Just ask Dad. There

were always things getting broken, someone getting into trouble or someone

getting yelled at. Everyone got into trouble and got yelled at in our

house everyone but The Sister who lived downstairs at the end of the hallway

in "The Princess Suite." Guess Dad gave her that room to keep

us boys from picking on her. I got news for Dad; that idea didn't work

too well. We always picked on The Sister.

When I was five, The Sister

got hurt playing the dryer spin game; but it wasn't our fault. It was

Dad's. He said to include her in on any games that we played. After all,

she did come down to the basement and asked if she could play. Who knew

that ten cents and a commercial sized dryer could get us boys into so

much trouble and get The Sister a broken arm?

It was a few days after she

got back from the hospital that air mysteriously started leaking out of

our bike tires. I thought it was Down-the-Street Bully Brad. Air leaking

out of the tires and flat bike tires for a month? The Sister did that.

When I turned seven, The Sister

broke her ankle, but that wasn't our fault either. As I remember, us boys

were out in the back yard playing Giant Tractor Tire Ride. That's when

you find an old tractor tire and roll it to the top of a hill, climb inside

and have your brothers roll you down the hill. As long as you keep your

arms and legs inside the tire, you won't get hurt, and that's just what

we told The Sister when she asked to play. How were we supposed to know

that, after rolling down the hill, she'd keep rolling past the swamp,

hit the giant oak tree, fall over and break her ankle?

It was right after she got

back from the hospital that the Jell-O started to show up in our shoes.

The Jell-O in the shoes? The Sister did that.

The most surprising thing The

Sister told me last weekend was how Dad found out about his new hammer.

Dad had just bought a new set of tools and told us not to touch them,

and as soon as he went to work, we did. I got his new hammer out and was

busting rocks with it when the wood handle broke. I fixed it with duct

tape so Dad would never know, but somehow he did. Seems The Sister told

on me, and that's how I got into trouble.

The next day The Sister got

the first of many cherry-bellies by yours truly. That's about the same

time the itching powder ended up in my underwear. Itching powder in underwear?

The Sister did that.

We all grew up (well, most

of us), and us boys stayed in Georgia. The Sister moved four states away.

Always wondered why. I guess I'll have to ask her about it during the

next family reunion. I can't wait to see her; seems it's about time for

another cherry-belly.

[Rick Ryckeley is employed

be reached at [email protected].]