Sis

I’ve asked around, and it seems that everyone born into my Mom’s side of family has been a duck hunter or fisherman. Dad’s relatives were all hardscrabble farmers who spent their lives perched in the seat of a combine. This lineage always made for awkward conversation at family reunions as the men would ask me: 1.) If I got my deer; 2.) If I got my duck permit; and 3.) if I had a girlfriend yet. The three questions were all answered to the negative with a casual smirk and bashful toe kick into the gravel parking lot. That was my cue to skedaddle to the gaggle of aunts in hopes of at least swapping a recipe or dishing some gossip. 

The ladies’ conversation wasn’t much better. They swooned about the five-pointer that Danny got or how windy it had been out at the gun club. Even my Mom, who doesn’t hunt and fishes only as an excuse to drink beer refuses to wear a dress or mist her pulse points with Enjoli.

How, you might ask, did I happen to fall into this family—the sole gourmand, decorateur, and Drama Queen nonpareil? I have a theory. 

Sometime between May, 1960 when my brother Mark was born and early October, 1961 when mom became pregnant with me, she conceived what would have been my older sister.  My Sis probably heard rumblings and conversations of the world out here and dreaded the life she’d live in this world of taxidermy and garlic cheese bait. Not Sis. No way. So after putting mom through intense emotional and physical agony, she went away as so many unborns do. No explanation, they just do.

Here’s my theory: Supposing her physical body washed away, but her spirit held on just waiting for the right time? Supposing I was the next one conceived and shared a womb with Sis and we got to be pals—wombmates, as it were? What if we joined forces and came into the world together? My body, her soul. Her yin, my wang.

Upon viewing our old home movies, there are certain telltale clues that Sis is here. Perhaps its the nelly way I sashayed away from the big snowball that Mark threatened to clobber me with when I was three. There is also 8mm footage of me dressed all-too-comfortably as Raggedy Ann. You can’t tell me Mom didn’t know my Sis was around.

She was with us as the family camped on the North Fork of the Duchesne River. As the boys threw rocks and mud at each other, Gail and Mimi (my new stepsisters) played all day in the shallow river constructing homes out of river rock, and furnished them with grass and wildflowers.

We played with Legos, but never created robots or helicopters. Sis and I would always make a 3-bedroom rambler and furniture using the smooth-top blocks for our 300-count bed sheets. Sis’s assistance (there’s a challenge for those with a lisp!) was evident in my Pinewood Derby car, too. While the other boys painted their hot rods with skulls, flames, and daggers—sharp, streamlined and aerodynamic—mine was a red and black polka dot bug. It was pudgy, with big floppy eyelashes and a friendly wink.

Mimi shared a room with me and Sis for awhile, and while it was usually a good enough arrangement, it would occasionally look like a scene from John Waters’ “Female Trouble.”  Sis would become too prissy and dictatorial for the hard-headed Mimi and a cat fight would ensue while I stood by and watched in horror not wanting to take sides. Sis and I would both end up getting clobbered.

When we grew older and got our own rooms, Sis and I set up housekeeping. The other boys’ rooms reeked of expired milk, sweaty socks and the occasional doobie, whereas Sis and I lived in a lemon-scented Windex Shine.

During adolescence, Sis would get crushes on my best friends and make passes at them as I looked on in panic. Sometimes she lucked out and got some clandestine nookie. Other times, her advances made me the laughing stock of the school.

Let’s not forget that Halloween she wore white flats with crepe soles into the grocery store oblivious to the fact that they clashed with my jeans and flannel shirt. I can still hear the clickety-clack in the parking lot as I ran back to the car cursing her all the way.

She introduced herself to Mom years ago and they have become the best of pals. They can dish gossip and swap recipes, just as I had always wanted to do. She has even shown herself to the men of the family, who, while giving one-armed hugs with sincerity, still raise an eyebrow at the enigma that has shaken up our testosterone-laden family. 

Sis is glad she took her leap of faith, and enjoys being in the spotlight - albeit unseen.

I’m just a shy observer.