Sisterhood! It’s supposed to be fun! My sister, Gladys, was two years older than me. As far back as I can remember, I had this love-hate relationship with her. When I complained about Gladys to my older sisters, they’d always tell me, “We all fought with the sister, that was closest in age, when we were kids. You’ll love each other again, once your grown, married and have your own children.”
From the beginning of my life, I’ve had to share a bedroom – at least until the two older girls married and left home – with Gladys. The bedroom we shared is where one of my first love-hate episodes started with her. Gladys said, “Carole, if you brush my hair with the hair brush, I’ll do yours too.”
“Hey, that’s a neat idea,” I said.
Gladys quickly responded, “Me first.”
“OK,” I complied, grabbing the brush on the dresser. I gently brushed her hair. After five minutes, I tired, “You’re turn.”
“Oh, just five minutes more,” Gladys pleaded.
“OK,” I said and again brushed her hair five more minutes. “You’re turn,” I repeated.
Gladys then brushed my hair. What a neat feeling. But, after five minutes, she announced, “Time’s up.”
“No, it isn’t,” I declared.”Yes, it is,” she laughed as she placed the brush back on the table.
“I’m never going to brush your hair again!” I screamed. All I heard from her were giggles. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many times I succumbed, to her whines and promises, of allotting me the same time with brushing hair, during our younger days. She never kept her word.
I’ll admit there were times my sister and I both were the trouble makers. Mom, Gladys, and I often went to bed early, while Pop retired a bit later. Often, after Pop had gone to bed, upon hearing Gladys and my tickling, giggling or screeching, he’d yell, “You two be quiet or I’m coming over there!”
As kids would do, we continued our noisiness, which brought Pop to our darkened room (he never turned the light on) shouting, “This is it! I’ve had it with you two!.” With that he’d strap the bed covers with his belt. I slept on the side you got out of bed, while Gladys slept on the side of the bed that was pushed against the wall. Both Gladys and I screeched and yelled, “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! We’ll be quiet. What Pop didn’t know was that I was getting a couple stings from the belt in my prone position, while Gladys pretended she was being whipped in her upright position while plastered against the wall.
Thus, it was that my love-hate relationship with Gladys continued.
I didn’t smack Gladys back as often as I’d have liked when we had fights. As young as I was, I had always felt she was a bit stronger than I was and she’d probably win. There were times though that I had my own sweet revenge.
I think our family was one of the first families in our neighborhood to have a TV. Mom and Pop had gone visiting. Gladys and I were home alone. I was watching “Frontier Playhouse” when she came into the living room and politely switched the channel. I screeched as loud as my young voice could, “You brat you! I hate you! You always get your way. I’m going to run away!” I ran out of the house and up the road intent on running away, when the idea came to me: make her suffer. If Mom and Pop come home and I can’t be found, she’ll really be in trouble. I then hid behind a shed, keeping constant vigil for my parents’ return.
I was hidden one hour before I heard Gladys yell from the front porch, “Carole. Carole, where are you?” I didn’t answer. All I could think of was suffer, suffer, suffer. Another hour went by until Mom and Pop came home and entered the house. Once they arrived, I stealthily crept around the shed, across the street and crawled up the front porch steps to the screen door.
What I heard from Gladys’ mouth was like eating ten ice cream cones in one day. Through sobs, I could hear, “Carole and I had a fight. She said she was going to run away. I haven’t seen her for two hours. I think she really ran away.”
I was elated. My sister really and truly loved me, I thought. It was a revelation. Beaming like a proud peacock that just spread its plumage, I bounded in the house, “I’m home!”
By the time I reached seventh grade and Gladys ninth, I was sick and tired of sharing a bedroom with such a messy sister. My clothes were always hung up neatly or folded in the dresser drawers. Not Gladys. Her clothes were strewn haphazardly on the floor, dressers, and even the chair we could never sit on. One day I decided I was going to fix her but good. I piled every one of her strewn clothes on the chair. The pile was so high you couldn’t even see the back of the chair. I was anxious to see her face. Upon hearing her footsteps bound the stairs, I quickly crawled under the bed. She walked over to the clothes ridden chair, stood a few seconds, laughed uproariously, and flung her clothes on the floor and left. Since I couldn’t stand clothe pathways, I ended up picking up the clothes and placing them where they belonged.
It was probably when Gladys matured – I mean figure wise – that I became jealous of her. My brother, David, was now in the service and often brought his buddies home on leave. At fourteen, I had become jealous when Gladys was invited out for rides with David’s buddies. They paid no attention to me, except for a ping pong game on our kitchen table.
Eventually, Gladys and I married and raised children, divorced, and singly raised some children. I got over my love-hate feelings and started to like, even love her again. I think she loved me too.
My brothers and sisters and I, now range in ages 60 to 80. Recently, my brother, David’s wife, Millie, invited the siblings for David’s birthday, on each other, growing up. After the first prank story was told, Lester suggested, “You know, I think its time the perpetrator of the prank tells the other, I’m sorry.” We all agreed. One by one, after each story, the prankster apologized.
Mary Alice was the last to tell her story: “I was a working girl, still living at home. I had just purchased a gorgeous white, cashmere sweater. That Saturday, I planned to wear it on a date. When I was about to pull the sweater over my head, I noticed makeup around the collar. I knew who the culprit was that wore this sweater before I had. I ran down the steps into the kitchen. I grabbed Gladys by the front of her blouse, shook her, and screamed, “You wore my sweater to school before I even had a chance to wear it!” I was about to pull her hair when Mom came between us, ‘Mary Alice, let her go. I’ll punish her myself. Let go.’ At the end of the story, Mary Alice looked Gladys in the eye, “OK, now you can apologize, Gladys.”
Gladys grinned as wide as a clown mouth, as she looked Mary Alice straight in the eye and said, “I’m not sorry! It was fun.”
You know, my older sisters were right when they told me, as a kid, “You’ll love her once again when your married and have children.” As a married adult, I do love and appreciate this impish sister of mine. She’s right. You don’t have to be sorry for everything. Some things are just plain fun!
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.