For the Love of a Sister

(Paula (oldest), Pamela, Patricia (youngest), Pamela as senior in high school

My middle sister, Pamela, definitely didn’t have to beg hard to get a lock on her bedroom door when we were growing up. Mom wasn’t even entirely aware of the full extent of the spying campaign I conducted on the only older sister left at home. Almost four years younger, I had a lot of time on my hands and couldn’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing than undercover work on this sister: sneaking into her closet to watch her practice singing for some contest, slipping under her bed to eavesdrop on phone calls, reading her journals that she had carefully hidden from my eager eyes, waiting quietly in the bushes for her to return from a date so that I could watch a possible kiss, and even hiding in that little dip in back of her boyfriend’s VW when they went out on a date.

Pamela’s patience with me has been building for a long time, despite my early antagonistic behaviors. She listened compassionately to my angst when for my first homecoming football game in the seventh grade I was mortified to only receive a mum from Corky, the retarded boy down the street, and not from the boy I was interested in or, as was tradition, from my ‘Big Sis’ at school (someone in the ninth grade that ‘watched’ over me to help me adjust to Junior High School). Those large, smelly corsages, with the year and the school’s initials glittered on them, had silk streamers that floated all the way down to the hem of one’s dress. At thirteen years old this was a big deal in our very west Texas town of Abilene. I couldn’t not wear the mum from Corky, who I always made an effort to be nice to despite my peers teasing him mercilessly. Neither was I mature enough yet to wear the big, sparkly flower and say with ease who it was from. Wiser with her almost sixteen years, Pamela tried to help me see what was right in this situation as I sobbed in confused distress.

Mom was still at work selling lingerie at Grishom’s department store in town. Paula, our oldest sister, was away at college. Dad was in another state as a North American Moving Van Line driver, and the car he drove when home sat idle in the driveway. Oblivious in my grief, Pamela called a florist, found the car keys and slipped out to drive, illegally since she didn’t have a license yet, to go pick up a mum she had ordered for me. It must have been hard for mom to get mad at Pamela for her thoughtful intentions when she found out, as she had to since Pamela backed into another car on this quest. Touched by the gesture of my real big sis, I headed off to the game much more comfortable now with a gaudy mum on each side of my jacket.

In the middle of the eighth grade, and Pamela’s junior year, we moved to Richardson, just north of Dallas. Pamela had her driver’s license now and carted me around plenty in her own little VW bug. She even kept it a secret after realizing I had taken her car out one Valentine’s school day (this time I was the one without the license) when home sick I decided to drive around and deliver my valentine cards directly to friends’ mailboxes. Another time she agreed to ‘a wake-up party’ where we arranged with my friends’ parents that Pamela would drive me to their homes early on a Saturday morning and I would drag my sleepy girlfriends out of bed, one by one, eventually arriving at our house for breakfast, everyone in hair rollers and pajamas.

Older for Pamela’s biggest beauty pageant, I now admired the courage and discipline of my big sis as she prepared for the final night. I slipped a note of support in her bag amidst the swimsuit, heels, hairspray, and evening gown paraphernalia all potential beauty queens pack for the actual pageant. Now, edgy with anticipation while sitting in the audience with my mother, Pamela had been selected as one of the finalists and it was her turn to answer a question from the judges. Based on my sketchy memory, it went something like this: “We’ve heard you have a little sister who has been carefully watching you during pageant preparations. If you had one piece of advice to give your younger sister, what would it be?”

I’m pretty sure Pamela hadn’t expected or prepared for this question. And forgiving as she was, she didn’t focus on my earlier years of terrorism and how developing other pastimes could have benefited me much more. After a long pause, she instead quoted a line from Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

I don’t remember word for word what she said next, but listening with utmost tenderness and care I came away remembering something along the following lines which, in my book, should have won her the pageant crown and not just first runner-up and Miss Congeniality:
“Finding out what is true for ourselves takes time. If we’re brave enough to explore who we are and risk being vulnerable, we get to know our weaknesses as well as our strengths. And learning to be honest with ourselves and others helps us to love ourselves more, even with all our imperfections, and also others. Living a life that is truthful can be an expression of love.” Unlike her sneaky, social, and often selfish little sister, Pamela was modeling an internal exploration, earnest to discover what would hold the most meaning in life and doing her best to encourage me take a look inward as well.

About a year later Pamela and Jimmy got married, and she let me have my high school boyfriend over for a romantic dinner for two in their home. Clinking their new crystal glasses like we’d seen them do in the movies, the glasses shattered on top of the meal Pamela had helped me prepare for this special evening. Years passed, and the crystal came out again as Pamela prepared an after wedding dinner for this same boyfriend and me, doing her best to steer us toward something more traditional that included family in our haphazard, hippy wedding plans.

In the interim of using the crystal glasses, Pamela was dismayed when I approached her at 19 years old, the summer after my first year in college, subsequent to learning I was over two months pregnant. At the time, Pamela was eight months pregnant with her first child. I had already made arrangements for an abortion, illegal in 1971, and I was terrified. All I could think about was how difficult it had been for me to get into the University of Texas and navigate the grants, loans, and work-study that would help me pay for college, and how having a baby would most likely cause this to come to a screeching halt. Pamela listened to all this and sensing my stubborn determination, agreed to drive me to the abortion and then let me stay with her afterwards, despite her firm opposition to my decision.

The entire experience was as bad as you may have heard from descriptions of illegal abortions: back room, coat hanger, painful, the hemorrhaging that followed. Pamela sat up with me the night and day afterwards as I bled and cried. I think Jimmy was out of town and I remember feeling like I would kill myself if she told or called anyone else, and knowing how hard-headed I was, she obviously decided the best thing she could do was to love me through this awful ordeal I had imposed on her.

Pamela birthed Jason several weeks later and adopted three other children during the decades that followed. Loving her family in the way that she loved me that terrible summer has been an intention of mine, whether it has been her own children or the children of her children. You see, in a way I feel I owe my life to this sister, who stuck by my side and helped me hold tentatively onto the coat tails of life, even when I knew she regretted some of the choices I was making.

Our choices have diverged in other ways since that experience, and as adults we’ve butted heads and stood our ground plenty of times. But I’ve always felt my sister’s love, whether through some beautiful calligraphy she has made me, our singing together at Bill’s and my first wedding, or her arranging a place for me to stay during a healing sabbatical year. Now, after we have moved our parents closer to her and my other older sister, Pamela handles the multiplicity of details involved in the care of the aging, never voicing resentment of my living thousands of miles away during this crucial time.

Pamela is going on a ‘HeartQuest’ in the coming week and Jimmy has asked for letters of encouragement from family members and close friends that would let her know how loved she is. My words of love about this older sister are long overdue, but if they touch her heart in any way while she quests on, then I’ll consider it a prayer answered, something else she has often gifted me with and taught me to value. And Pamela, you were right, living life truthfully is an incredible expression of love.

One Shoe Squeaking

( started on 3/14/09)
The mountains were socked in all day yesterday, from Cuchara Pass all the way into the San Luis Valley. When I arrived at Graceland, our little trailer on the slope overlooking this valley, I had a clear view 50 miles to New Mexico, but behind me Mount Blanca and its neighbors were all gauzy white.

My steady canine hiking companion, Amber Grace, and I took off for a stroll. Something about low-hanging clouds made the noises seem louder; each sound seemed separate from the other, very distinct and slightly amplified. Mountain bluebirds flitted about and twittered to us as we descended the slope. The neighing of horses down on the flats floated up our way. And my left boot squeaked so loudly it sounded like a squawk.

I bought these Ariat barnyard boots in November, calling stores all over Denver and Boulder until I found my size. They zip up on the sides, cover my ankles, and provide such support that I’m reluctant to take them off. My feet feel like they’ve found their proper home to such an extent that I’ve been wearing these babies to work, for city walks, and even mountain hikes. But one shoe squeaks. I’ve never had a shoe squeak before, and I’m clueless as to why it does or what in the world to do about it. Walking down silent, empty corridors in the schools where I am to observe a teacher candidate's classroom, my shoe announces my presence before I even get there. Children turn to look, wondering what the ‘creeeak-creeeak’ sound is, perhaps imagining a wooden leg beneath my slacks.

I’ve conditioned the leather, but this is something in the inner sole. Ok, now I’m wondering if there is a message for me in this experience. My soul is squeaking?? And if one pair of squeaking shoes is not enough, a second pair of shoes, some Merrill clogs that I bought at a big Title Nine sale at the end of last summer, starting squeaking about a month ago. Once home, when I finally coerce my feet out of my Ariats, I slip on my Merrills, but with no relief from the sound of one shoe squeaking, except that it’s the opposite foot. With the Merrills my right shoe has decided to speak up.

Back to Graceland. On my second morning there I was up at 4:30AM for two reasons: I wanted to get to the Monte Vista Refuge by the crack of dawn to catch sight of the migrating sand hill cranes, and I was tired of listening to the mice in my trailer. A chilling 14 degrees hit me as I emerged from my down comforter to hastily crank up the oven and turn on the little pro-cat heater. Coffeed up, I stepped out of the trailer into the light of a bazillion stars to go warm up my frost covered car. The sound of my shoe squeaking echoed in the crisp air, possibly alerting the coyotes who began a series of yips, yaps, and yowls prompting Amber to tuck her tail and rush to the car.


After picking up a valley friend, Lynn, in Alamosa we found our way to the back roads of the refuge by sun-up. A blanket of diamond hoarfrost covered the fields. In the areas where there was standing water, a fine mist rose up to meet the morning light and create a breathtaking glow. The cranes were luminous, standing four feet tall with their long legs and long necks, leaping several feet skyward as part of their elaborate courtship dance. Six foot wingspans with feathered fingertips swished through the air amidst the raucous calls of thousands and thousands of sand hill cranes that echoed across the valley. When we got out of the car we were immediately struck by a consistent croaking, crowing rattle. It took a few seconds to realize that those guttural sounds resulted from field upon field of flocks of cranes. Thankfully this was an environment where the sound of a squeaky shoe couldn’t be heard.

Arriving back at the trailer later that morning, I froze on getting out of my car and hearing a squawk. Lynn told me the cranes sometimes lounge in the fields in front of my trailer. I reached for my binoculars then slowly began walking toward the open view, when the regularity of the sound reminded me of my shoe. Oh well, if the sound of one shoe squawking can bring to mind the majesty of a sand hill crane, surely I can find something Zen in that.

An Astonishing Life

(photo: Road to Graceland)

“Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.”

from the poem “Messenger” by Mary Oliver

During my recent trip to Houston I kept hearing myself say “Life is so interesting!” while in conversations with close friends. Out of context, and perhaps in, those words sound and look so trivial and bland. Perhaps like Mary Oliver I should say instead how absolutely astonishing life is!

Yesterday while on another writing retreat when Karla or Rebecca one commented, “Well, it’s another learning experience,” I retorted loudly, “I’m absolutely sick of that statement!” They weren’t even talking to me as I busied myself elsewhere in our secret hide-out cabin, but I didn’t hesitate throwing in my two cents.

How does life being interesting, to being astonishing, to viewing life as another learning experience all come together at this moment? I’m not ready to give up learning from all that life presents to me, and indeed the diversity of experiences is interesting, but standing in the muck of it in a state of pure astonishment fits so much better: letting it all sink in, mouth agape, pondering how I got here, in that all too familiar less-than-half-perfect state.

Coming into the last years of my fifties I most definitely expected that my awareness would have so expanded that wisdom would be readily accessible. Instead, here I am with a bundle of questions and a growing curiosity about what it all means, whether contemplating the miracles of life or the sheer pettiness of half of what I spend time trying to understand.

This morning amidst coffee conversation, I remarked on the beauty of having arrived by accident at Sacred Heart Elementary in Austin at 22 years of age, interviewed and hired by the principal, Sister Antoinette, who ushered me into the world of education with comforting and encouraging words that have continually guided and sustained me now in this field for 35 years. The miracle and magic of life had me walking with or sitting across from Sister “Kitty” yet again the weekend before last in Houston, clearly astonished once more at the strength of this connection we have preserved and the utter holiness of it, highlighted by Kitty’s own ageless beauty that glows from her 70 plus years of service and love for whomever she sits across from.

I carted an indoor Greek lunch picnic to a much anticipated appointment with Gene, my Einstein-look-alike therapist that I’ve talked with for well over a decade. Although I acknowledge the therapy that has indeed happened in this relationship, the word therapist doesn’t come close to describing all that our connection has encompassed: Gene was my most engaged and influential thesis advisor, later becoming a fellow traveler/explorer in life, fellow philosopher, friend, teacher, mentor, and crucial guide back into the world of marriage, as well as into middle-age and beyond.

Sitting in his substitute office while his home office, damaged from Hurricane Ike, still undergoes repairs, I became acutely aware of the hours Gene and I have shared, both on the phone and in person. Like with Sister Kitty, Gene has consistently encouraged me to keep my mind on what really matters – the beautiful simplicity of learning to stand in absolute awe of life without feeling like I need to understand it all. Yes, when I am able to become still enough to keep my mind on what really matters, it does indeed strike me how incredibly astonishing life continues to be.