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.

Boulder Kindness

(Flatirons photo found on web)
Time for some Yak-trax. I had just heard about these little contraptions that strap on the bottom of one’s shoes only an hour or so before I slipped on an ice patch. Really, the fall was unnecessary; I had already been convinced to buy some. But the snow was packed slick and my hiking boots were like ice skates.

The real trouble was I hadn’t brought my gloves, so I had unzipped my vest pockets to warm my hands - an easy escape hatch for my car keys when I went down. I didn’t notice a thing, except that I wasn’t hurt, thank you God.

Arriving at my car later, I interrupted the conversation of a friend to announce that I had lost my keys. Mary, an educator who works with special needs children, looked at me in a familiar and understanding way. It wasn’t the first time I had lost something or gotten lost when meeting her, leading to comments about my being a special needs child turned into a special needs adult. We made a game plan with Mary revisiting the site of the fall, and I would head to the Chautauqua ranger station.

Amber Grace, my dog, was with me. I popped my head in the ranger’s station and asked if Amber could come in with me. I explained that I had lost my car keys, had they been turned in,
and could I use a phone. “Just keep your dog away from me,” the female ranger nervously responded. “I was bitten by a dog last week.”

Amber was much more interested in all the preserved animals on a display than another human. Sheesh, a mountain lion, a bear, a wolf, a fox, a coyote were all on her level, looking awfully real. She crept toward them, sniffing warily while I pondered if this were such a good idea. We had just run into a bear several weeks ago and I sure was glad when she froze on call and let me leash her. Somehow she seemed to sense the danger. I didn’t want her thinking these critters were anything to get pal-sy with.

No keys at the ranger’s, and she stood close by anxiously waiting for Amber and me to leave. I punched in Bill’s phone numbers several times before I hit the right ones (regularly using automatic dial coupled with a very poor memory for numbers anyway becomes a problem when I need to actually remember a number). I alerted Bill of what had happened and that he might need to drive to Boulder soon with an extra key if Mary didn’t find mine where I had fallen.

Let me mention how patient Bill is around situations like this. Last year my car door swung closed when I stood up to snap on my snowshoes. My keys were on the back seat where I had been sitting. There was no cell service in the area. Amber and I were alone. I tried to retrieve the keys by poking a long stick through a barely open window and sliding the stick on the key ring. No luck. When some fishermen arrived I asked if I could borrow a pole, which didn’t work either. Some other snow shoers were getting ready to leave so I gave them Bill’s number and asked if they would please call him once in an area with service. Bill showed up laughing and good natured as usual, making a lousy morning feel ok after all. Here we go again, I thought, a new snowshoe season and already I’m calling him.

To the ranger’s delight I finally finished my calls and left. I panned the hills at the base of the Flat Irons looking for Mary. Feeling unlucky I turned to watch the other hikers arriving. Several families were setting up photo shoots, probably for Christmas cards, dressed in matching outfits. A bride and groom were posing in another direction, the mountain behind them providing an imposing background to his shiny tux and her flowing gown. I noticed all the hybrid vehicles in the parking lot and the trendy clothing of hikers. This was Boulder, after all.

Suddenly a gigantic old Pontiac came huffing into the parking lot. The car sounded like if turned off it might never start again. The black family that emerged didn’t blend into any of the faces I had been observing: three little boys in high tops and an older man and younger woman, modestly dressed and not wearing a bit of hiking gear. The boys were immediately interested in Amber, and the older gentleman looked directly at me and exclaimed, “Are you doing ok m'am?” with obvious concern in his voice.

Was my face that transparent? I admit I was feeling frustrated. I told him I had fallen and lost my car keys and he started in with the questions: where was I when I fell, was I hurt, was anyone helping me??? Turning to his boys he announced they were all going to be “trackers” and look for this poor lady’s car keys. “Now you listen for me while you’re back here cuz if I find them I’m gonna yell real loud. Ok?”

Smiling, I thanked him and promised I’d be listening. I wondered how far they would get really with the shoes they were wearing and no warm coats. The afternoon was chilly every time the sun went behind the clouds and the trails solid ice. Out of all the people I had been watching and whose eyes I had met, it struck me as interesting, and beautiful, that his were the only ones that had really seen me.

Mary returned after doing our entire hike again, but no keys. I called Bill and he was on his way. While we waited, the tracker family returned. Of course the man asked if my friend had found my keys and I told him no, but that “my husband is a good man like you and he is on his way to Boulder with an extra key.” The man and his family acted genuinely happy to hear this and wished me well as he fired up the Pontiac, that by the grace of God came on, and clattered out of the parking lot while people turned to see what all the noise was about.

Bill soon arrived and I promised him lunch for his troubles. Later that afternoon back at home my phone rang. “This is Suzahnne from Chautauqua and someone has turned in your keys.”

“Wow! Thanks so much for calling, Suzanne. Do you happen to have the name and number of the person who found my keys?”

“It’s Suzahnne, and yes, his name is Gahbriel and his number is . . . .”

“Sorry, Suzahnne. So it’s Gabriel at . . . .”

“It's Gahbriel, and yes that is the correct number.”

Ok, ok I was getting the message here and definitely feeling like a hick. No, this woman did not have any kind of accent when I talked with her earlier in the day, but apparently she had a preference for how names are to be pronounced. That's fair, I thought, I like being called Patricia instead of Pat. I thanked her again and arranged a pick-up for my keys.

Laughing about that conversation, I called Gahbriel and left a message thanking him for picking up my keys and dropping them at the ranger’s station. Within minutes he called back.

“Hi, this is Gabriel (as in Gay-briel). You just called. Glad I could help. What goes around comes around, you know?”

Gay-briel, eh? I’m not sure what the pronunciation thing was all about or if it really matters in the grand scheme of things. Part of me wanted to stereotype it “Bouldereeze” but that is clearly not fair. Gabriel and the black man and his family were all ready to help a fellow citizen. Mary had cheerfully taken off to redo our hike, in her gripper snowboots, and look for my key, commenting later that the extra exercise was a bonus. And, Suzahnne, though reluctant at first to write down my name and number earlier in the day “in case someone finds my keys” had done just that, then indeed called me. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll just chalk this up as one more memory of some wonderfully kind people in Boulder.

Stop and Listen

Someone was yelling loudly. A domestic dispute this early? My eyes panned the condos at the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain Lake. Nothing. I turned my binoculars back on the lake, hoping to spot the wood ducks again. Nary a one. The “hoodies” were putting on a show however, with three males touting their flared heads at the lone female they were all after. Poor girl. Hooded mergansers, the males looked like they had on Roman helmets with plumes waving, going off to war.

“THE LORD DELIVERTH! THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY!”

“What?” Now I could hear what someone was yelling. Turning I saw a woman walking up from Federal Blvd, a backpack on and an open book in her palms. She appeared to be screaming bible verses.

I had seen this woman yesterday on the park bench, sitting quietly, an open bible in her lap, feet tucked into a sleeping bag, a hot convenience store cup of coffee in hand. Eight hours later she was still there, only asleep on the bench. The cup had rolled down to the lake’s edge. It was the evening of the same morning I had experienced duck bingo. (See blog piece entitled, "That Duck.") I couldn't resist stopping by on my way home from work, wanting to close the day with another peek at the variety of feathered creatures I had seen earlier in the day.

This was the very next morning and it appeared the wood ducks had only been visiting the previous morning. Too bad, but I was enjoying the rest of of the travelers. Looked like some ring-necked ducks had even popped in. The lake had been so serene just minutes before, and now this ranting. It was unsettling. She walked to the other side of the lake from where I was standing, knelt down, and raised her voice a couple of notches. At least she was sending all the ducks my way.

Who is this woman? What is her story? She knew how to pick out a good spot to spend her days. Yesterday I had looked carefully at her sleeping face. She was pretty, and maybe close to my age. She, too, had spent a lot of time in the sun, only she obviously still was. Her face was leathery and brown, her dirty and unkempt hair pulled back in a clumsy ponytail. A backpack and a bible were her possessions, the sleeping bag riding in the pack when not in use. Whose child is she? Does she have children, a spouse, siblings, friends?

Samuel Johnson and his sister came to mind. He had interrupted my search for meter change standing outside my car one afternoon recently. “Could you spare some extra change?” I heard through my closed window. Oh, gosh, why did such encounters make me feel so edgy?

“What are you going to do with it if I give you some?” I demanded, hearing the arrogance in my inquiry and hating how it sounded.

“Head right down there to that café and get a bite to eat,” he answered kindly.

“Oh, ok, let’s go down there together and I’ll buy your lunch.” I popped some money in the meter and checked the time. I only had about 15 minutes before an appointment down the road. I had parked in front of a baby boutique where I had planned on running in and grabbing a growth chart for my grandson’s first birthday. Now I was traipsing down Broadway’s sidewalk with a homeless guy.

“So what’s your story? How did you become homeless?” I asked, trying to take the edge off my attempts at a conversational tone, but still hearing it as I hurriedly moved us toward the café.

“I’m a Vietnam vet,” he answered, like that answered the question, pulling some card out of his pocket. I gave it a glance, then looked at him.

“How does that make you homeless?” I kept on, curious, but sounding so insensitive. I couldn’t seem to stop it. “You don’t look much older than me. How old are you?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Four years younger than me!” I admit I was doing the math and wondering if that vet card was legit. The war was ending during my final years in college. Maybe he went to Vietnam toward the end of that mess. Oh, heck, what did it matter? I asked his name; he asked mine.

“Patricia? That’s my sister’s name! Patricia Johnson. We always called her PJ.” He seemed so delighted about all this. I stopped walking.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “My maiden name is Johnson, and I was always called PJ too.”

Sam was elated, saying he couldn’t believe it, slapping his knee like he had just found family. We entered the café and I pointed the menu out to him, suggesting he pick something out so I could pay for it and be on my way. His smile fizzled and he looked confused, not sure what to do, or what to order. Me and my god damn hurry. I think he thought we were going to have lunch together. And why not?

A waitress stopped by and suggested we have a seat. I pushed eight bucks in her hand and told her it was for Sam’s ham and cheese omelet and a tip. She surmised the situation and seemed to get the idea. I turned to leave. For all I knew I could be getting a ticket from Denver’s parking Nazis by this time. After all, I’d only put in a quarter.

Sam looked sad and reached out to hug me. It was a gentle hug, and very appropriate - this tall, black man in worn and dirty clothes, and this busy white woman dressed up in her clean clothes. His eyes teared up as he looked at me with utter kindness.

Why didn’t I stay? I rushed out, bought Robbie’s birthday gift, and made it to my appointment on time. I felt awful. What if I had sat down and talked with Sam during his lunch? Bought Robbie’s gift later, skipped my appointment, risked another parking ticket? He hadn’t been drinking, and had even acknowledged that he figured I was buying him lunch so he wouldn’t use the money on booze. But what he really seemed to want was company, someone like his sister to chat with. I missed an opportunity to slip out of life as I know it and get to know someone else’s story. Maybe understand humanity just a little bit better. I take time to watch ducks, for God's sake, why not take time for something like this?

Those of you who are teachers or parents, do you ever look at your students/children and wonder what they will be like as adults? Sometimes worry about the consequences of decisions you are seeing them make now and how those will manifest later? Often I look at adults like Sam and the bible lady at the park and wonder what they were like as children, and where their story went awry. (Of course I’ve come to understand there are those who have looked at me and thought the same thing.) Oh, if only we would really look at each other. Look closely. Slow down. Take time. Risk. Stop and listen.