My little sister was 7 years younger than me and spent her life trying to get me into trouble, so needless to say we didn’t get along when we were living at home. All she had to do was tell mom or dad that I had done something to her and I got a spanking or was grounded for hurting that baby.
Sometimes she would sneak into my dressing table drawer when I was at school or at the Soda fountain and get out one of my stretchy head bands that matched my sweater outfits. She would put the head band on and wear it around until just before I came home from work.
Then she would put it back in the drawer and I had no idea she had messed with them until I put one on the next time. Her head was a lot bigger around than mine even then and when I put the headband on it would immediately fall down onto my nose.
I would scream at the top of my lungs and start after her, but mom would always take her side.
I would tell mom what she had done and then the saying that always made my blood boil would come falling out of mom’s mouth, “Now that baby wouldn’t do a thing like that, you shouldn’t hit that baby.”
When my sister said her first cuss word, I got the spanking because that baby must have heard it from me. Even though I knew better than to use those words because I would have been spanked or had my mouth washed out with soap.
When I was left in charge of my sister after school, because mom was working at the Soda fountain, and I told her to do something she would always say, “You are not my mother and I don’t have to do what you tell me.”
“Yes you do, because mom is not here,” I would say and then the fight was on. But she rarely listened to me.
One day as we walked home from school she had a paper rolled up and was looking through it like it was a telescope. “Put that down and quit looking through that while you are walking” I told her. “You are not my mother and I don’t have to,” was the response and she continued to look through it as we walked down the sidewalk.
As we walked into our front yard she found out why she shouldn’t look through the paper tube while walking. My dad had built a three tiered flower bed out of corrugated aluminum sheets. Each tier was about 8 inches high and they got progressively smaller as they went up and it was about 3 or 4 tiers high. (What ever possessed him to think that was beautiful I will never know.)
As we crossed the yard I went on ahead and she was still looking through the paper tube. She proceeded to fall over the lower level of the flower garden. Her shin hit the aluminum and it laid her shin open in a 3 inch gash probably all the way to the bone. She began to scream and cry and the blood began to flow.
Mom was at work and I was alone with this screaming child, who would not listen to me. I ran to the neighbors and they weren’t there. Then back to the other side and finally found someone at home to help me.
I believe she probably should have had some stitches, but no one went for stitches then unless the limb was about to fall off. Of course when mom and dad got home it was my fault she had been hurt even though I told them I had warned her several times about looking through the rolled up paper. She had this look of glee on her face and I believe it was all worth the pain at that moment to see me in trouble again.
Starting in the seventh grade and all through high school, it was my job to make the desserts for each evening meal. I would make a wide variety of desserts including cakes and brownies; both blonde with chocolate chip or chocolate, and my dad’s favorite cake; buttermilk chocolate.
I loved to lick the bowl when I was making dessert or cookies. I would rather have eaten the dough than the finished product. Of course here was a chance for another argument with my sister, that I nicknamed the Brat.
I thought since I was doing all the work and making the dessert that I should be able to lick the bowl. My sister had other ideas and my mother agreed with her.
When it became a continuous argument my mom said that every other time she got to lick the bowl. This really made me mad after a couple of times of watching her gleefully lick my brownie bowl.
One evening with every bite of the dough she shot me a smug look as if to say, see I won again. Right then I decided that I had to do something to get even and I plotted for the next time it was her turn to lick the bowl.
From that time on, when it was my turn to lick the bowl, and especially if it was the blonde brownies, I left a lot of the dough in the bowl. When it was THE BRAT’S turn to lick the bowl I would really scrape it and it would be almost clean when I handed it to her.
Then I would chuckle under my breath as she tried to find something to scrape out of the bowl. This was my way to zing her and get even without getting in trouble.
I don’t know if mom knew what I was doing, but I am sure my sister did but was unable to say anything since she had been given the bowl. Just one more little battle growing up, but I got even when it was my turn to lick the bowl. To contact Sandy: firstname.lastname@example.org