My sister was 15 when I was born, almost old enough to be my mom. I have always been extremely fond of my sister. She was like a mother to me, babysitting me, playing toy soldiers with me, and exposing me to the world outside my rather sheltered environment at home. My sister took me to museums, concerts, and plays. She introduced me to art and music and filled my world with possibilities. She sat next to me when she took me to see The Nutcracker, the first play I ever saw. She sat next to me when she took me to see The Who, my first rock concert. As weird as it sounds, my sister was sitting next to me on the second date I had with my wife… I had an extra ticket to see Stan Ridgway and shared it with my new date. My sister and my best pal Lou were my originally intended guests. There has been no one in my life more influential or wonderful than my sister.
When I was about six years old, my sister met the love of her life, and ended up getting pregnant. This happy event thew our parents into a hissy fit and caused them to make the stupidest decision of their lives. They disowned my sister and for many years I was not able to see or visit with her. This, in my view, was the lowest point in our family history. How two relatively intelligent people could make such an idiotic decision still baffles me to this day. Fortunately, time healed a lot of this rift, and ironically it was my sister who held both my parents’ hands as they gasped for air in the last moments of their lives. If their God was really there to greet them on the other side of the thin vail, in the immortal words of Desi Arnaz, they certainly had “some ‘splaining” to do.