By Lorry Myers
The few times my parents went out, they put my two older sisters in charge. Those nights, it was like growing up in the Wild West, you had to fend for yourself. If the four younger ones they were babysitting got in their way, my sisters would tie us up with tea towels and put us in the bathtub. The wicked sisters also seemed to think that flashing those talons they had for fingernails would scare us into behaving.
Growing up with siblings, you have to be tough.
Still, all these years later, it is my brothers and sisters that I call with good news and with bad. These people check on me, include me, and fuss at me if I need it. Our wild west days created a solid bond woven by the stories that we share.
We are brothers and sisters forever.
I thought about all of that during those moments in my own children’s childhood where I thought they wouldn’t make it to adulthood. Taylor would put his sisters in a four-figure headlock and their shrieks would echo off the walls. Hilary would tease Taylor about girls and he would chase her around the house, taking screams to a new level. Then, both would gang up on their little sister and call her pet cat a dog, or tell her glue was made from horses. I can still hear Mariah’s wails, which delighted her brother and sister.
I remember those wild west days, too.
Miraculously enough, my children grew up to have each other’s back. They call one another for their opinion, or their help, or to talk about their mother, who they believe, is a handful. My children moved on and moved away, and then gave up their city lives to move back to their hometown, minutes away from each other and me. Taylor spoils his sister’s children, and Hilary and Mariah count on their brother for the unconditional support he offers. Mariah needs Hilary, Hilary needs Mariah, and both of them need Taylor.
How did that happen?
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
