In the world of sisters, there are joys – there are frustrations. There are happy moments – there are moments that make you want to pull your hair out. We’ve got too many of them – we don’t have enough of them. Sisterhood is full of amazing and diverse moments. In Celebration of Sisters is a new anthology with stories and poems from over forty writers reflecting on the fascinating world of sisterhood.
To give you a taste of what’s included in In Celebration of Sisters, here’s my own story – Not Two Peas in a Pod. I’d love to share more with you, but we only purchased first, one-time rights from the other authors, so in fairness to them, I’m not free to share them here. Here’s a bit about my sister – the many differences between us, yet we find as we get older, we’re not all that different after all.
Not Two Peas in a Pod
“You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you.”
George R.R. Martin
As different as night and day.
Just like two peas in a pod.
Both are clichés, which writers are advised not to use. Yet, one of the phrases describes my sister and me perfectly. I’ll give you a hint—it’s not the one that references a green vegetable.
Our lives growing up were rife with differences.
I was fair. She was dark.
I was quiet. She was—not.
I liked dogs. She liked cats.
I was afraid to talk to boys. She always had a string of admirers.
I lived with my nose in a book and loved school. She was smart, but she found school, especially the tests, more of a challenge.
I was the older sister, but more timid in nature. She, the youngest of three, with a brother sandwiched between us, learned early on how to bat those eyes and quiver that lower lip to get her way.
I had one friend at a time. She had a neighborhood full of friends.
Healthy vegetables of a certain color are only one of many differences between the two of us. I could live on them, especially the green ones. My sis? Not even. As few veggies as possible pass her lips. She may have an occasional salad. Maybe. Sometimes a helping of corn. But if the doctor told her she couldn’t eat another vegetable again, she’d be ecstatic with his verdict.
My favorite long-ago story is from when she was a little tyke. She was very young and I was just three years older, so neither of us truly remember the incident. We only know the tale from the family stories that get repeated through the years.
In those days (not quite back to the dinosaur era, but our children may claim differently), children were expected to eat what was put in front of them. The story opens with Sue (Susie back then) sitting at the kitchen table having a stare down with a noxious green vegetable she refused to eat.
Dad insisted. “Eat your peas.”
She plainly stated her refusal. “I ‘frow up.”
Dad, in his fatherly authority, persisted. “You will not. You will eat them.”
Sue finally complied. And then, promptly stood up and did as she’d promised.
Our birthday parties differed vastly, too. My parties were smaller events, with only a few friends, but Sue’s parties were quite different. I recall one of her birthdays when she was in fifth or sixth grade. This is one that our mother likes to bring up, now and then, to tease Sue about. Picture a garage full of grade school children standing around, packed elbow to elbow. In trying to keep the party manageable, and keep expenses lower, Mom made ten invitations for Sue to pass out to friends.
That created a situation for the young socialite. She had more than ten friends. So even though her invitations ran out, she kept inviting friends anyway. Fortunately for Mom, Sue shared this news with her before the day of the party. I can guarantee she was batting those big brown eyes furiously while she shared her dilemma about why she had to keep inviting people.
More than once well-meaning, but nosey, acquaintances asked Mom if Sue was adopted. Mom had the stretch marks and labor memories to prove otherwise.
As we grew up, our relationship changed. Not immediately. Certainly not as I entered High School and she was still in Junior High.
One year during this period, we lived in Arkansas and shared a bedroom. I spent a lot of time reading. As I laid on my bed engrossed in my book, Sue laid on her bed, across the room, surrounded by a small army of stuffed animals. Bored, she launched one at me. Then another. And another. One at a time, she kept it up, enjoying every moment, relishing every fling of her ammunition. She laughed as she watched the steam build behind my ears until I got so angry I grabbed my book and stomped out of the room.
Time passed. We ended up with a common adversary. We were back in California, and our brother, Butch, decided that he was our boss. He vowed to protect us—especially from the young boys in the neighborhood that began to hang around. He spied on us from the upstairs balcony—when he wasn’t annoying us by walking by and mussing the top of our hair.
Sue and I banded together and started to grow closer. At least at home. Definitely not at High School, where I was an upperclassman, and she was just a young pup freshman.
We still had a lot of differences. I took all the Home Economics classes I could and loved every one of them. I learned to sew. Mom taught me how to knit and crochet. Meanwhile, Sue’s favorite method of hemming pants involved either a stapler or a roll of Scotch tape.
Gradually, year by year, we moved from a sister-only status to sisters and friends. Those differences between us seemed less important the older we got.
When Sue married and entered the motherhood game first, our roles flipped. She, now enjoying her moment in the older sister role, began to save toys and clothes from her two boys for my two younger ones.
Along the way, I became more confident and more social. Sue became—well, no, she didn’t become quieter. Never mind. I won’t go that far.
Once her children, now four in number, were older, she returned to school and got her college degree. She discovered she was smart. She could take tests and excel at school.
We’re still not two peas in a pod. But, through the years, we’ve discovered we truly are friends—not just sisters. We’ve learned that we do have one major thing in common. We share a heart. We come from the same roots, but we’re just two different plants growing in the same pot. We hold each other up, comfort and encourage each other, talk, and laugh. Together as sisters, we experience the trials and the joys of this earthly life together. I wouldn’t trade her in for all the gold on the planet.
Thank you for stopping by and reading this tale of two sisters. You can check out In Celebration of Sisters here:
Amazon Link for In Celebration of Sisters: https://www.amazon.com/dp/154828212X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1510619064&sr=8-1&keywords=In+Celebration+of+Sisters
Trisha Faye 