Money, or lack thereof, was an issue in my childhood.
There were six kids to feed on one income. And although my father was an excellent salesman who set records peddling Fuller Brush products door-to-door, one day he just couldn’t do it anymore. He’d reached his limit on slammed front doors and retreated behind his own.
It took a while before he discovered he was just as talented at selling lake lots, where the customers came to you. After he started the new gig, he brought home a variable, but good enough, income for the rest of his working life.
In between, though, our pennies were squeezed so tight they were calling the 1960s version of 911 for help. It was long after the Depression, but my family was plenty depressed.
We were never hungry, but even that must have been hard to manage. Thinking about it now, I imagine there was a long-standing overdraw, and a large measure of compassion, at the market where we got our groceries.
We were the kids with holes in our shoes, and one pair of socks apiece among our handed-down clothes. I’ll never forget the day my band director took me aside to tell me my family had to make a payment on my cornet, or I’d have to give it back.
So, I was poor, and I felt it. But I was also exceptionally rich in another way, which I also felt to my core. I had sisters – three of them.
First was Kathy, the matriarchal figure who helped our mother manage the herd. Our mother died in 2009, but Kathy will always be our second mom.
I was next in the sister line, a middle child who liked to play the tomboy, duck chores and protect my siblings however I could.
Janice followed, the classic servant. She’s the one today who makes sure we stay in touch and gets us all together in a timely way, not only the girls, but also our brother, Ken, who is a boy, for sure, but a good one.
Coleen was the baby sister, beloved by all. She died two years ago and remains a daily presence in our hearts.
We added Valerie to the sister mix when she married my late brother, Terry. She had no straight-up sister of her own, but quickly became the sister we didn’t know we were missing.
I always felt my sisters were friends with a bonus. They share my history, understand me like nobody else can, and will always love me no matter what.
That’s why I had such a tough time when my youngest child – a daughter preceded by two sons – plaintively asked why my husband and I wouldn’t give her a sister.
I knew Joanna was missing something of value, irreplaceable in my own life, but I also knew there would not be a fourth child.
Oddly, two other of my siblings produced families with multiple boys and only one girl. First cousins can be sisterly, all the parents pointed out.
Plus, I told my own daughter she was lucky because she would get all the girl attention in our family, without struggling for it. Competition can get in the way, and sisters don’t always get along, I added.
History backs me up.
Did you know the Andrews Sisters (the original “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” trio) were estranged for decades because of jealousy and inheritance issues?
Actors Joan Fontaine and Olivia de Havilland never got over the bitter sibling rivalry encouraged by their mother. Somebody should write a book about it with lots of steamy details. (Actually, Charles Higham did in 1984).
Going even further back, to the 16th century, sisters Mary and Anne Boleyn didn’t stay friendly after first one and then the other slept with King Henry VIII. Anne famously lost her head over the whole thing, but somehow, Mary kept hers, dying of natural causes in 1543.
Though I think I should have gone out for the debate team in high school, my daughter remained unconvinced.
Fate had a pleasant surprise in store, though. Joanna now has two children of her own, ages 6 and 4. Sisters! She is giving her kids the gift she coveted.
And those girls love each other deeply, when you trouble to look beyond the scratches, tooth bites, bruises and smashed fingers that (sometimes) occur between young siblings.
There’s competition, too, just as I predicted all those years ago.
During a babysitting gig a few months ago, younger Lyra was trying to tell me why she was superior to her big sister.
“My poop is bigger than Margo’s,” she confided.
I fought with and competed with my sisters, too, but I wouldn’t give up having them for anything in the world. I bet billions of other sisters feel the same.
Despite our years of poverty, I came into adulthood with pride in my father. He persevered through difficult times to create financial security. By the time of his death, he owned his home, his vehicle and left behind no debt. All six of his children completed college and five of six earned advanced degrees (I was the odd woman out with only a bachelor’s degree).
And I’ll always appreciate a priceless gift from my upbringing – sisters.