She was four years younger than I was. There was a time when I borrowed lines from an old Bill Cosby routine, "I was an only child for four years. Then my sister came. I went to my parents, asking 'Why is she here? Haven't I been doing a good job?'"
That four year separation actually didn't start to bother me until Barbara was about six. A ten year old boy and a six year old girl do not make a good combination. Sparks flew constantly. For the life of me, I can only remember a couple of causes for our conflicts, but I do remember my parents "correcting" us often for fighting. I remember my mother trying to explain that we were closer to each other than even she was to us. (This was before we knew anything about genetics. The insight of mothers!)
My entire family has heard this first story. We were about 12 and 8 and responsible for drying the dishes after dinner. Mom would wash and hand the dishes over to us. Barbara, infuriatingly, would announce about two minutes into the chore "I have to go to the bathroom!" I was okay with it (I mean when you've gotta go you've gotta go, right?) at first, but then it would happen over and over and over again. I would complain and she would get this look on her face that was pure innocence. Not much later, she found a new distraction from the dishes. She would announce that she had to practice piano. Eventually, I lost what little patience I had. When she returned to the practically empty dish rack, I spun my sopping wet towel and popped her with it. It was perfect. It didn't leave a welt, it drew blood, and it also drew the most blood curdling scream from my sister. My parents, after seeing that Barbara wasn't dying, turned on me and said "Do that again and no allowance for a month!"
The second story is also familiar to my family. In 1962, we took our great western vacation. By that time, we had a three year old brother. Barbara turned 9 and I turned 13 on the trip. We were still not the best combination.
A year earlier, my parents had purchased a Pontiac Catalina convertible, which my father explained with "Everyone has to do something silly once in their life." Prior to the great western vacation, he had an "air conditioning" unit installed (this before a/c was a foregone conclusion in a car). Off we went to the west. (I might add, that about the time we hit Phoenix at 115 degrees, the air conditioning was beyond useless.)
It was a trip of about 5,000 miles, I guess, and while Disneyland, Royal Gorge, the Painted Desert, and Dodgers baseball were highlights that I remember, there was only one "low-light" that sticks with me even today. In school, Barbara had learned a charming little ditty called Little Red Caboose. It was a circular song that could go on even longer than 98 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, which has a self-limiting title. Barbara's song went like this:
Little red caboose
Little red caboose
Little red caboose behind the train
The train.
Now, you have to understand, at age 9 Barbara, like most girls, had a really high voice. For those musically inclined, she could reach double high c with no trouble. Truth be told, it sounded more like a cat fight than a musical note.
To complicate matters, she had then and always did have what we in the family referred to as the "piercing voice" or PV for short.
So put all of that together and listen to Little Red Caboose for, oh say, 5,000 miles and see what that does to your patience. I would complain which, of course, only encouraged her to sing more. When it reached the stage of all out argument, my parents relented and let me ride in the front, which carried with it only the tiniest bit of prestige and did nothing to dissuade Barbara from continuing the torture.
So, those are my two biggest childhood memories of my sister except for one. And I told you those two, so I could tell this one.
In the spring of 1962, Barbara was completing her first year of piano lessons, and I was completing my fifth year. Two events took place at the end of each "piano" year. A recital where all of the teacher's students played one piece before a capacity crowd of parents. It was pretty excruciating for the audience, who waited until their child played before getting out of Dodge. The pieces were played in order of years of experience, so that Barbara played earlier in the program and I played somewhat later, attrition having its effect on those continuing lessons. Need I say, we both played splendidly.
The other event at the end of the piano/school year was something called the Audition. In it, the student played, by him/her-self before a "judge"--someone uniquely qualified to endure something like the Bataan death march.
Now, each of my previous auditions resulted in a score of Superior--loosely translated "I got an A." The same held true for 1962.
Then Barbara walked in for her first ever audition and scored a Superior Plus. She did the same for the next three years that I continued to take piano lessons.
I was jealous. Not only did she not have my experience, never mind the dish-drying dodging that piano practice provided, but she did better than I did.
Given our relationship as described earlier, you might expect her to hold her performances over me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah. "I'm better than you!"
Didn't happen. She never compared the two of us.
As she grew older, her gift became more pronounced. She took lessons through high school, then obtained a music degree in college. She taught music in elementary school, she taught private lessons, she went on to know more about Catholic liturgy than just about anyone I know, she wrote music for worship, she was the principal organist at our diocesan cathedral, learned hand bells and led multiple hand bell choirs over the years.
She was the mother of two bright, talented children who have gone on to successful careers in business and youth services.
On the somber side, she and her husband buried their oldest child, a girl, who died at 20 months. They maintained an enviable amount of grace throughout the period. They were an inspiration to the rest of us who mourned with them.
She was married for 36 years to a man who brought out her funny side. She, her husband, and her children found so many ways to make the rest of the family and others laugh. At her funeral service, the sermon included a description of the entire family doing an imitation of bacon frying.
We also remember her ice skating across a hard wooden floor. She would remove her shoes and "skate" in her stockinged feet all around, pirouette a couple of times, then come to a perfectly posed end.
Since she was a little girl, she liked to mug for a camera. Barbara was just about as extroverted as a person can be.
It is difficult to capture a person's life in a few short paragraphs, especially one who has lived as Barbara lived, with vitality, good cheer, and an incredible desire to survive the illness which eventually claimed her.
God speed you on your way, Barbara. Have you taught the angels to play hand bells yet?
Written with love by your big brother.
My entire family has heard this first story. We were about 12 and 8 and responsible for drying the dishes after dinner. Mom would wash and hand the dishes over to us. Barbara, infuriatingly, would announce about two minutes into the chore "I have to go to the bathroom!" I was okay with it (I mean when you've gotta go you've gotta go, right?) at first, but then it would happen over and over and over again. I would complain and she would get this look on her face that was pure innocence. Not much later, she found a new distraction from the dishes. She would announce that she had to practice piano. Eventually, I lost what little patience I had. When she returned to the practically empty dish rack, I spun my sopping wet towel and popped her with it. It was perfect. It didn't leave a welt, it drew blood, and it also drew the most blood curdling scream from my sister. My parents, after seeing that Barbara wasn't dying, turned on me and said "Do that again and no allowance for a month!"
The second story is also familiar to my family. In 1962, we took our great western vacation. By that time, we had a three year old brother. Barbara turned 9 and I turned 13 on the trip. We were still not the best combination.
A year earlier, my parents had purchased a Pontiac Catalina convertible, which my father explained with "Everyone has to do something silly once in their life." Prior to the great western vacation, he had an "air conditioning" unit installed (this before a/c was a foregone conclusion in a car). Off we went to the west. (I might add, that about the time we hit Phoenix at 115 degrees, the air conditioning was beyond useless.)
It was a trip of about 5,000 miles, I guess, and while Disneyland, Royal Gorge, the Painted Desert, and Dodgers baseball were highlights that I remember, there was only one "low-light" that sticks with me even today. In school, Barbara had learned a charming little ditty called Little Red Caboose. It was a circular song that could go on even longer than 98 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, which has a self-limiting title. Barbara's song went like this:
Little red caboose
Little red caboose
Little red caboose behind the train
The train.
Now, you have to understand, at age 9 Barbara, like most girls, had a really high voice. For those musically inclined, she could reach double high c with no trouble. Truth be told, it sounded more like a cat fight than a musical note.
To complicate matters, she had then and always did have what we in the family referred to as the "piercing voice" or PV for short.
So put all of that together and listen to Little Red Caboose for, oh say, 5,000 miles and see what that does to your patience. I would complain which, of course, only encouraged her to sing more. When it reached the stage of all out argument, my parents relented and let me ride in the front, which carried with it only the tiniest bit of prestige and did nothing to dissuade Barbara from continuing the torture.
So, those are my two biggest childhood memories of my sister except for one. And I told you those two, so I could tell this one.
In the spring of 1962, Barbara was completing her first year of piano lessons, and I was completing my fifth year. Two events took place at the end of each "piano" year. A recital where all of the teacher's students played one piece before a capacity crowd of parents. It was pretty excruciating for the audience, who waited until their child played before getting out of Dodge. The pieces were played in order of years of experience, so that Barbara played earlier in the program and I played somewhat later, attrition having its effect on those continuing lessons. Need I say, we both played splendidly.
The other event at the end of the piano/school year was something called the Audition. In it, the student played, by him/her-self before a "judge"--someone uniquely qualified to endure something like the Bataan death march.
Now, each of my previous auditions resulted in a score of Superior--loosely translated "I got an A." The same held true for 1962.
Then Barbara walked in for her first ever audition and scored a Superior Plus. She did the same for the next three years that I continued to take piano lessons.
I was jealous. Not only did she not have my experience, never mind the dish-drying dodging that piano practice provided, but she did better than I did.
Given our relationship as described earlier, you might expect her to hold her performances over me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah. "I'm better than you!"
Didn't happen. She never compared the two of us.
As she grew older, her gift became more pronounced. She took lessons through high school, then obtained a music degree in college. She taught music in elementary school, she taught private lessons, she went on to know more about Catholic liturgy than just about anyone I know, she wrote music for worship, she was the principal organist at our diocesan cathedral, learned hand bells and led multiple hand bell choirs over the years.
She was the mother of two bright, talented children who have gone on to successful careers in business and youth services.
On the somber side, she and her husband buried their oldest child, a girl, who died at 20 months. They maintained an enviable amount of grace throughout the period. They were an inspiration to the rest of us who mourned with them.
She was married for 36 years to a man who brought out her funny side. She, her husband, and her children found so many ways to make the rest of the family and others laugh. At her funeral service, the sermon included a description of the entire family doing an imitation of bacon frying.
We also remember her ice skating across a hard wooden floor. She would remove her shoes and "skate" in her stockinged feet all around, pirouette a couple of times, then come to a perfectly posed end.
Since she was a little girl, she liked to mug for a camera. Barbara was just about as extroverted as a person can be.
It is difficult to capture a person's life in a few short paragraphs, especially one who has lived as Barbara lived, with vitality, good cheer, and an incredible desire to survive the illness which eventually claimed her.
God speed you on your way, Barbara. Have you taught the angels to play hand bells yet?
Written with love by your big brother.
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