Char's Gift

It was never meant to be competitive between my sister and me. But it was. Maybe because she was 3 years older, setting a torrid pace and me wanting to keep up with her. Maybe it was because she was a girl, and me, as an adolescent boy, was not going to let a girl get the better of me. I finally came to realize it was not the pace, nor her being the other sex that troubled me, rather it was her success rate at everything she did. However, my struggle to keep pace and succeed finally won out. How, and what eventually happened, was my sister’s gift to me.

The fifties were filled with promises as I negotiated my way through elementary school. My summers were filled with days playing sports. It was often possible to play tackle football in the morning and basketball in the afternoon. Even after dinner I could pedal my Schwinn to a nearby park and play in a pick-up baseball game. It was still light until 8:30 pm, enough time to get in at least seven innings. Although I loved all sports, I considered myself best at basketball.

I was ten years old when my life changed unexpectedly for the worse. It seemed as if it was just yesterday, not seventy years ago. I remember I was playing by myself in the backyard shooting hoops, making baskets from all angles. Without warning my sister, Charlene, came walking out the back door of the house. I hesitated, staring intently at her with the ball clutched tightly in my hands. She sauntered over to me with a smug look on her face.

“Want to play a game, one on one?” she asked.

I smiled. It wasn’t one of those smiles I exhibit when trying to be cordial to someone. It was more of “I am going to wipe the court with you”.

“Sure,” I confidently exclaimed. “We will play to ten points, one point per basket made. Winner takes the ball out.”

Char nodded her head in agreement. She puzzled me. I expected her to object and wanted to add her own rules. My next thought was this is going to be easier than I thought. But the look she gave me showed another side of her. My sister had a game face! I dribbled the ball left, made a few moves to fake her out and drove to the basket, making a layup.

“One to zero,” I yelled out proudly, turning to look at my sister. She smiled without saying a word.

My next drive to the basket was disastrous. Not only did Char steal the ball from me she drained a shot from fifteen feet! At first, I thought it was just a lucky shot, but she followed up with several more goals. Final score: Char 10, me 3. How humiliating, beaten at my own game by a girl, my sister!

As she walked to the back door, I yelled out, “Wait, how about another game?”

Without turning her head, she retorted, “Don’t be a spaz, Ronnie,” as the door slammed shut behind her

And so, the competition began. I was in for a rude awakening in all the ways I tried to best her. When I think back to those days, I really was no match for this super girl. My parents added insult to injury with statements like you need to be more like your sister.

I was at a loss in every way imaginable. Char got straight A’s in school; she was at the top of her class. She was a standout on her high school volleyball and basketball teams. She could sew, knit, and even made her own clothes! Char wrote stories and created sketches that won awards at the county fair year after year. Her singing was pitch perfect. She even taught herself to play the piano. But there’s more: she was physically beautiful as well. Her blonde hair and blue eyes captured the hearts of many boys during her high school years. She was tall for her age and could have easily been a model. Because of her beauty, my dad was overly protective of her—she had strict curfews and limited as to what she could wear on a date. My mom supported my dad’s dictates. Of course, I took great joy in reveling in the frustrations Char felt with our parents’ over-bearing rules.

But something seemed to have happened when I turned thirteen years old. I matched my sister’s grades almost every semester. I was becoming a standout in sports, even voted best athlete at my elementary school. Mom taught me how to mend my clothes. I took piano lessons and became quite accomplished playing classical music. And even with all this, I was falling further behind in competing with my sister. Then, one night, riding my bike home from a baseball game, it dawned on me. I braked my bike, laid it down while I found a place on the curb to sit. My head was filled with so much anxiety about my competitive nature. At the same time my feelings seemed to be maturing about Char. It all began to make sense. She was not the competition! I stood up and started walking the gutter of the street. I remember stopping abruptly, realizing my sister never was the competition! She was my role model. I owed her more than I wanted to admit.

The years since then have advanced at a quickening pace. Char and I had gone our separate ways. I kept in touch with her from time to time, but not often enough. My successes continued well into my middle-age years. Char was not as fortunate. She had married a man who restricted her life in many ways and stifled much of her creativity and drive.

Our mother had died in 2007. Char was unable to attend the memorial, but we had a chance to talk on the phone. We shared some fond memories, we laughed, and we reminisced about how helpful our mom was in our lives. I was searching for the right words to tell my sister how grateful I was for all she had done for me. I wanted to tell her how proud of her and all her accomplishments.

Then, finally, after a long pause, I blurted out, “Thank you.”

For a moment there was silence, then she retorted, “Why are you thanking me?”

“For being such a good sister to me.”

“Don’t be such a spaz, Ronnie.”