God Help the Confederates - Diann's Coming

Diann, before she discovered Harley Davidsons

This week my sister Diann is on a vacation. She and four other women have hopped on their motorcycles and are driving to South Carolina for sight seeing, reveling, relaxing, and bike riding. I might add here that my sister is over 50.

Ever since learning about her trip, I have found myself worrying like a mother hen. I didn't tell her of my concerns, but I noticed my level of anxiety increasing daily up to the morning she left. What's worse is she didn't even call to say goodbye! Oh all right, it is true her biker buddies rode in Friday night and she had a house full of company, but geez! I am her big sister and she could have called to reassure me she was well prepared and didn't forget anything like her toothbrush and hand gun.. But noooooo, she chose to hang out with them and ignore my worries.

Now, Diann has gone on vacations before, traveling to Brazil on numerous occasions, all by herself. But this time it is different. She is on a Harley. All kinds of things could happen. Why, a bug could fly in her mouth and she could choke to death! Or maybe she and her friends stop somewhere in the mountains to get a drink and take a rest. Banjo music flows out of the hills, a familiar tune.  Dada da da da da da da da. A guitar answers. Oh god.

Of course Diann researched the political climate and informed me how dangerous it will be for five liberal women on motorcycles. After all, everyone down there will know they are liberals just by looking at them. I have seen Diann on Facebook. I know how she gets when a conservative says something stupid. God help the Confederates.

Since being involved in a motorcycle accident when I was a teenager, I have only rode on a motorcycle once. I will never ride one again. There are too many things that can go wrong, none of them under my control. And the consequences can be very bad. I know what it feels like to have asphalt cut out of my skin. I know what road rash feels like. I know what body trauma feels like. No thanks. If I need to feel the wind in my hair and the exhilaration of speed, I will take my six year old Jeep Liberty out on I-96 and put the pedal to the metal. I will role down my window and stick my head out. Need filled. And I will live to tell about it.

I remember Diann's driving habits when she was a teenager and they haven't changed much. She likes to go fast. Blame it on my Dad, who got us into hydroplane races when we were wee ones, graduated us to snowmobile racing in our teen years. Blame it on my Mom's beautiful, sleek Firebird, which ran like the wind. Or the very fast mini-bike we used to race up and down the street. The need for speed is in our blood. A dangerous thing when you are on a Harley.

I have tried calling Diann several times and her phone goes directly to voice mail. Is she in jail already, having punched a white ultra conservative Baptist with a southern drawl in some greasy diner because he made a disparaging comment about President Obama?

My hunch is Diann is having the time of her life, being with friends and motorcycles, exploring a brand new land and learning all she can about the people there, particularly those less fortunate. That is how my sister is. She used to tell me that her family would drive to Chicago and go to the slums, so that they could see for themselves the poverty they had heard about. She did the same thing in Brazil. She has a big heart.

I think I am worried about my sister this time because we have become so close over the past few years. She is my biggest fan, always has my back, keeps me entertained, and is one of the greatest inspirations in my life. We didn't always get along, but today we are the best of friends. I hope she is laughing with her buddies, bitching about the conservatives, eating southern cooking (the best!), absorbing the beauty of the Smokey Mountains, and learning many new things so she can come home and share her stories with us.

But until then, I will keep dialing.

Dutchy and Me

If anyone would have told me in high school that my sister Diann would grow up to be one of my very best friends, I would have thought they smoked too much weed. Should our relationship have had a place in the year book, it would have be named "least likely to succeed".

Thank goodness we matured.

Let's go back to her first year. That would be 1960, when the Belgium Congo won independence and JFK was elected President of the United States of America. It was also the year Diann Lynn Barton, nicknamed Dutchy, was born.

I could not wait for my sister to arrive, and arrive she did. My Dad was a police officer then and my new sister came home with sirens blazing. Seems fitting - she still arrives with sirens blazing. This little bundle of fire came roaring into the world and she hasn't stopped yet.

Dutchy and me. A long time ago.

Growing up, our energies often clashed and we fought like cats and dogs. I have always been a pretty laid back kind of gal and Dutchy has always been a pretty excitable kind of gal, so you can imagine two teenage sisters crashing into each other at every turn.

But age has a way of making folks appreciate one another more, and I know that today this woman is one of the most important people in my life.

I wish everyone had someone in their life who believed in them 100% like I do. No matter what, Dutchy is there for me, cheering me on, helping me get through tough times, celebrating the good times, remembering the old times. And I am there for her. That is what sisters are all about.

One of the most special things about our relationship is our exploration of life's complexities and our shared interest in politics. We could talk for hours about the world's problems and have all the solutions. "Did you see Rachel Maddow last night?" I would ask. "Yes, those #$sholes!", Dutchy would spout.  "I know it!" "Can you believe those Republicans?" And on and on we go. "Ok, let's not watch any news for a week, alright?" I say. "We are getting too sour on life."  "Yeah, you're right", Dutch would say. She always says I am right. Even when I am not. She loves her big sister.

If ever I was asked who has the biggest heart in the world, I would vote for Diann. Never have I seen someone care so much for their friends, family, Unions, American made everything, and justice. She has blossomed as an intellectual, spending considerable time educating herself on the issues of the day. She doesn't just sop up whatever the media spouts to her, she researches things to find out the truth. Doesn't surprise me one bit. Diann was found to have the IQ of a genius when she was young. But she would never tell you that.

I consider myself one of the luckiest people on earth to be a sister to this incredible woman. She inspires me everyday of my life, and I can only hope to be like her when, and if, I ever grow up.

My Little Sister

Little Kathee and me in the Smokey Mountains, circa early 1980s.

I am the oldest of three girls born into our family. I have two wonderful sisters and although we all fell from the same apple tree, one bite and you know you have a Granny Smith, a Northern Spy, and a Gala. What is similar is that we all have the same core (issues, that is). I suppose that is true for all siblings.

When we were young, I dutifully took on the role of big sister - bossing them around, playing practical jokes, ignoring them, doting on them, but always protecting them. It was my youngest sister Kathee that got the worst from me, although Diann would bet her first born that it was SHE who suffered the most.

Little Kathee was a happy child, always smiling with her bright brown eyes. I vividly remember her going through that stage when every sentence leaving her cute little mouth was "What's that?" "What's that?" What's THAT?"  She talked all the time and seemed to have an abundance of spit, thus penny-sized bubbles would appear as she babbled on. For awhile, Little Kathee was known as Bubbles.

I remember a time when Little Kathee was taking a bath. Enter big sister with a full box of Mr. Bubble. I poured the whole box in the tub and shut the sliding shower doors, just to see what would happen. Before long, blood curdling screams came racing out of the bathroom and swooshed out the front door into the neighborhood. I ran in and found the bubbles pouring over the top of the shower doors, with my little sister trapped inside a cloud of iridescent globes, crying and sputtering. Ok, not so funny.

Kathee's high school graduation, Edwardsburg, Michigan

Then there was the time she and I were down at my fort in the field behind our house. I had been practicing spear throwing and wanted to show off my new skill.  "Watch this!" I said, as I threw the sharp-pointed stick carefully aimed at a spot right between her two bare feet. "Aaaahhhhhhh!!!!!" she yelled, as the spear bounced off the top of her right foot.  Blood began to pour from the hole I had just created. I ran to my rustic bathroom under the pin cherry tree and grabbed a roll of toilet paper that was stuck on a broken branch.  "Here, press this onto your foot and hold it there!" I instructed. I picked my sister up, she holding the bloody toilet paper roll on her bleeding foot, and me struggling to carry her up the hill to our house. By the time we got to the backyard, the neighbors had heard her yelling and came running. "Did she get bit by a snake?" someone hollered, as everyone around believed the water snakes that lived in the swamp were actually poisonous cottonmouths. "Uh, no" I replied. "I speared her."

"YOU WHAAAAAAT?" my mother said. Little Kathee was whisked away to the local doc for stitches.  I felt real bad.

It didn't end there. Poor Kath. One of my favorite toys was my Creepy Crawlers kit. It had a square metal heating unit that held a metal mold which you filled with some unknown and probably toxic colorful substance. I would plug in the unit and watch the liquid turn into rubber worms, bugs, and troll heads. God that was cool.  Little Kathee didn't think so. She was scared to death of those worms. She should have kept that to herself. One night, I put a large number of Creepy Crawlers into Little Kathee's bed. I'll let your imagination do the rest...

Then, all of a sudden, we grew up.

My hero.

For most of our adult lives we have lived many miles apart, she in Texas and me in Michigan. I have not been able to watch over her like I did when she was so small. Not that I should, but that is the natural instinct of a big sister. Little Kathee has faced many challenges in life since then, challenges that no one should have to go through, yet she has faced every single one with honor and dignity. No matter what life deals her, she always looks for the bright side of things, caring for others in her life, reaching out a helping hand to those in need. As many women do, she is redefining herself as she approaches the wise age of 50, and she is an inspiration to all around her. I can't help it, but when I look into her bright brown eyes, I still see that cheerful, innocent little girl. I imagine I always will.

I am proud of my little sister and who she has become. And I attribute some of her resiliancy to the early training she received from her big sister all those years ago.

The Reading of the Blog

Diann, Kathee, and me.

Every morning my sister Diann reads my blog to me over the telephone. The blog doesn't take its first breath until the moment Diann gives me her impression. She is either laughing hysterically, wiping a tear, saying "That's nice, Barb. That's a good one", or checking her Facebook page immediately after speaking the last word. It is the latter reaction that I worry about. When I started this blog, I had no idea that it would deepen our connection the way it has. If I don't talk to her everyday, it feels like something is missing from my life.

I love sharing the stories of my youth and my family, especially when my sisters or Aunt Bonnie (who reads from Facebook) remember these times with me. It is a family reunion from afar.

ANOTHER Easter photograph.

Even my youngest sister Kathee, who lives in Texas, is a faithful reader and although we don't talk every day, I feel a connection with her through the blog. I know she is reading every word, remembering our Grandparents, Edwardsburg, and so much more right along with me.

The downside of this is that there are some topics I do not write about, for fear of offending or hurting or downright pissing them off. You ain't never seen a hornet's nest like the one my sisters can whip up! It is an eternal dilemma of the writer...you can say anything about yourself but you had better tread lightly when it comes to those who know you.

And ANOTHER Easter photograph.

A great example of this is a very funny story about my nephew Archie (his name is changed to protect the guilty). I could never tell the world about the time I told him to go pee between some cars when he was very little, and he did just that. Except he peed his pants. I imagine if I told the whole story right here in this blog, he would jump in his Mopar and drive all the way from Indianapolis to wring my neck. Woops, did I just give away his identity? Sorry Archie!

I never dreamed that a simple exercise in daily musings would bring me such joy in connecting with my sisters. I sure love them. The sisters, I mean.

Tales from Edwardsburg - The Pig Farmer and the Crypt

A stock photo of an old crypt.

Back behind a house I once lived in was an old field. And in that old field were my fort, a field, a creek, and a well-worn trail winding through the woods into the cemetery.  This old cemetery sat on high ground, with steep slopes on its edges worn by erosion and curious kids.  The cemetery introduced itself to travelers on this particular trail by presenting a mysterious crypt, guarded by rusty, heavy metal doors that creaked when opened.   I remember the first time I discovered that crypt.  With only the light of the sun shining through the cracked doorway, I peered inside.  There were steel beams arranged in racks, a dirt floor, and ceiling and walls dotted with inscriptions from previous explorers.  I gathered my courage and entered, mesmerized by what I was sure was the archaeological discovery of the century.  The smell of cool damp soil and aging metal filled my nostrils.  What was this place?  The signatures on the walls and ceiling dated back over 50 years.  I was in heaven.

It was during this time my middle sister was dating the son of a pig farmer, let’s call him Bobby B.  Bobby B. had red hair, freckles, was a bit stocky, and wore bib overalls as standard garb.  He was also what one might call full of machismo. 

One day I decided to assist Bobby B. in getting in touch with his feminine side.  I told him of this dark, scary crypt that I had discovered but was too afraid to enter.  Would he go and protect me?  “Of course”, he said in a manly sort of way.  The date was set for that Friday night. In the dark, of course.

Friday afternoon I hopped on my bike and rode to the town’s only grocery store to spend my Tastee Freeze earnings on several packages of raw liver and fishing line.  I then road back across town to my street, and peddled my bike into the cemetery using the proper entrance.  I ditched my bike next to the old tombstone with the angel on top, and slid down the hill to the entrance of the crypt.  Carefully I removed the liver from its packaging and threaded several strands of fishing line through the juiciest pieces.  Slowly and deliberately I began to make my way around the crypt, strategically placing chunks of cold organ on ledges where one would be mostly likely to place an unsuspecting hand.  I hung liver décor in areas sure to draw attention.  It was a masterpiece.

Later that night, me, Bobby B., my sister, and a few other friends gathered at our home on Hamilton Street, readying ourselves for the trip.  Flashlights? Check.  Candy bars? Check. Cans of pop? Check.  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked the group, fabulously feigning fright.  Bobby B. assured us there was nothing to fear as long as he was with us.

We started down the trail, five lanky teens and Bobby B., with beams of light bouncing off tall grasses and trees.  “Are you guys sure you want to do this?” I again asked, this time exuding so much fear I almost had myself convinced.  “Aw come on you chickens!” said the pig farmer’s son.  “Only if you go first Bobby B.” I said.   So he did.

Old green flower pots with faded plastic flowers began to appear, signaling that we were getting close to the crypt.  Bobby B. began to slow.  “What’s the matter Bobby B.?” I asked?  “Nothing!” he sort of bravely shouted.  “It’s in there, behind that old rusty door” I said.  “What was this place for?” someone asked.  “I was told this is where they stored dead bodies in the winter, when the ground was too frozen to dig.  That is why there are racks in there, they piled up the caskets all the way to the ceiling” I informed them.  Bobby B.’s expression began to change. Was that worry?  Fear?

“Go on Bobby B., you go in first”.

Bobby B. slowly opened the door, its rusty hinges adding to the ambience of the evening.  He entered the musty room and began to make his way around the crypt, the others followed.  Except me.  Soon I heard a scream, no a squeal, no maybe it was best described as a squeam.  Then, a great commotion ensued and Bobby B. burst through the doorway of the old crypt screaming better than a girl.  I never knew someone could run so fast in bib overalls.  I laughed in hysterics as Bobby B. disappeared down the trail, still emitting sounds of great terror.  Close behind were the rest of kids.  Me?  I sat down and laughed so hard I cried.

Bobby B. never dated my sister again. I hope she forgives me.