The first five years of my life were idyllic… I was an only child. I should have suspected that it was too good to last, but five-year-olds don't think that way.
I can remember the days shortly before my sister was born; I suppose her entry into the world is my first vivid memory. My mother was still in the hospital with the new addition to the family and my dad and I were visiting a friend who had a recorder; it made recordings on those old, breakable, seventy-eight RPM disks. I hadn't seen the new baby yet, but I knew that it was a girl. This friend, who we called “Aunt Sugar”, wasn't really our aunt, but she and her husband “Uncle Bunny” (they had some strange nicknames in those times) were very close friends of my parents, but I digress.
Aunt Sugar turned the recorder on and my dad and I spoke of the new baby who was, at that time, still nameless. He said something like “We'll be bringing your new sister home tomorrow, what do you think of that?”; I recall saying. “We'll love her, w-w-w-won't we Daddy?” (I stammered when I was young). Needless to say, we did love her, and I still do. I used to ask Aunt Sugar to play that recording every time we visited.
I was given the honor of choosing a name for the new baby, and I remembered the name of an older cousin’s cousin (not our common relative) that I liked really well. That’s how my sister came to be named Mary Jane, a name that she doesn't particularly like; she prefers Jane. I should have named her Knuckles.
We were relatively close as kids so it came as no surprise when she refused to stay alone in class on her first day in Saint Ambrose parochial school. The nun, Sister Pierre - a saint if ever there was one - suggested, after a suitable time, that my mother go home, and that I be called out of the sixth grade to come down and sit with my sister for a while. This tactic seemed to work because MJ settled into the first grade routine in short order.
Things seemed to go smoothly, or so we believed, until Sister Pierre expected something (I have no idea what) that MJ was not about to give. A scuffle ensued, and Sister Pierre ended up getting punched in the stomach by a five-year-old… Knuckles had emerged. I don't recall if my parents were informed of the altercation, but I didn't hear anything about it until later, when MJ was in second grade.
The nuns in the primary grades, contrary to popular belief, were young, pleasant women with a love for children. Sister Helen was no exception, but alas, she too managed, somehow, to cross my sister (no pun intended). Their battle of wills ended when MJ told her, “I beat up Sister Pierre, and I can beat you up too.” I wish I could have seen the expression on the nun’s face, it must have been a combination of shock and amusement. I know that my parents were informed of the second incident, and, as a result, Knuckles went into retirement. It was an entertaining topic of discussion for many years afterward.
My sister and I squabbled, as do most siblings, but she relied on her wits to compensate for her lack of size; I was, after all, five years her senior. I recall shutting her in the bathroom and holding the door closed while she struggled furiously to open it. She thrashed for several minutes and then things went quiet. I continued to hold the door closed for a couple of minutes, until I was certain that she had calmed down, then released my hold. She must have noticed the movement of the doorknob because she came flying through the doorway to catch hold of the front pocket of my favorite shirt, which I happened to be wearing at the time. Then, without the slightest hesitation, she ripped it down to my waist and took off running. I was too stunned to give chase.
During those years, we used to share certain household chores such as feeding the dog, washing the dinner dishes, taking the trash out - things like that. I can recall times when I'd be in a hurry to go out for the evening and my chores wouldn't be done; I'd offer to pay her to do mine. Well, I'd eventually get out of doing them but only after she'd hold out for a suitable (to her) payment. The exchange would go something like this:
“Mary Jane, will you feed the dog for me? I'll pay you.”
“Sure… how much?”
“A quarter.”
“Nope.”
“OK, fifty cents, my buddies are out in the driveway, waiting.”
(silence)
“C’mon, fifty cents.”
“Nope.”
“How about it, fifty cents; that's all it's worth.”
“Nope.” (beep, beep, beep)
“Alright, how much?”
“A dollar.”
“No! Fifty cents, that's it.”
(silence) (beep, beep, beep-beep)
(hold out fifty cents… cold hard cash)
(silence) (beepbeepbeep… beepbeepbeep)
“Alright, here's your dollar.” (grumble)
“Bye.” uttered with a self-satisfied look on her face.
She put her brain to good use in school as well, earning a BS and MS in five years, after which she became a high school Biology teacher. I wonder, sometimes, if any of her students punched her in the stomach. I'll bet they didn't dare.
F. A. Zedik
June 15, 2000