Today is a Friday in February. Just one week ago, at this exact time, Dr. C. and I were in a hotel elevator descending to the lobby to meet Mary and Martin in the AXIS Lounge of the Royal Sonesta Hotel in Houston, TX. They had arrived an hour earlier from Louisville; we had flown in from Phoenix. The family, all four of us, were gathering to celebrate Kevin's marriage to Margarita Barcenas. Kevin is 42 years old and his mother had given up that he would ever marry. But, as they say, "never say never," because Kevin had found his perfect love, and they were making it both legal and official. It would take the entire weekend, and a number of elegant and perfectly planned parties, but the end result was assured. Kevin and Margarita would be married...in a semi-Catholic manner, standing before the altar of a non-denominational university chapel, blessed by a Peruvian priest who, despite his promise of a "Catholic Light" ceremony, managed to throw in enough "Jesus", "God" and Signs of the Cross, for Mimi, the 94 year-old Nicaraguan Family Matriarch, to beam in complete approval and happiness. Well Done!
We were there for Kevin, of course, but also because my sister is ill and she and I were unable to make our annual fall trek to wherever it was we were deciding to go. We began these "Sisters' Trips" a few years ago. We've shared Chicago, Savannah, GA, Charleston SC, and San Antonio, TX. Each time, we search for the perfect inn, in the perfect location, with the perfect amenities: Which would be an included but classy breakfast, plus an included but generous wine-down evening that serves heavy (but not greasy) hors d'oeurves. We've had mixed success with that criteria but, if you're interested, I can make recommendations.
I knew a wedding weekend was not the perfect venue for sister-time, but I would take what I could get and it worked well. We shared a table at the cocktail gathering on Friday evening. We were seated with the bride's parents for the Wedding Dinner at the Four Seasons. (It ran late into the night, and was the first multi-course dinner with wine-pairings in which I had ever participated. I hope it's not the last.) The following morning, we mingled with Margarita's extended family at the Crepe Brunch that ran well into the afternoon. I was careful to step back and let Mary be the Mother of the Groom, and she--as always--did a beautiful job. I was very proud of her. Actually, I've been proud of her since I was old enough to spell the word and understand the feeling.
Had you been around when we were young, you wouldn't believe either that previous sentence, nor how well we do together and how much we enjoy each other. We were six years apart in age...and six years is just too many. The differences between me at one and Mary at seven were insurmountable. The differences between me at nine and Mary at fifteen were heart-breaking. That would have been my heart; she could have cared less.
Mary was born the perfect, beautiful, red-headed, sweet baby. She didn't cry. She loved being held--cuddling close to express her satisfaction with the holder. She slept well. She did everything she was supposed to do...with a lovable panache. By contrast (and you knew this was coming), I was the gangly, dark-haired, dark complected, fussy baby about whom the best that could be said was: "She looks a lot like Uncle Joe." Now that he is gone, I can say this: My mother never liked Uncle Joe. To say I looked like him was not a compliment. I also didn't like to be held. I can't explain it and I don't understand it but, because of that trait, I broke my Grandmother Weigel's heart as she had soooooooo wanted to hold me and all I did was scream. I'm really sorry about that. Really I am.
I don't think I hated my sister...I'm sure I didn't...I just think I was very jealous of her and the things she was allowed to do; and the new clothes she wore; and all the red hair compliments she received; and her patient personality; and her talent for sketching wonderful pictures; and...and...and. She--in my story--had it all. I once heard someone say that Mary had the personality and I had the good grades. (I think it was my Mother.) That is a poor trade-off for me, no matter how you look at it. I can say that even today. But, what it really boiled down to was: I wanted everything, and she already had some, so it would never be mine.
I do remember the bickering...Mary at the top of the stairs, me at the bottom. Often it was about movies. Movies were my trigger, long before I knew what a trigger was. Mary, by virtue of the fact that she was six years older, was allowed to go to the movies with her friends...as long as the film in question had an "A" rating from the Catholic Legion of Decency. The Catholic Legion of Decency could be a story all on its own, but suffice it to say that, not content with a simple "A," "B," and "C," rating, the Legion further divided movies into "A-I", "A-II", "A-III" and "A-IV" classifications, which brought the unintended consequence that I was limited to "A-I", while Mary's age allowed her to watch an "A-II" or "A-III" thus further dividing my sister and me. Basically, no matter the rating, I was absolutely not allowed to go to the movies with her and her friends. I yelled. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. I became obnoxious and out of control, but none of it worked. Mary went to the movies and I stayed home playing with my paper dolls or puzzles under the piano.
You know, I did love the piano and spent a great deal of time under it. It was such a nice little quiet and private cave. Demmy (the ill-tempered Cocker Spaniel) and I were quite happy under there...unless we were missing the movie I had waited my entire life to see, and wasn't allowed to attend. Then, it could be pretty sullen.
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