Brothers and Sisters

Reflecting back on my childhood, the legend of "oldest child syndrome," definitely applied to our family and to me.  I was the "responsible one," the one expected to lead and take care of my brother, even from a young age.  The earliest memories I have are of a traumatic robbery when we were young in Hawaii (my brother was in a crib).  I also remember our old spanish home in National City, California, with hardwood floors and a phone with a bell ringer.  The ringer used to ring when we had earthquake tremors and wake us up.  My brother was a typical boy.  He used to pee through the fence on the kid next door in our duplex.  Hot summer days found us running through the sprinkler in the front yard, when my dad would set it up for us.  In Connecticut, we were close to my mother's New England family, which she liked, as my father was gone a lot on submarines.  It was hard raising a busy 2-year old boy.  For example, when a mailman didn't lock up his truck, my brother took the mail out of the truck and put in back in the mailbox.  When he got mad at a neighbor girl, he hit her over the head with a truck, leading to stitches.  Needless to say, Mom used to get plenty of moms knocking on her door about my brother. 

I was just over the age of three when my brother was born.  We happened to be in St. Petersburg, Florida, and dad had gone ahed to report for duty in Hawaii, while my mother

and I stayed in St. Petersburg with my grandparents until my brother was born, and it was safe to travel. To think she traveled by herself from Florida to Hawaii with an infant and a 3-year old alone to Hawaii.  She had it wasn't easy, as I was running all over the plane, with Ritz cracker crumbs everywhere.  Thank God I was potty trained. She said the Navy was no help to her in those early days. She was alone alot.  

I used to ask my mother where she found my brother, as I used to swear he fell off a turnip truck somewhere.  To say we are different, is a vast understatement (leading to my question).   He was short and round and I was tall and thin.  When he got stuck in the snow (up to his chest), I had to go rescue him at my mother's insistence. 

At the age of 3, my brother didn't talk.  He would point, and could not pronounce my name.  Even with extensive speech therapy, he used to call me "Pinda,"  Sissy was easier, but never stuck.  Mrs. Stovepipe was his speech therapist, and worked with him, enabled us to stay in Connecticut six months later so he could finish his therapy.

My brother was spoiled, and didn't have to do much to get my mom's attention or to get what he wanted. At Christmas, the base exchange would set up Toyland, and I remember being so excited to go see all the toys so I could pick out what I wanted for Christmas and to see all the decorations--It was really a wonderland. I remember thinking that I hoped my brother behaved himself as there was nothing worse than watching him through a fit in a store if he didn't get what he wanted.  Sure enough, it wasn't long as he was pitching a fit when he couldn't get some toy he wanted. I remember Mom telling him he had to wait for Santa, but he was having none of it.  I just kept walking as I couldn't take it.  I don't even remember how it all worked out, but eventually we all met up and got out of there.  I'm sure I got talked to about going ahead of them by myself. 

I was always "in charge," as far as my parents were concerned. Even before my mother took her last breath, I sensed a struggle.  When I told her he would be OK, she peacefully took her last breath.