My sister and I go way back.  I, believe it or not, vaguely remember bringing her home from the hospital in 1972.  [Obviously I’m older.]  She is my only sibling, and one of the few people on the planet who I can joke with about the 3 boys that used to live next door to us who liked to streak around naked in their backyard and had an Iranian mother.  [Whew!  That was a long sentence.]

When we were children, I wrote stories for her.  They were silly, didn’t really make sense, and were created spontaneously mainly to make her laugh.  Her birthday is June 19, and so to honor my sister on her 39th birthday, I dedicate this blog entry to her.   

My daughter [Catherine Alexis] is named after my sister [Catherine Ann].  Often my daughter, who we call Allie, will do or say something and I’ll think, “Wow, that’s something Cathy {my sis}  would have done or said, way back when.”  Their personalities are in many ways different, yet in some ways very similar.  It’s interesting, because I doubt anyone else in the world would see it this way.  It’s often a deju vu type moment.  A quick glimpse of Allie, and I’ll remember how Cathy looked at 13.  Thin and lanky.  Nice hair.  They have the same ankles.   

The sister relationship is different than all others.  The memories shared.  The perspective of growing up in the same place, at the same time.  I remember so many childhood incidents that we shared.  To others they’d seem unimportant, or anti climatic, but to us, significant, maybe funny now.  People we knew, places we went, things we did for fun.  For example, we had a tree house in our backyard – in an orange tree.  Growing up in Arizona afforded that.  There was a family at our church whose children had t-shirts printed with this on the back:  “My mom is a mother trucker.”  She really was a semi driver.  [Really]  If I bring these people up in conversation, my sister and I crack up.  We can both recall those crazy green shirts [at least I think they were green. . . . . ].  We share memories of places that are no more.  Fed-Mart and Chuck’s Market on 8th Street and eating Mother’s Day lunch at Sir George’s.  When there’s just two of you, and you’re both girls, you generally receive the same Christmas gifts from relatives, only in different colors.  Mine were always pink, hers always blue.  Today the interior walls of her home are blue, and I think it’s because of this.  

My sister lives 716 miles from my home.  I wish she was closer.  I wish we could meet every so often and eat lunch together.  I wish I could watch her kids sing at their VBS program and she could attend my kids’ band concerts.  But that’s not where life has taken us.  She has a reason to be in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, and there’s a reason I live in Lexington, Kentucky.  I find myself a bit envious at times.  Some women might run into their sister at the grocery store.  That’s not going to happen to me.  Some sisters can babysit for each other, or double date on Friday nights with their husbands, or bake each other a birthday cake.  That’s not going to happen to us on a regular basis.  Once a year or so, if we’re fortunate.  

Yet I know my sister loves me like only a sister can.  She knows some things about me I’m quite sure nobody else on the earth remembers [she can recall occurrences from 1980 like nobody I’ve ever met].  She was my maid of honor; I was her matron.  Nobody else on the planet [or Jupiter] could have filled those roles in the same manner.  

So instead of sending a card mass produced by Hallmark, or something else she doesn’t really need, I wrote this entry for her.  

Happy Birthday Cath!  I love you.

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