Part VI
| 20 August 2009
Knowing Diane
Diane was only 42 when she died, less than two years older than I was. Of my three sisters, she was the closest to me in age, but not necessarily the closest. This sister was always a very strong-willed individual. Intense would be a kind word to describe her personality. Overbearing and manipulative would be not-so-kind terms, but accurate. She knew the things that she wanted in life, and worked every angle in her power to get them.
My older sisters, Arlene and Patty, were nine and six years older than I. Diane and I were close in age, but I was the baby of the family.
From the time Diane was a young child, she always seemed to know what to say and how to act in order to make our parents and others appreciate and dote on her. She was constantly cheerful, smiling, and full of compliments. She could bat her eyes and flash a cute little dimpled smile that would melt the hearts of anyone around her. It didn’t take her long to learn to control those assets for her own benefit.
I, on the other hand, was more of a solemn child, often lost in my thoughts. Perhaps that was why I seemed to have a much sterner expression most of the time. No cute smile always painted on my face, like Diane. On the inside I was very content and happy, but reserved and sensitive. I guess, from my serious facial expression, it was difficult for others to know whether I was happy or not. They just couldn’t tell. Even my mother had a difficult time figuring me out. She never did understand that I could be happy with a kind gesture, compliment, or a gift without breaking out into a huge smile, laugh, or gushing commentary.
As we grew older, when Diane and I played, she was generally the leader and the decision maker. My opinions, if different than hers, were secondary.
Summers were always full of home spun games, plays, and entertaining ourselves and others by singing songs. Diane and I had voices that complimented one another as we harmonized. Each voice almost anticipated the vocal moves of the other.
One time we entered a talent contest sponsored by the city park on the river near our home. She had written a song and we dressed alike in rolled up jeans, sneakers, and plaid flannel shirts. We had our hair up in pig-tails and freckles painted on our faces. Straw hats and fishing poles finished the look.
We won second place in the contest with our catchy tune and sincere wording …
“Dig me daddy, I’m a dew worm. Dig me daddy I’m a dew worm.
Dig me daddy, I’m a dew worm. And I wanna go fishing with you.
My momma said that I could go, if I was good this week.
But I’m so sad, ‘cause I was bad, that I can hardly speak.
Ohhh… Dig me daddy I’m a dew worm…" (Well, you get the idea.)
I was thrilled that we received a second place trophy, but Diane naturally was expecting first. I don’t recall how long it took her to get over her disappointment.
Occasionally, we would put on non-scripted plays for our friends and neighbors. Sometimes involving friends as characters, other times it would be only us or Diane by herself. She had a mystifying way of captivating the complete attention of onlookers and drawing them into her impromptu dialog. Her topics were often scary and would result in the young audience scurrying for the protection of their homes. She enjoyed that.
On Sundays we would go to church, usually just Diane and I. Sometimes we’d go to Sunday school, other times to the main service. One Sunday there was an extra large meeting of the congregation, and a call from the minister for those who wanted to be saved to come to the front. I was pretty young and fairly shy. I not only didn’t understand the meaning of being saved, but I didn’t understand what we had done that was so bad that we needed to be saved in the first place. And I certainly didn’t want to get up in front of all those people. But Diane evidently felt the need to be saved and she dragged me along with her to the pulpit. She must have always assumed that where she went I would follow one way or the other.
In our family there was always lots of work to be done in the warm weather months. That’s when we helped with planting, weeding, and harvesting our large garden. Each summer we grew tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, and our all-time favorite corn-on-the-cob. We would help make pickles from the cucumbers, and when it came time to can or freeze the additional stockpiles of veggies we would help with that also.
During the growing season our evening meals consisted primarily of fresh vegetables from the garden. There were always wonderful platefuls of sliced tomatoes to eat by themselves or put on bread, spread with mayonnaise, to make a sandwich. In addition, there would be a large bowl of sliced cucumbers served in tart vinegar; squash that was boiled and mashed with brown sugar and butter; and sweet corn -- always a treat that the entire family loved.
Our reward for helping with the harvest was that we were given dozens of ears of corn, from an ample garden bounty. We’d pile the fresh corn into a little red wagon and peddle them up and down the street where we lived. It was always anticipated and appreciated by the neighbors. Between our Kool-Aid stands and selling sweet corn, Diane and I became quite the budding entrepreneurs.
Once we saved all summer long and finally purchased a coveted bow and arrow set with a target included. We’d spend hours shooting at the target which dad had mounted on two stacked bales of hay bought just for that purpose. Most of the time it was Diane shooting and me watching, but that was ok. It, after all, had been her idea and her dream. I never felt slighted or manipulated. It was just the way Diane was. She usually got the things she wanted, or at least the things to which she felt entitled.
Take, for instance, the time Diane was fifteen and was home from the hospital after having an ovary removed. She milked the healing time to the maximum, enjoying being pampered and thriving on the attention. I didn’t begrudge her that spotlight but I was pretty set back when she wanted something of mine and, when I wouldn’t oblige, screamed in pain for mom to come to her. She proclaimed to mom, with a straight-face, that I had hit her on her incision. She boldly claimed that I had punched her in the stomach for no reason! Mother was so angry with me that Diane ended up getting most anything of mine that she wanted for the rest of her healing process. Pretty sneaky and, truthfully, my feelings were hurt that she would betray me like she did. But that was Diane. All-in-all I felt we had a great childhood.
Imagine my surprise years later when she was visiting Phoenix and we had dinner with several of my girlfriends. I sat and listened to her tell them about our deprived childhood in a lower middle-class household with our needs barely met and always wanting something that was just out of our financial reach. Such as that bow and arrow set that she had wanted mom and dad to buy for us. How deprived she felt when we had to use our hard-earned money from selling sweet corn to buy it ourselves!
Weren’t we raised in the same home, by the same parents, in the same family unit, at the exact same time? How could her memories be so different from mine? Clothes that were lovingly designed and sewn by Mom; fresh fruits and veggies all year ‘round because they were grown and canned or frozen by the family; fresh and frozen fish that we’d spend the weekends catching on the Rock River at Ft. Atkinson in the early summer.
Well, there was that one weekend...
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Nancy Groben
said:
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sister-n-law Terry, I had no idea of your wonderful talent, both as a writer and your gift as an intuit of your sister. I would love to sit down over a cup of coffee or better yet, a gin and tonic, and have an in depth conversation with you about our lives. Thanks so much for sharing this much with me. Love, nancy |
Susan
said:
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comments It seems like you loved her and she was the center of your life. She, on the other hand, was not of the same mindset. Keep up the good writing, the delving into this experience of childhood and love of your sister. You are onto something here that can resonate with many women readers who have had sisters and felt that innate competition or preference for the one sister over the other by a domineering mother. |
Liz [Roach] Hauser
said:
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Owner Your website is fabulous. I really enjoyed it all...the story about Diane is very touching indeed, the photos, everything. The story brought back so many good memories of time spent with Diane. You described my brother perfectly. Good luck with the manuscript. I think it's great! |
