C*** My Baby Sister: Mary Elizabeth

I painted this watercolor for my sister, Mary Elizabeth. It depicts the house where Mary, the Mother of God, visited Elizabeth, who was the mother of John the Baptist and Mary's cousin (see Luke 1:39-42, NIV). I made the picture as a gift for Mary Beth's 40th birthday celebration. Mary Beth is the last sibling in our large Catholic family to turn forty years old. Now we are all old, and over the hill. Another sister, Meg, planned the party and requested that each of Mary Beth's seven siblings, plus her husband and children together, should write five stories each of memories of our childhood and lifetime experiences with Mary Beth. If each person did five, she would get forty stories, one for each of her birthday years. I selected four stories about our family from this blog, edited them for Mary Beth, and wrote the following fifth story especially for Mary Beth.

There were, of course, also Joseph between Susie and Nancy, and John between Laurie and Danny (or maybe John was before Joseph). They probably would have been called Joey and Johnny had they survived their premature births and lived to grow up in our family. However, I remember Mom saying that she gave the two boys names that she would not have used had they lived. Indeed, Joseph and John did not fit the rhythmic progression of names. And then you were born, and Mom named you Mary Elizabeth Ann. Mom said you had to be the last child, so she broke the rhythm of the names in hope of stopping the rhythm method of producing children. She also started sleeping on the sofa when you were born.

It seems I remember not being too happy about you being born (1966). There was no room in the house for you. You had to sleep in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. That was OK at first, because something about the arrangement inspired Dad to get a new TV for their bedroom. We had been without a TV since John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. I think news of the assassination was on 24 hours a day and it wore the old TV out. Before the assassination, I used to sneak into their bedroom late at night and watch the Steve Allen Show. After you were born it was too risky for me to sneak in the room. Mom woke up too easily. And if Dad caught me, he would yell at me and his yells would wake you up, and then he would yell at me even more.

I used to be the apple of Dad’s eye until you were born. I was “Little Teddy, or Junior,” Dad’s favorite. He was always fixing TVs and radios and I was his little helper. He inspired me to join the radio and electronics club in high school, and he helped the club erect its first 100 foot receiver antenna. Dad and I did everything together; that is, until you came along. You took my place. You were smarter than me. I took radios apart and couldn’t get them back together. Dad always got mad at me, so he started asking you to get things for him, and for you to watch him fix things, and he taught you to build things. I was jealous. He taught you all about electronics like he used to teach me. He even taught you how to build a computer.

Wait a minute – that was Andy…

never mind.

Dad had a keen eye for aesthetic beauty, even though he was colorblind. He was always interested in my art projects and he contributed a wealth of knowledge towards their completion. For example, he taught me always to draw up plans, or sketches, before beginning a project. This helped me to collect the exact materials I needed before I started the project. He also taught me how to construct functional things, like picture frames and canvas stretchers. However, I was a little timid when it came to using Dad’s saws and hammers and tools and stuff. He would get mad if I bent too many nails. But, he would never get mad at you. You were much more talented than me. You never bent a nail, and you could saw a perfect mitered frame. I remember Dad helping you to build a large frame and stretching your canvas painting on it. Dad was so proud of your artistry; he hung the picture over the sofa.

Wait a minute – that was Meggy…

never mind.

I remember Dad taught me to organize things. He had pegboard all over his workshop in the basement, with hooks for all of his tools. He used baby food jars and mayonnaise jars to sort out all of his nails and screws and nuts and bolts and stuff. He had a heavy old wood desk with six drawers in his shop, and he had file cabinets and tool boxes and tackle boxes and barrels and tubs and soda boxes; and everything was filled with Dad’s stuff. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place; well… sort of. Anyway, I took after Dad in having all of my stuff organized. I kept rocks and marbles and pennies in the sock drawer of my dresser; rubber bands and paper money in the next drawer; and dead and live bugs in baby food jars in the next. My Matchbox cars and Tonka trucks were lined up next to my shoes under the bed. I prided myself in being so neatly organized. You were jealous! And you were always getting into my stuff. I could always tell when you had been in my room, because the cars were parked in the wrong places. My favorite toys, apparently yours too, were a cast iron fire engine and a fire hydrant with rubber connecting fire hoses. One night, after you were asleep, I found the hydrant, with a hose attached, lying on your bed. I was so mad! I picked the hydrant up by the hose and swung it like a whip and smacked you in the back with the cast iron fire hydrant. You woke up screaming! Then Mom came running into my bedroom and asked: “Danny, why are you crying? Did you have a nightmare?”

Oh – …

never mind.

When you were born I remember thinking: “Oh, no! Not another girl! This house has too many girls!” I was hoping for a boy, of course. It seems I remember begging Mom for a boy. But, then you came home. And all the women in the neighborhood came to see you, Marvel from next door, Mrs. Muller from two doors down, Mrs. Newman and Mrs. Lee, Mary Agnes’ Mom; and Aunt Ruth and Aunt Claire crowded into our living room. And Susie and Nancy were probably there, but I don’t really remember any little people, except myself. Everybody was gathered around the bassinet, or maybe it was the playpen, and they were saying how cute you were. I couldn’t see anything, because all the big people were in the way. I started to cry. It wasn’t fair – I used to be the cute Little Teddy; I used to be the center of attention. Now, because of you, I was pushed to the back of the crowd. All I could see was the back of old ladies’ knees. And in the scorekeeping department of the Miller children, the girls were beating the boys. It was awful; I was outnumbered three to one!

No… wait a minute – that had to be Laurie…

never mind.

My first car was a 1963 Rambler stationwagon that I bought from Dad in 1971 for 200 wheat pennies. Our family had been to Niagara Falls in that car. Dad had built a large white box for the top of the car to carry all of our camping gear. The front seats reclined all the way back flat and the back seat folded forward flat so the entire car inside was like a long flat bed. When you were still a baby, and Andy and Meggy were pretty small, our whole family could sleep in the station wagon if it was raining too hard to put up the tent. After I bought the Rambler, Dad bought a Volkswagen Beetle. We became like a Hippie family, or like a fraternity of college students trying to break the world’s record for cramming the most people in a Volkswagen. We all fit, but it wasn’t a record. Anyway, a couple of years after Dad got the Beetle I remember him teaching you how to drive it. You were hilarious! The Beetle was a stick shift transmission and you kept stalling it out. Hills were the worst for you. I could see you jerking and screeching all the way up the hill at the bottom of Park Avenue. A friend of mine said he passed you on his bicycle going up the hill to Halethorpe Elementary, and he said you were grinding the gears and jerking the clutch all the way up the hill.

Wait a minute – you were going to school at Halethorpe Elementary – you couldn’t have been more than ten! That must have been Nancy…

never mind.

Halloween used to be a lot of fun, before you were born. We always had the most interesting costumes and nobody cared if you dressed like a hobo or a prostitute or a queer (name for a gay man pre-1960). Then free love in the sixties and political correctness in the seventies changed everything. The best character costumes became an insult to certain groups of people and some religious groups campaigned against dressing up as devils and ghouls. Some really devilish hateful people started poisoning candy and put pins and razor blades inside of some of the treats. Society took a turn for the worse. Never the less, we all had a lot of fun scaring each other, even when it wasn’t Halloween. You may remember that I became a master of fright and I would often jump out from behind a wall or doorway and growl like a mad dog; or I would notice everyone absorbed in a scary TV show and suddenly scream at the top of my lungs. Self-defense classes became popular about the time you were in high school, especially for single young pretty women like yourself. I’ll never forget the time you were coming home from a self-defense class and I had gotten home just before you. It was dark and I had not turned on the lights in the house when I saw you coming up the driveway, past the breakfast room window. I seized the opportunity to hide behind the breakfast room door and to jump out at you when you entered. You screamed and covered your face like you were curling up in a fetal position. It was so funny! It was especially funny because it was so out of character for you to be scared of anything. You were tough and had always beaten me up every chance you got. Finally, I was getting even.

No… wait a minute – that was Susie…

never mind.

You were a quiet shy child, very pleasant, kind to everyone, and obedient to our parents. All the kids older than you, all of your siblings, were always getting in trouble and getting yelled at by Dad, especially at the dinner table. You never got in trouble, because you never did anything wrong. Our table manners were atrocious, and we were always getting yelled at for telling off-color jokes and for trying to make each other laugh and shoot milk out our noses. Well, one time we were all at the table eating dinner and Dad had already yelled at us for carrying on and for laughing at stupid jokes. He was so fed up that he demanded silence for the rest of dinner. Then we all got the giggles and Dad yelled even more. The next child to cause another child to giggle was going to bed without desert. That settled us down and for awhile it was pretty quiet at the table. Then Dad said: “Mm-mm! I smell something good.” And he asked Mom: “Are you baking a pie for dessert?” “No, I’m not cooking anything,” came the answer. “Well, maybe you left a light on the stove. It smells like something good is cooking.” At that, everyone started sniffing the air and making guesses: “Mm-mm! It smells like baked bread; it smells like apple pie; it smells like toast and jelly; it smells good whatever it is. I want some!” Just then, you, Mary Beth – and I know it was you because you are the only one who could make a foul joke and not get in trouble, and because you had become a master of out-of-character comments and for using your customary pleasantness to shock everyone with a gross comment at the most opportune time – just when everyone was sniffing in deep samples of the air, you, Mary Beth, amidst a sudden burst of giggles, blurted out: “I just farted!” You, Mary Beth, single-handedly brought down the house. And no one got dessert.

But –

We all love you anyway!

Happy Birthday