Evelyn vs Me

Screams and gnashes. Hair pulling and threats. Sisters loathing, hating, abhorring, disliking more than anything else in the world. It was a wonder that we were able to live underneath the same roof for even a day, let alone our entire childhood existence.

Evelyn and I had the worst case of sisterly rivalry.

In between the few days that all went well in the world beneath that sloping farm rooftop, between the calm and the serenity of a Sunday morning, where all in the house were asleep, quiet, unmoving. Between those real precious moments, there was an animosity that grew with each and every interaction.

Of course, reader, I exaggerate. But anyone with a sister knows exactly what I mean.

Evelyn came in, came into the bedroom I shared with Sarah, Nell, Christina and baby Gina, screeching and raging like a hopeless woman lost in tears over the horrific plight she was unfortunately caught up within.

"WHO RIPPED MY PURPLE TANK TOP?! BARBARA, DO YOU KNOW WHO- [even louder now]- WHO RIPPED MY FAVORITE PURPLE TANK TOP?!"


There was no escape possible. No sneaky door to pull open or chandelier to swing from. No grandiose battling that only Mr. Toad and his cronies, Moley, Ratty and MacBadger, could  muster.

Shoot.

I cowered on the top of my bunk, pulling the blanket up close to my chin, the tattered Babysitters Club book I was reading flopped over on a lost page at my side. My off-white, greased-from-use Granby Public Library card bounced out of the paperback and fell pitifully to the ground, attempting a not-so-masterful escape.

I gulped. There was only one thing I could do here.


"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" I kicked back the blankets and scuttled backward toward the wall. "You musta ripped it in the washer machine!"


No matter. Evelyn lunged up the rickety rockety ladder leading up to the ceiling-kissing bed, throwing herself at me. The end was clearly near. As near as her fingernails.

I hurled myself off the bunk bed and ran out of the room, screaming at the top of my lungs-- a blood curdling scream that rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath me.




Barreling down the stair with Evelyn in hot pursuit, I shot out the front door and flew over the gravel driveway and out into the side lawn. The Blessed Mother Mary, standing stiffly and planted,  looked patiently at me, her graceful hands clenched in prayer against her holy bosom. I hoped it was in prayer for me.

I dared a peek behind me. There she was. Evelyn, standing atop the stair overlooking the driveway, screeching at me in an inaudible and clearly angry language. There was no time to decipher. I fled into the back field, barefooted and gangly legged, running from the fury that was my older sister.

Good Morning, Powells

The sun snapped awake that day. A ZAP! A POP! A ZIING of a sun rise-- well, more like of a sun jump. A leap out of horizon's bedding and into the cloud-kissed ocean of a sky on the calmest of days.

I snapped awake with it--snapped up and leaped out of my tangled and wrangled sheets, pushed aside the matted pillow, the worn-with-love teddy, the dog-eared book from the Granby Public Library. Atop the highest bunk bed in all of Western Massachusetts, I firmly grasped the raised wooden siding with both of my ten-year-old hands and swung with the agility of a spider monkey.
I dropped to the ground, grazing Nina's mattress underneath me with my pudgy toes.
It was almost as thrilling as climbing the oak tree in the side lawn (the one with the Spring Swings Backyard Zip Line drawn out from the deck to its sturdy branches) climbing that tree to the slab of board my brothers nailed atop the branches where we would dare each other to jump to the ground. Mom would grasp her heart and throat, her "nerves shot," her gasp echoing throughout South Street. 


I hit the floor with my feet, as only a professional could. Taking off running, I pushed aside the off-white sheet that hung by a few silver tacks in place of a bedroom door, turned sharply down the hallway filled with crayon scrawling and scratches toward the aged, grumpy stairway. 


I skidded to a stop at the top of the steps. My heart pounded with both adrenaline and nerves. I cleared my throat and crept down slowly. 


"Can we get up now?"


Crickets. I waited patiently for an answer, but began to grow tired after a stretched-out eternity of 30 seconds. 


"MOMM! DADD! CAN WE GET UP NOW?"


Mom only then emerged from the dining room with hushed footstep, "Yes, but please be quiet. It's still early."

Once "Yes" left mom's lips, I hurled myself down the stairs, Sarah sleepily rounding the top of the stairs after me with Joe tripping his way past her. Evelyn walked down gracefully, her hand grazing the banister with morning freshness.

Atop the dining room table were five boxes of cereal to appease us. Special K (for special kids, mom used to say). Corn Flakes. Wheaties. Honey Nut Cheerios. And Shredded Wheat. An unopened carton of milk cowered in the center of the table, surround by bowls and spoons, very much aware of it's last drops on earth this morning.

A plastic place mat adorned the 12-foot wooden table-top. A table, Bill and Rob claimed, that dead people were laid out upon 50 to 100 years ago. I never ate off the table without a mat in fear of touching the same surface as those corpses. This morning was no different.


Splunk! Spoons coupled with chipped bowls. Dinkle dinkle dinkle. bits of whole grain, wheat and honey nut spilled into the chinaware. Glub glub. 2% topped each pile off.

Good morning, all.