About Siblings by Liz Flaherty

I wrote the following column in November of 1994. I found it odd that when I went looking for it among the pre-internet clippings, it was the first one in the first binder I picked up. But maybe not odd at all.

It's flawed, for which I apologize, but it's important to me that I share it today. I hope you'll bear with me.

***

I'm writing this on my brother's birthday. He's older than me, of course. I wouldn't have mentioned it at all if he'd been younger. He has one more kid than I do. He also has completely different memories of our growing up years than I do. I'm sure he thinks his memories are different because he's old, but that isn't true.

They're different because he's wrong.

And that's one of the joys of having siblings. You always think they're wrong and they always think you're a brick shy of a load. You will scream at them and give them hard looks and tell their spouses you don't know how they can stand them day after day after day. They will scream at you and hang up loud in your ear if they think you're being stupid. (Note from Liz--this was also pre-cellphone, in case you hadn't figured that out.) You're not stupid--I know that. It's your siblings we're talking about here. You know how they are. They'll tell your parents they spoiled you rotten and that's why you're the way you are. 

You can go for years without seeing your siblings and then when you do, it's like  you saw them yesterday. You can hear one of their voices over the phone and know exactly who you're talking to even if you get your own children's voices confused.

I have four of them. They're all older than me--see, guys? I got that in there again--and they're all smarter than me. They still pick on me for childhood eccentricities I left behind 35 years ago. If we were all together and there were only four seats, I'd still be the one who sits on the floor. When I make comments, they look at my husband and say, "Is that right?" like I'm still not mature enough to be believed.

One of my brothers still calls me Yitsy, which is what I called myself before I could speak plainly. Another brother calls me Lizzie Bird.

Seriously, is this how you talk to a woman who is a grandmother?

Well, yes, if you are her brother or sister and have known her since the day you were brought home from the hospital.

Because siblings share something even spouses and children don't. They have a history that goes all the way back to the cradle. They not only know and accept the way you are, but realize why you are that way. Even as they are screaming at you, even though they may not always even like you, they will defend you to the death against any and all outsiders. They will say, "That's just the way she is," and invite no more comment. 

Then they will tell you to grow up, straighten up, act right. They will tell you growing up was rougher on them than on you and they will remember things...differently.

And maybe they're not wrong. Maybe you are.

There's another thing about sisters and brothers, a really important thing.

If I ever called any of them and said, "I need you," they would be on the way before the words were completely out of my mouth. I would do the same for them.

It's nice to know that. 

***

Nancy Dotson 
8/25/1936 - 4/13/2022

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Kahlil Gibran