Gaze deeply into the face of the picture above. Isn’t that a priceless shot? That is a picture of my very own sister, Yolanda, deep in REM sleep while on a road trip with her children, somewhere on I-95 between Montreal and Florida. She was in the back seat of the car on a journey with her twin daughters, Stephanie and Erika (or is it Erika and Stephanie) and her grandson Trevin.
Not very flattering, you say? Perhaps not. If you don’t think it is then you’re probably asking yourself why would I post it on the World Wide Web for the entire planet to see? The answer to that question is obvious. It’s because I’m her baby brother.
One of the many unwritten laws of family life is that baby brothers must spend countless hours tormenting their older sisters. It’s a tenet you can’t outgrow. I don’t make the rules; I just merely live by them.
Before you paint me with the brush of cruelty as to how I could do something to such a sweet, loveable and clearly unsuspecting victim, may I warn you that Yolanda isn’t so innocent herself. She is far from anybody’s victim. Oh, she may be a little absent minded. After all, she was the one who, while ironing clothes one day, heard the phone ring and put the wrong instrument to the side of her head. (Don’t worry, the burn mark was very small and you really have to squint these days to even remotely see it). But let me tell you about my most devious sister.
Yolanda is just one of my four older sisters. She is number three on the depth chart. (Yes, I have four sisters and no brothers. It was like being raised in an estrogen factory). While growing up she gave as good as she got. When I was about seven and I was hit in the leg with a dart and writhing in pain (don’t ask, that’s another story) it was Yolanda who made me role over in bed in agony several times before she would give me the packs of Batman trading cards that I wanted.
Even earlier, at about five, when we went to a fancy restaurant, it was Yolanda who said that I was too clumsy to pour the ketchup on the fries by myself so she proceeded to bang the bottom of the bottle from across the table to add the ketchup for me. The result – ketchup all over the front of the shirt I was wearing.
There was also that hot summer day when she promised to get me a tricycle – a promise that was going to be fulfilled by using trading stamps from a local supermarket. Yolanda dragged me the three long blocks to the store, traded in the stamps with the hopes that I would get the tricycle to ride home, only to realize that the bike came in a big box that required some assembly. Oh the joy of dragging a box for blocks with a toddler. Oh the joy of being that toddler.
It was Yolanda who always tried to scare the living daylights out of me. It was Yolanda who would laugh whenever I got some sort of injury. It was Yolanda who would make me try on her wigs and then take pictures of me.
So you see, Yolanda isn’t that innocent, but let me highlight her good points because every story has two sides. Yes she made me roll over in agony to get the Batman trading cards, but she was the one who bought the cards for me after my injury. Yes, she got ketchup all over me but she was the one who took me to the restaurant as a treat in the first place. And yes, it was Yolanda who saved her “Pinky Stamps” that allowed me to get my tricycle.
Yolanda was also the one who plied me with ice cream and ginger ale when I had my tonsils out and. She would drag her ten-year-old brother along with her when she and her husband-to-be went to drive-in movies because she knew about my love for films (how romantic that must have been for him!)
It was Yolanda who turned her brand new house over to me when, as a teenager, I needed a “set” for one of the action movies that I made with my friends (I also got to use their family car in scenes even though I was pre-licence age).
And years later, when circumstances dictated that she would be in a situation where she was raising three children on her own she did an absolutely amazing job instilling the same decency and wicked sense of humour that she had herself (hey, it was her own kids who took that picture above!)
So go back and take a look at the picture again. Go ahead, scroll back up, I’ll wait.
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As a baby brother I see a perfect opportunity yet again for some sibling revenge. But what I also see in that picture is the face of an angel.
That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.
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