Right through the window

               My sister is two years my senior. I am, in fact, the youngest of three siblings, there being a space of six years between me and my first born brother. You no doubt know that it is the absolute birthright of the last born in the family to torment and otherwise make miserable the lives of the older ones in the house. That and the fact that I frequently got away with any and everything up to and including homicide caused my older brother and sister to regret my existence on a regular basis. I would wager a month’s pay that, at least once during the years we lived under the same roof, they plotted my destruction (and a violent one it would have been too). The fact that I am closing in on fifty-six and still live demonstrates that I was just flat-out too slick for them. Course, I spent twenty-two years in the Army, half of that time out of the country altogether, and the rest living at least three states away sorta guaranteed my survival. I do watch my back to this day.

                The following story may provide part of the reason why my siblings may have plotted my demise.  For reasons I do not remember, my parents left my sister and I alone at home one evening. My brother had long since left for college so it was big sister who took the brunt of my tormenting ministrations. I think I was maybe twelve or thirteen at the time. I had, by now, perfected the art of making my older siblings miserable (which makes me wonder why my parents left us alone in the first place – they probably needed the peace).

                For some odd reason, she got mad at me.  It must not have been very important because I don’t remember why now. It might have had something to do with the TV. Regardless of the reason, the end result of the episode was that I locked her out of the house. She was stuck on the breezeway. It was actually a nice night outside and I thought perhaps she might be somewhat benefited by the cool Texas breeze. Much to my surprise, she was not. She was, in fact, so agitated by her expulsion, that she determined right then and there that she was getting back into the house one way or the other. She chose the other as she put her fist straight through the pane glass in the breezeway door. Realizing that I had made a strategic error and now needed to conceal the evidence of my own actions, I unlocked the door and flung it open. That’s as far as my memory goes with the matter. There must have been one heckuva “go to Jesus” meeting later that evening when Mom and Dad got home. In researching this story, I called my sister who now lives in Carrolton, Texas. She remembered the incident as clear as a bell. Like me though, she has no memory of the aftermath save that Mom and Dad were quite put out with us and that she had to get stitches in her finger. She reports that she still bears the scar of that evening some forty years ago.  

                I bet she and brother are still plotting against me after all these years.  I think I’m safe. For now.

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