I remember Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gene's home based on this wallpaper, and green shag carpet, and the strangeness of a split-level home layout, which no one in my whole hometown had. Oh, and Deron and Dawn each had their own bedrooms, which I coveted terribly.I would guess this photo is late 1974/early '75, with Dawn not yet a year, me a year and a half (in the center, with the fancy hair bow), and Deron less than 4. Does that sound right, cousins? At any rate, there is little in this world that reminds me more of the innocence of childhood than these kinds of pictures.
If it makes either of you feel too exposed, let me know, and I'll remove the post. But I hope you both know that even though it's been years since we played together, I think of you both every day.
When I was in fifth grade, William Wainwright rounded third base and headed for home, where I was the catcher in kickball. I was more than willing to take one for the team, and when he put his head down and bowled into me, I flew up in the air and came down on my left hand. By the time I got over to the carpeted, moveable gym steps, my wrist was so swollen I could barely see my watchband. As he helped me get the watch off, Mr. Timmer, our phy-ed teacher, solemnly told me I must have a bad sprain, because broken bones don't swell this much.
My aunt Beverly drove me to Halstad, where our old-school Dr. Brown had his practice. (My dad was in the field, I think, or nearly so, and my mom had to teach). My wrist had more than doubled in size, and it was throbbing, but the consensus was still that it was just a bad sprain. We waited for Dr. Brown for almost three hours, and in his exam rooms with too-thin walls, we heard him discuss with the elderly patient who got seen before me the state of her houseplants. I was only ten, but I knew that wasn't cool, even if my arm WAS only sprained.
Finally, the nurse took me for an X-ray, and both she and Doc Brown were shocked to see both bones in my arm were broken. No wonder it hurt so much. My ulna was so badly broken that the doctor wouldn't even set it for me. They slid my x-ray into a manilla envelope and sent us off to Moorhead.
By now it was 5 pm, so mom was done teaching, and someone had tracked down dad. I don't remember who drove me to the hospital (did I mention my arm hurt?) ?), but I remember the nun who was my nurse at St. Ansgar's, and the long-faced white haired doctor who explained why they would put me under: the bone was so far apart, they thought they might have to do surgery, and to try to set it while I was conscious would be too unpleasant. I remember feeling very small in the big hospital bed, with Mom and Dad and Jess all standing around, trying not to look too concerned.
In the end, no surgery was needed. They popped my bone back together and wrapped me up in an old school plaster cast halfway to my shoulder. My family got to come and see me while I was in the recovery room, and I guess Jess, who was only in third grade at the time, was understandably freaked out. I don't remember this, but I guess she was saying sweet sistery things to me, and I did not reciprocate. In fact, I think I may have sworn at her.
I'm sorry, sissy; I didn't know what I was saying. And now I know what it's like when your sister is just out of surgery and kinda goofy in the head, and you're just sooo relieved that she's okay. I love you. Can I be there when you eat your first corn on the cob?
In fact, the one we have doesn't even move. It took her a little while to warm up to its watery goodness.
And then she showed up the other day bearing a plant. A fabulous hanging basket full of a plant I'd never seen: a 
Don't you wanna come over and have some peppermint tea with me? Unless you're my sister, of course. Then you're busy stuffing it.
The serrated kitchen knife I brought out first wasn't cutting it (bwah ha ha! Punny!), and the only full-sized saw I own belonged to our great-grandfather, Christ Dyrendahl. My father owned it, and told me when I was nine years old that, as his oldest child, I would inherit it when he died. So I did. Plus, Jess probably didn't want it anyway. She's not very sentimental, usually, that sister of mine.
Which is fine, because I'm sentimental enough for the two of us.
Here is her handy-sister hand on the worn handle of a saw our great-grandfather used. (Those are his initials, see...) The wood is worn smooth where his hand held it, and the crisp edges of the wood are soft from his sweat and the heat of the work. The blade is still sharp enough to cut through thick pine branches. 
Together, we made quick work of it, and aside from letting me take these pictures, I don't know that she thought much about being the fourth generation in our family to use this gorgeous saw. As she worked, though, I saw our father and great grandfather cutting their own tree branches from their own trees. And it made me glad.
Last Monday V and I were at Saver's (as we are most Mondays). We've discovered that there's a regular Monday morning crowd (One color tag goes to 99 cents on Mondays, see. So people line up waiting for the doors to open at nine), of which we are clearly a part. Anyhoo, we walked past a lovely woman with black hair nearly to her waist and a pheasant feather stuck in her hair. She saw V (who was sitting in the cart like a good girl) and kind of gasped. "Hello!" she said, gazing upon my daughter. Then she slowly reached out her hand and touched V's hair. Now, I totally understand people being struck by V's vocabulary, or startled by her shouting of the Star Wars theme song. But usually strangers don't touch her without asking. I liked this lady's feather, though, so I was cool with it...and then Feather Lady says, "Is it real?" referring to V's hair.
What?
Okay, first of all, people tell V she has beautiful hair all the time. I usually invite them to come over and comb it in the morning and see if they still think it's pretty. But no one has ever asked if it's real before. At first blush, it's just the same sort of thought: whoa, she's got a lot of hair for such a wee girl. But then I started thinking about it. What if it hadn't been real? That would mean that either I'm that rare mother who shops religiously at Saver's but puts her kid in a wig for vanity purposes, or the child is sick. Either way, is it appropriate to draw attention to this? Shaun said I should've burst into tears and started rambling about chemo and remission...