Smith Says: The sister syndrome

  • Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Turns out Aug. 5 was national Sisters’ Day—and I missed it. (In my defense, it seems like there’s a day for everything now. When can we expect Freaky Neighbor Day? Or Flaky Ex-Spouse Day?)
An online search revealed very little about Sisters’ Day. Apparently it’s the first Sunday in August. I don’t know when it started, or why, but it’s not an “official” holiday like, say, Mothers’ Day or Take Your Dog to Work Day.
(August is also Admit You're Happy Month, Family Fun Month, Catfish Month, Eye Exam Month, Golf Month, Peach Month, Romance Awareness Month, Water Quality Month and, last but not least, Picnic Month. I can actually get behind Picnic Month. I’m all about a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me in the wilderness.)
Anyway, back to sister talk. The only one I have, Moonbeam, must be experienced to be believed. Now, ol’ Moon is not a bad egg. In fact, she’s… unique. I wish her well and I believe she returns the feeling. We simply have nothing, nada, zip, zero in common. (Another perspective: Widdle and I have been married almost seven years and he’s never seen or spoken to her.)
Sis was 10 years old when I was born. We shared a bed for the next eight years, until she went off to college, became a philosophy major and began burning her boyfriends’ draft cards. She was a tree-hugger before tree-hugging was cool.
Moonbeam has always regarded me with a sort of benevolent disinterest. Wait, that’s not fair. She’s interested in me when I am interested in healing crystals and long-distance emotional cleansing, which is to say very seldom.
Moonbeam is a holistic health practitioner. That’s marvelous if you think dandelion root can cure broken ribs, which I do not. But she has a thriving practice (her specialty is telephone healing) and a snappy Web site. She lives in a rambling old Victorian in Oregon and gets along just fine.
Aside from degrees in philosophy, religion and history, she’s also a licensed massage therapist and can play several instruments. She’s 5 feet 9 inches, with auburn hair and green eyes. Men have traveled across continents to be with her. (I’m 5 feet 2 inches, with brassy hair and gray eyes. Men have traveled across county lines to be with me.)
Moonbeam has studied in Scotland, Switzerland and Israel. Along the way she got married in a redwood forest and had a son, Ezra, who’s now a Hollywood producer. For years I thought she named him after the Biblical prophet. Nope. Ezra Pound.
Ten years ago, Moon bought a female cocker spaniel puppy. It had insane orange eyes, and she named it Donatella Isabella. The dog immediately ate through a bathroom door and devoured several vials of organic healing oils. I don’t know if she was healed, but Moon promptly found her a new home. This sticks in my mind because A) When you give a dog that kind of name, you should expect rebellion and B) She bought it on impulse and discarded it in a snit. That’s not how I roll.
Still, I visit her Web site occasionally to make sure she’s still breathing. She is. She talks with my brother T-Bob every couple of years, and he tells her I’m fine. I am.
The moral of the story is…. if you have a sister you can relate to, mazel tov. If not, well, I know an emotional cleansing expert who can help you with that. By phone.
Julie R. Smith, who is thankful for brothers, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.


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