 Ellen
When I dream of my sisters they are little. In my subconscious they
are still children -- lovethings and invaders. Kathleen was the youngest and
the most dominant. She was born on my birthday when I was 11 and became
my pretend-child, full of aggressive affection and tears for every
occasion. She was also sick for what seemed like forever, which made her
the center of attention. The baby.
That made Ellen more mysterious -- a background character, the
easygoing middle child who found her own way -- and sometimes I worry
that I don't remember anything about her childhood. Yesterday she turned
44 and, as usual, it slipped by and I'll get to her late.
The world belonged to Tom and me when Ellen came along. We
were 3 years apart and competitive as a sister and brother could be.
I was the oldest, precocious and well-behaved and my little brother
was funny and full of mischief. We were excited about getting a little
sister when we were 8 and 5 and she was a beautiful china doll with
golden eyes. But Tom and I were horrified at her tastes. We were modern
cold cereal children, though in opposite camps, he with his Cheerios
and me with my Rice Krispies. Ellen ate -- ugh -- oatmeal, regular
lumpy pasty hot oatmeal. What kind of creature was she?
 While
I took dancing lessons and performed at my parents' bidding and while
Tom perfected his baseball swing, Ellen visited old ladies. We started
out living in a four-family flat and my mother used to encourage me to
visit a lonely old lady who lived upstairs. I did it but was horrified
by the whole ordeal of climbing the stairs and knocking on the door and
just presenting myself with no purpose. (Jesus, even as a tot I was
agonizing over purpose.) I could do a couple of dances, sing a
couple of Irish songs, but then what?
Ellen didn't have my problem. She was as soft-spoken as I but
apparently felt none of the same angst. She must have begun visiting the
neighbor ladies the minute she could crawl up the stairs. As soon as we
moved to a new neighborhood when she was 2-1/2, she lined up a new
itinerary: a childless couple next door, two spinsters next to them, and
a widow a little farther down the street. The impression I have is that
she just knocked on the door, was invited in, and plunked herself down -- not to
entertain, but to be entertained by them. They loved her dearly and she
was their little pun'kin till she grew up and they all died off. Was
Ellen
just quirky about the company of older women, did they stuff her with
cookies and tea, or was it the quiet escape of the third child of four
who wanted a set of adults all to herself for a little while every day?
And so she grew up in the limelight of the neighbor ladies and out of
everyone else's spotlight. That's how I remember her anyway -- finding
her own path between me (bookish and dateless) and Tom (always over the limit), and differentiating herself from the dramatic
Kathleen.
This is beginning to sound like a eulogy -- no she didn't contract a
dread disease. She just grew up, grew beautiful, got married, grew 3
interesting kids (still growing), and grew and grew and grew. I love
her very much.
Happy Birthday, Ellen.
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