Thinking of my sister Janie

NORMA'S IN CHARGE!!

With those words my mother changed my life.

I have mentioned in earlier blogs my sister Janie.  She was my older sister who had Down Syndrome.  August 4th was her birthday in 1939 and August 29 1998 was her  day of death. So in August my thoughts turn to her.

Since she was  4 years older than me, I found her a perfect older sister.  She was always ready to play with me and seemed to never tire no matter what I wanted to do. I never saw anything wrong with her,  until  other children made fun of her when we were out together.

But  my mother often said that children can be cruel.  That was what she said, and I stopped telling her about the incidents since she seemed to worry about us going out alone. But after the birth of my  younger sister Sheila in 1946, she had little choice. 

I was suddenly in charge of Janie and would walk her to Prospect Street School each day and  then return and wait for her with the crossing guard and then walk her home.  I have written of this before, and it seemed like an enormous responsibility to me. I was both proud and afraid-- more than a little over whelmed.

Sometimes I was frightened because kids would throw stones at us.
I learned which  boys and houses to avoid. But  I also learned to load my pockets with stones, so that I could crouch behind a car and retaliate if the attack became too fierce.

Janie--God Bless Her--  never told my mother of our battles or other  exploits. Janie always was ready for adventure and she never squealed.

For example,  Janie would  help me steal pears, but she was slow at climbing fences, and we got caught by an angry owner on Linwood Avenue. She caught us by our wrists and hauled us home with the evidence in Janie's lunch bag.

My mother heard us screaming and came out  to us on the street.
She took the  bag of pears and told the woman to let go of Janie--"she is a complete innocent" The woman who spoke just a little English released us both. "This little one is the leader." she said  shaking me one last time. 
"Yes, I guess she is, someone has to be in charge," my mother  responded in a voice  filled with pride and a little regret.

Later inside the house, my mother  washed the pears,  all ripe and golden with a rosy sheen and put them in  her best bowl on the table. She took one and cut it into four parts and shared it with us,
"Norma," she said, "you know a good pear when  you see one."

When I read Saint  Augustine's Confessions in college, I  laughed and marveled at how he reported that he had stolen pears as a child.
My goodness if I confessed sins like stealing pears, I would have never  left the confessional.

I guess I am finally coming clean here,