Friday, May 27, 2011



When I was growing up I loved to put together models.  There were model airplanes, navy ships, cars, sailing ships, tanks, and various other modeling kits that would appeal to young boys.

I worked hard on those models, taking my time, getting better at it as I got more of them and I liked to display them in my room.

The models would be on the dresser and on some shelves on the walls.  I must have had about 20.
A strange thing would happen every once in a while.  One of the models would either disappear or get broken.  I was mad.

My mother, in reply to my pointed inquiry, would say, “Oh, a big truck went by and shook the model off the shelf.”

I was unconvinced and blamed my sister and her friend Patty. 

They were, it seemed to me, prime suspects.
They often played upstairs, I had seen them in my room, and they liked to investigate my stuff.

My sister and I did not get along very well.  We usually ignored each other but occasionally resorted to physical solutions to our problems.

I once tied her up in her bed, she hit me with a lamp, I threw her down a few steps (in my defense, she was in my room), I told her she was adopted, you get the picture. Of course I was given my usual punishment for all this.

Anyway, she was the prime suspect.  I was convinced she and her friend would go in my room and touch or play with the models and break them.  Then my mother would throw them away to hide the evidence and blame the truck or hope I didn’t notice.

My sister of course denied ever doing this. 

Her explanation is my mother did it while cleaning and let me think my sister had done it.  The truck explanation was never plausible.  

This could be true, but my sister’s track record with my things was not good. She broke my records, knocked over and scratched my bike and in general was a pest.  I’m sure she felt the same way about me.

I still think she did it.

My sister would like me to relate the following.

We lived in a four story house counting the basement and finished attic.  The washing machine (no one had dryers) was in the basement.  The stairs to the basement were narrow and steep.  Once every year, while carrying the laundry, my mother would fall down the stairs.  She would bounce down the stairs on her backside.

The first time this happened, we all ran over to make sure she was all right.  We helped her up, made sure nothing was broken, got her up the stairs, made some tea and sympathized with her.

The second year we also ran over to make sure everything was ok, etc.  The third year one of us called out “Is everything ok?”  The fourth year one of us peered over the steps. From the fifth year on, we considered it a common occurrence and ignored it.

My mother would come storming up the stairs, mad that we were ignoring her fall.  

We just thought practice had made her perfect at it.

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