My Little Sister
By: Charlene (McLaughlin) Reams Manning, Class of 1962
My little sister, Mackie, was my first companion, my first intimate peer relationship. I was two and a half years old when she was born. From each other we learned "sharing", the process of give and take that makes human relationships work. I still remember when it dawned on me that of all the family I have, my closest kin is my sister. We have no other siblings.
I don't remember so well when I was first given the responsibility for her. It was just too long ago. But it does seem that it must have been before she was a year old. I remember being in the front yard of our house one sunny day. My sister and I were dressed in little white cotton panties, playing in the dirt with big spoons Mama had given us. And I clearly remember being told not to let Mackie get in the street because a car might run over her. I can see myself following her around when she got up and walked. I was saying, Don't go in the street. It was hard to have any fun outside because I was so worried about her getting run over. I was relieved when Mama came and took us inside.
Some time after that, when we must have been about four and two years old, there was an incident that lives vividly in my memory. It was after WW2, of course, and our family of four, along with the rest of the country, was trying to settle into a normal life. Daddy had a hard time finding work at first, but by the time of the incident, he was working as a plumber, his trade before the war. We were pursuing the American Dream. Mama had just gotten a used wringer washing machine. Daddy was working, so our granddaddy brought the washer to us in his pickup.
I clearly remember him unloading it and putting it on the back porch of the little house Daddy had rented for us. Mama was so excited, and I remember my sister and me clapping our hands, laughing at the excitement, my sister's blonde Shirley Temple curls bouncing. I remember Pawpaw in his ever-present snap brim Fedora hat, hugging me so tightly and smiling, and the scent of his aftershave mixed with smoke curling up around him from his Camel cigarette.
Prior to getting the wonderful washing machine, Mama washed our clothes in the bathtub or at our grandparents' house. Now, we could wash right there at home and hang the clothes out on the line in the back yard. This particular day, Mama pushed the washer up to the sink, filled the tub with very hot water and put the clothes in to wash. We left it to wash a while, and then went back so Mama could wring out the clothes. The wringer was two large rubber rollers which pressed tightly together, held in place by a lever. The laundry was placed a piece at a time into the rollers. They rolled over each other, squeezing out the hot, sudsy water between them. The clothes landed in the big kitchen sink behind. Once a couple of loads of wash were done, the clothes were put into baskets and the dirty water was drained into the sink. Then the procedure repeated with cool clean water to rinse out the Tide. Mama set a kitchen chair beside the washer so my sister and I could watch. To protect her fingers from the hot water, Mama used a smooth dowel stick to pick up the clothes and get them started into the rollers. We loved watching this fascinating process, seeing the water squishing out and back into the tub.
That day, while the wringing task was in progress, the door bell rang. Mama put down the stick and told us not to mess with the clothes while she answered the door. She was gone for what seemed like a long time. I'm not sure if she left the wringer going or if I figured out how to start it, but in my wisdom of four years, I decided I knew how to do this. I would surprise Mama by having it all done when she came back. I picked up the stick and poked something into the wringer. Several pieces passed on through and out into the sink without a problem. Then my sister decided she would give it a try. She always wanted to do WHATEVER I was doing, even though I was clearly much older than she was. I told her no, she was too little to wash. I wouldn't let her have the stick. So she reached into the water and got hold of a piece of clothing. I thought she would burn herself, but the water had cooled during the washing. She held on to the clothing and pushed it into the ringer with me protesting all the way.
When the wringer grabbed the item, her tiny hand went right into the rollers. This all happened in a matter of seconds: her feet lifted off the chair, her stomach balanced on the edge of the washer tub as the rollers pulled her arm in. She was screaming bloody murder. I banged the release lever like I had seen Mama do and the wringer disengaged. I was trying to pull Mackie's arm out, holding her to keep her from falling into the water and guiding her feet back on to the chair. But before I could accomplish all this, Mama arrived in response to the crying and hollering, which was going full steam. Mama got Mackie's arm out the rest of the way. It was very red and hurting from being smashed, but there was no serious injury.
I thought it was all good, since I had obviously saved her. But Mama said when you disobey it doesn't matter that there was a happy outcome; you still had to pay the price. So I got a whipping on the spot. Mackie didn't since she was already punished by the wringer. Besides, Mama said, I was older and should have known better, so it was my fault. It was my destiny to hear this saying many times over the next 12-14 years of my life. It seemed to me that when you are the oldest, you get the punishment for both criminals involved.
From day one, in my eyes my sister was just beautiful. Even strangers made over her and commented on how pretty she was. It didn't escape my notice, standing there being ignored. In baby pictures she was literally "the Gerber baby" ---- little bow mouth, big round blues eyes, very white skin and fine platinum hair. She was also tiny. I was kind of an ugly duckling: gangly at birth with long limbs and big feet, the squinty Indian eyes of my Chickasaw granddaddy, with a kind of little ol' lady look about me by age two. My thick, straight blonde-but-Indian hair was always unruly. Mama worked it over with the curling iron for church and other important occasions, but at school, I mostly looked like I had "bed head." I grew up tall and thin and was very aware of my lanky frame and knobby knees as I saw myself standing next to my petite, plump little sister in those black and white photos taken with Mama's Brownie camera. I wasn't jealous, but I was kind of envious. I wished that I could look and act more like my sister. Her constant happy spirit and highly favored status in our family was a glaring contrast to my fearful, sad on-the-outside-looking-in demeanor.
Although we fought like siblings do, we were very close over the years and she was my best friend for much of my life. We were two grades apart in school and shared just about everything, including a room some of the time. When Mackie started school, the first few weeks at recess I would go to the fence that separated the older kids from the first and second graders. I would call her over to the fence to make sure she was alright. My own anxiety over school was so bad that I worried about my little sister. But she was always fine. She made several new best friends in the first few days, and had fearlessly plunged into learning how to operate the big swings. We took piano and ballet lessons together and listened to classical music story records Mama bought for us. We loved "The Lone Ranger" on the radio and later, watching "Howdy Doody Time" on TV.
I was 14 when I got my driver's license and at age 15, Daddy bought Mackie and me a car. She was 12 at that time, but our parents made it plain that this was her car, too. This arrangement was not always the best thing for a high schooler, being forced to take your kid sister with you EVERYWHERE you went. But I got through it, still feeling like I was taking care of her. Mackie really admired me. She was my biggest fan. She was confident, happy with herself, outgoing and made friends easily. She didn't understand why I was so shy and socially awkward, always struggling to make friends. We moved either across town or across the state five times from my first grade year to ninth, changing schools each time. My sister was my friend that helped me through the depression of losing my old friends and the anxiety of making new ones. I started High School in a new town where no one knew me. My sister, now in Junior High, encouraged me to "get out there."
With Mackie's encouragement, at age 16, I entered the Miss Del Rio beauty contest. No one could imagine what a reach this was for me. I was painfully self-conscious. But, my former scrawny figure had rounded out nicely; my hair was a beautiful long page boy cut. I had been on a few dates by this time and had some new girl friends, too, so my confidence levels were up from the typical bottom position. I didn't win the contest, but it felt pretty great to just be a part of it. And Mackie was there cheering for me.
She rejoiced in my victories and helped me cry through my disappointments. She told me not to allow myself to be hurt by others and not to let anybody walk all over me. She kept me up with the latest teen things and guided me away from being a bookworm. I was never as hip as she was, but I wasn't a wall flower. She saw to that. Even after we were adults, she was quick to inform me when my taste in clothes was too frumpy.
As young wives, we remained close for years, living next door to each other, rearing our children together under Mama and Daddy's watchful eyes. Our four kids were like brothers and sisters. There are so many memories of those wonderful years of sharing just about everything. We had great experiences in our church women's group, doing the Mothers March of Dimes together, family camping trips on the Nueces or Guadalupe Rivers. Holidays and Sunday dinners were most always spent with Mama and Daddy.
Mama's been gone over 30 years. Our family life changed without her. Then, only five years later, Daddy passed away, too. My little sister and I were officially orphans at 36 and 38 years of age. We supported and leaned on each other as we had done our whole lives. For many years, our two families were one unit. The kids are all grown now and have children of their own. We have seven grandchildren between us, age 20 down to 3.
Mackie and I don't see each other so much any more, living near 150 miles apart. We talk on the phone occasionally, see each other at family events and our McLaughlin Family reunions with aunts, uncles and cousins. We live separate lives now, each of us in the midst of our own pursuits. Mackie still works full time, and enjoys fishing trips with her husband. My husband and I are retired, have a flock of chickens and two Boston terrier dogs. I have continued Christian ministry, pursued writing and even lately dabble some in art with water colors and pen/pencil drawings. I still cherish the memories of my little sister and me. I know she has some good memories of us, too.
Charlene (McLaughlin) Reams Manning
Copyright 2009