Sisters

Maria Shriver writes about her two daughters and how she is glad they each have a sister. She had no sisters, only brothers. She often felt unseen and unheard in her family. The boys got all the attention.

My older brothers and my father seemed to make all decisions in our family. I know now that my mother had her own way, especially when it came to her two little girls. Mother, quietly, raised us to be gentle, to be polite, to be kind and generous. She set the example. Gay and I had each other and we often say there is nothing we can't do together.

Recently I found a handwritten fictional story I began many, many years ago about my mother's life. As I read it again, I was taken back to those days when she told me her life story. She had a younger sister, too, but when they were teens, it seems Mother developed early into a pretty young woman who caught the eye of boys in the neighborhood. She liked to dance at the weekly parties and one of the boys always wanted to walk her home. 

Her little sister was a bit slower to enter puberty, and though they loved each other, I don't think they became best friends until they were grown and married. They had the same birthday, December 23, but Mother was two years older than her sister. One of my favorite memories is celebrating their birthday each year just before Christmas. 

Lois and Mildred, two sisters, were born exactly two years apart.

My sister is two and one-half years younger than me, but we have always been extremely close. Living on the farm and growing up with only each other, we played together every day. We never had disagreements or fights. We had no jealousy or competition between us. When I see kids fighting and hitting each other in the family TV shows, I can't imagine doing that to my sister.

Gay and Glenda with Dixie, a beautiful dog that belonged to our aunt

Mother was happy when Gay was born because she didn't want me to grow up without a sister. The whole family adored her with her curly black hair and brown eyes. We almost lost her twice. She had pneumonia while still a baby and the doctor gave up on her recovery. Later she had whooping cough. I can still hear the terrible sound of her constant coughing. The disease can cause serious and sometimes life-threatening complications in the very young. I thank the Lord every day that she lived.  

Gay is in dark skirt with her modern dance group at UGA

As a child, I had little confidence and was scared to try new things. While I was a secretive writer who never let anyone read my words, Gay was courageous. In college, she joined the Modern Dance club and one summer she won a scholarship to a dance retreat in New England.

She was asked to enter the Miss Albany beauty pageant. I was impressed when she made her pretty costumes for her talent portion. She impressed the head of the Albany Ballet. He asked her to join the company. She danced with them even though she had never studied ballet. 

Gay is a talented artist who can paint and draw and sculpt.

I have the first full-body statue she created from clay. At my niece's house is her full-body sculpture of Will, our great-nephew. 

On my wall hangs the portrait she did of my beloved mare. It is a treasure that is priceless to me. She has done pet portraits for family members. She brought much joy to others with her visual art.

 I love this little guy who sits in my living room. I am in awe of my sister's talent and ability.

The problem with being close sisters is that people assume we are of the same mind about everything. 

We were often spoken of as one being--Glenda and Gay. My brothers thought we had identical opinions. If I expressed my thoughts on a subject, they assumed Gay felt the same way. That was not and is not always true. We have differences. She is not a people person and I am. She hates to have to speak to a group, and I have no problem with it. She dislikes taking classes, and I enjoy even online classes these days. I thrive on meeting new people. She avoids them being much more comfortable with good friends.

    She dances every week and loves it. 

 She reads far more than I do. I have become an Audible fan. She also writes beautifully. I have some of her words from years ago. I wrote a poem using one of her letters. 

The Pandemic lockdown didn't bother her. She is perfectly happy with alone time. But she is happy she has had her husband, Stu, for almost fifty years. 

My sister has a master's degree in Counseling.

Her friends and family call her or turn to her for help when we are troubled. She has been a Stephen Minister in her church. Stephen Ministers are lay congregation members trained to provide one-to-one care to those experiencing a difficult time in life, such as grief, divorce, job loss, chronic or terminal illness, or relocation. 

When I want to get away and escape the problems of my life, I head to my sister's home and she and Stu welcome me. 

Glenda, the taller one, and Gay

Mother  and Gay 

She is so much like Mother. 

They are both about the same height, have the same smile and kind eyes. She, like our mother, doesn't let worries about the future drag her down. She is good at living in the moment, living today, and not stressing over what may come. If something looms over her, she gets to work on handling it. She has a delightful sense of humor and we find ourselves laughing like crazy when we are together. 

Even sisters who don't get along as children often find that when they are adults, their sisterhood ties them together in a wonderful way. Sisters share a special bond that helps them throughout life if they don't let small peeves and other people come between them. 

Rosemary Clooney sang a song about sisters. Gay and I never had a fight over a man, but I did chaperone her on her first date. 

Sisters, Sisters

There were never such devoted sisters
Never had to have a chaperon, no sir
I'm here to keep my eye on her
Caring, sharing
Every little thing that we are wearing
When a certain gentleman arrived from Rome
She wore the dress and I stayed home

All kinds of weather
We stick together
The same in the rain or sun
Two different faces
But in tight places
We think and we act as one

Those who've seen us
Know that not a thing can come between us
Many men have tried to split us up but no one can
Lord, help the mister
Who comes between me and my sister
And Lord, help the sister who comes between me and my man

All kinds of weather
We stick together
The same in the rain or sun
Two different faces
But in tight places
We think and we act as one, aha

Those who've seen us
Know that not a thing could come between us
Many men have tried to split us up but no one can
Lord, help the mister
Who comes between me and my sister
And Lord, help the sister who comes between me and my man

Sisters
Sisters
Sister, don't come between me and my man

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Irving Berlin

Sisters lyrics © Concord Music Publishing LLC

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This is one of my favorite pictures of my beautiful little sister.

 

Home Remedy Saved My Sister's Life - Happy Birthday, Gay

Gay Council 

                                                 
   Mother's Miracle Home Remedy

By

Glenda Beall

I felt as tall as a tree riding on the shoulders of my brother Max that twenty third day of February. I had spent the entire day at Mrs. Womble's house and when my brothers arrived home from school they were sent to retrieve me.  As we all approached our weathered grey farm house, another neighbor lady came out and stood on the long back porch.  She called out to us with a big smile.

"You kids have a brand new baby sister."

The boys were excited and couldn't wait to see her.  My mother had gained weight and lost her girlish figure after birthing six children. She had hidden this pregnancy until the last few weeks.  I suppose my brothers knew she was expecting, but I was too little to understand. 

Rex, the youngest brother was five years older than me.  Hal was ten and Max was thirteen.  The oldest brother, Ray was sixteen.  My big sister, June, was away at college.  I was delighted to have a baby sister to play with, but to my disappointment, she was so small that I wasn't allowed to hold her.  I still loved her.  She was so pretty with a head full of dark curls.  Even though she took my coveted place as the baby in the family, I was not jealous. Mother named her Manita Gay, a name she found in a book she read, and I have always thought it was just beautiful.
The year before Gay was born, Daddy applied for a FHA loan to buy a one hundred twenty five acre farm in the eastern part of the county. The family moved into a run down house with no running water and no indoor plumbing.

Christmas Tree farming Gay and Glenda

When Gay was less than a year old she became seriously ill with double pneumonia.  I'm sure all of us were sick that dreary winter.  Our only heat other than the wood stove in the kitchen was a fireplace.  At night our beds were piled high with quilts my mother had inherited from my grandmother.

Even though money was very scarce, when Mother had tried all of her home remedies to know avail, she took my baby sister to a doctor. Antibiotics were on the horizon but not used in our town at that time. The doctor knew very little to do for such a serious illness. After a few visits it became obvious his medicine was not working.

He shook his head sadly and said, "Mrs. Council, there is nothing else I can do for her."

Mother cried as she sat before the fire cradling her infant daughter in her arms.  The child was burning with fever and so weak she couldn't nurse. Word spread among the neighboring farms that the Council baby was dying.  Mrs. DeBarry and Mrs. Womble came to sit with my mother. They took turns holding little Gay.  

I clung to my mother, knowing something was wrong but not understanding how wrong. The women talked softly trying to keep Mother's mind occupied and off the terrible scene that was unfolding in that room. When the fire burned low, one of them threw on another log. The sparks flew, looking like shooting stars against a black sky, and a puff of smoke billowed out into the room. It burned my eyes. I buried my face against my mother. She smelled good like the bacon she had fried that morning for breakfast. I climbed into her lap. She held me but hardly noticed me.

"There must be something else we can try," Mrs. DeBarry said, as she took Gay from Mrs. Womble's arms.

"I've never done it before, but I heard my mother talk about making a tar and tallow plaster one time and curing somebody of a real bad cold," Mother said, "Maybe I should try that."

"Well, it sure won't hurt," Mrs. Womble said.

"I'll get everything together." Mother said.

 First she rendered hard beef fat until she had a quantity of tallow. Next she went to her rag bag and found a soft piece of flannel. She ripped it into two strips. On one strip she spread a thick coating of pine tar and covered that with a coating of the beef tallow.  The poultice was warmed by the fire and placed flannel side toward the skin, on the sick baby.  The other strip of flannel was wrapped around the baby and the plaster to hold it on.

Then the women sat down again to wait, each one praying that the home remedy would work.  Hours passed and it grew dark.  Mother lit the kerosene lamp. It spread a warm glow over the room and created dark shadows on the drab walls.  Daddy and the boys came in from doing farm chores.  Daddy helped us with supper and Mother put me to bed in the same room where the women held their vigil.  Daddy sat in his rocking chair, rolled his Bull Durham cigarettes and smoked silently.

Mrs. DeBarry, a large, kindly woman and my mother's best friend, cradled Gay.  She placed her plump cheek against the baby's face and said, "I believe she is a little cooler feeling."

A few minutes later Gay opened her eyes and moved her little arms.  She reached up and touched the concerned face of the woman who held her.

"Miz Council," Mrs. DeBarry said in her slow drawl, "I believe this child's fever has broke."
She was right. Gay's temperature dropped to normal and soon she was able to nurse again. It took several weeks for the baby to completely recover, but soon she was a happy toddler, and we were all enjoying her just as though she had never been ill.  

Her recovery was a turning point in my life because she and I are as close as twins. The day I was told I had a baby sister no one told me that she would be my best friend always, my confidant, and my biggest supporter in all that I do. Whenever there are problems in my life she is there to share them, and we have found that together we can weather any storm. My life growing up on the farm would have been extremely lonely without her, and I don't believe that I would be the same person I am today without Gay in my life.

First published in: Moonshine and Blind Mules and other Western North Carolina Tales, 2006  (anthology)

I Can't Find Anything Good Enough

Saturday we will celebrate a birthday for my sister, Gay. She doesn't look any older than she did last year at this time, but with the sadness we have shared, she has aged inside, as I have. I wish everyone had a sister like Gay. I am afraid I have taken her love and her caring for granted many times, and I am sorry. She has been my closest confidante throughout my life. She has been a nurturer and a cheer leader for all of us who are close to her, my nieces Lyn and Lee, and their mother, June.

From the time we were young, I admired my little sister. In school, although a shy person, she played clarinet in the band and made majorette, one of the cutest ever seen at Albany High.

Majorette for Albany High School Band

She always had my back. We were so close that sometimes my brothers thought of us as one person. If I gave an opinion in a discussion, they assumed Gay held the same position, and vice versa. But we are two separate people with different lives and different ideas about many subjects. I often ask her advice.

Gay is an artist with talent in several areas of the arts. I have her pet portraits hanging on my walls. I have one of her sculptures on a table in my living room. I have published one of her stories on my blog. Gay loved to dance and earned a special degree with emphasis on Modern Dance. She sings in the choir at church and one of my brothers once said she had the best voice of any of the seven of us. That was a large compliment as my brothers sang professionally at one time.

Gay is the one in the middle as they dance on the campus at UGA

As I think about her birthday coming up, I think how bereft of joy our lives would have been if she had not survived pneumonia that threatened her life when she was an infant. She was the last baby, but was not spoiled. June, who was old enough to be Gay's mother, said she wouldn't take a million dollars for this baby.

Gay Council 

I was never lonely growing up because I had Gay. We shared a bedroom, double-dated, and I changed colleges to go to her school. We even shared a room at the university. Together we could accomplish anything, and we have some family stories about our working together. 

The tall one is me, and Gay is the small one .

When doctors gave up on Mother after her stroke and recommended we find a place for her in a nursing home, Gay and I would not. My sweet sister left her husband in Cincinnati to come and be a round-the-clock caregiver. She stayed a month. I lived close by and continued my part time job, but came every afternoon to help Gay. Because we brought her home and worked with her, Mother regained memory she had lost and enjoyed the last ten years of her life surrounded by family. She and my father were together for their 60th anniversary. That would not have happened without Gay.

Mother and Gay 

After Barry died, Gay was there for me at all times. I don't know how I would have managed if she had not supported me and helped me both emotionally and physically with all I faced.

I watched Gay's same loving spirit as she nurtured June in her last years. She wanted to bring her sister into her home and care for her, but it was not possible, so she spent hours each day trying to improve the quality of June's life. I know June appreciated it. She told me.

How can anyone find a birthday gift good enough for such a selfless, generous, kind and loving person? I don't know. If anyone has any ideas, please tell me.

Christmas story based on a true family event about real people

Real Santa, A Wonderful Sister and A Good Hearted Man
Our family had moved from town where my father had a steady job in 1941 to the farm where he and his four sons worked hard from sunup to sundown with little or no income until harvest in the fall. That was often meager and had to last until harvest the following year. There was little or no money left after buying necessities for the family, food staples, clothes for the kids, medicines and supplies for the farm.
Gay and I were still very young the Christmas Santa Claus almost missed our house. My brothers were too old for Santa Claus and our sister, June was a grown up young woman with a car and a job in town at the bus station. She usually arrived home before six o’clock in the afternoon. That day she was late. No telephone lines had been run out our way at that time, so June couldn’t call home.

Mother cooked supper as she always did but she told Daddy she was worried about June. “She is never this late coming home. I hope nothing happened to that old car. She could be stranded out on the road somewhere.”

We lived ten long miles from town with hardly a house to be seen on the road for the last six of them. The night was cold and dark. Few people would be on the road in automobiles. After all, it was Christmas Eve and most farm families would go to bed early.

The boys finished their evening meal and Mother washed dishes after she had carefully filled a plate and put it in the oven for June. Daddy settled down with his Albany Herald newspaper. No one knew that Mother had two reasons to be worried about June’s late homecoming. She didn’t fear so much that June had become a victim of a crime or that some evil had befallen her. Life was far safer in those days. If the car had broken down, as it had done before, June could stay in town with a friend. But this night, Christmas Eve, June was bringing precious cargo. Unless she made it home Mother knew there would be two very disappointed little girls when they looked under the Christmas Tree the next morning.

It grew late, nine, ten o’clock and everyone had gone to bed except Mother.She sat by the lamp trying to read and not worry. She had made chocolate fudge for Christmas day. She had a big meal planned for the family, but Santa Claus was supposed to bring two pretty baby dolls with eyes that opened and closed. She knew Gay and I had been dreaming of those dolls for weeks.
We never had toys from a store except at Christmas when Santa brought them. Mother was afraid that this year she was going to have to divulge the secret of Santa and admit the reason there were no baby dolls.
She read until her eyes would not stay open. She dozed off, her head resting against the back of her chair.

Money was scarce that year as it had been since the family moved to the farm. Mother had put the dolls on lay-a-way at Grant’s. June promised that she would pick up the toys when she got her paycheck on Christmas Eve.

With the toys in her car, she truly felt like Santa as she started for home. Before she made it out of town, however, the car began to stall at every stoplight. June turned around. She didn’t want to take a chance. She headed for Frank’s Garage where she found the mechanic still there. He listened to her story and though he was about to close up, he took pity on the pretty girl. While she sat for hours in his drafty little office he managed to fix up the old car. “I think you will get home okay now,” he told her. June had climbed in and headed out, thankful she could be there before morning.
“Mother, what are you doing up?” June stage- whispered as she tiptoed in with two big packages in her arms.

Mother jerked awake and jumped up to meet her daughter. “What on earth happened, Honey? I was worried to death.”

“That darn car. I’d still be in town if I hadn’t found a good-hearted mechanic. He hated to see me stranded and unable to bring home gifts for my little sisters.”

Mother took the packages from June’s hands and said, “ Come in here and eat your supper. You must be starving.”

After June ate her leftovers, mother and daughter took the dolls, one dressed in pink and one in baby blue, from the boxes and set them up under the tree. They placed a tiny tea set between them. Both smiled as they imagined the looks on the children’s faces.
Thanks to a kind mechanic who worked on the night before Christmas, and a loving big sister, Gay and I awoke to find we had not been forgotten and Santa had brought us the special presents we wanted.

My Tribute to My Sister

Friday, December 14, we celebrated my sister June with a lovely service at St. David's Episcopal Church in Roswell, GA. June was fifteen years old when I was born. As in my older brother's funeral service, my words about what June had meant to me were used by the Rector.
I was surprised both times that my letters were considered worthy to use as a tribute. I had written an email about June's passing to friends and copied it to Gay and Stu, sister and brother-in-law, who  shared it with those presenting the service.

I'll share it with you.

Our family will never be the same. She was my second mother when I was small and my dear friend and sister as an adult. She bought me my first book, my first record, the Nutcracker Suite, and took me to my first movie.

She was Santa Claus to Gay and me, paying for gifts at Christmas that my parents couldn't afford. She rocked me to sleep when I was a baby and taught me to say my prayers. She read to Gay and me each night and I'll never forget, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night set off in a wooden shoe...

June was a person loved by all who knew her. Even the staff in the hospitals and assisted care places, fell under her spell which she cast with a beautiful smile and genuine interest in others. She was the person I wanted to grow up to be. She always told me she was proud of me, and her expectations made me a better person.

If you have a sister or had a sister, you might understand how deeply I feel this loss. I appreciate the caring, meaningful cards I've received.

Tell us about your sister.

On Death and Dying Alone

When we lose our loved ones, especially after we begin losing our siblings, our mortality rears up and roars at us. How long do we have left? How will we depart and how long will it take?

Reading the book given by Hospice on what to expect from your loved one as they begin to transition from this world to the next, is almost ghoulish, but I suppose it is something we need to know as we sit with our dying person. They tell us the rasping sounds emanating from the person we love is “normal.” 

Nurses at Hospice know when to call in the family as the last stages of life leave the patient They know when we need to be there to say our last good-byes. They can’t help us with this chore, and they can’t tell us how to do it to make the passing easier for our dear one. But they know all the symptoms of life leaving the body.

My question is how do the writers of this book know? 

As I spoke in my sister’s ear and told her I love her and urged her to sleep well, her breathing became faster and her eyes opened, unfocused, for a moment. I was sorry I spoke to her and wakened her from her journey. Perhaps it is best to leave the traveling to the dying because no matter how many people gather around, we still die alone. 

Even the little book says we withdraw from this world, gradually losing interest in reading, TV, news of the world around us, children and grandchildren, and we become totally self-absorbed. I imagine I would not be interested in the noisy television that seems to be a necessity in every hospital room. My sister said to turn it off.

When read to, she already seemed to be away, just smiling at the reader. My sister June had the nicest smile and the kindest heart. She would not be rude and say, “Stop reading. I don’t want to hear it.” Her smile became a sad expression in those last days as the hopelessness became more apparent. 

After watching death claim my loved ones, I understand that the process of dying is strenuous, is all consuming, and requires total self-absorption. 

Those of us left behind and grieving are just in the way. 

I think my sister would have liked to say to me, “Leave me alone. Go home now. I’m busy dying.”

And she completed that task only fifteen minutes later. 

Three sisters, Glenda, Gay and June in chair

Wildacres Spawns Another Writer

While I did little writing at Wildacres this past week, my sister Gay proved what I'd known. She is a writer as well as a sculpter and artist. With only a little coaching to get her started, she produced some funny stories that I hope to share with you here on this site.

She told me on many ocassions that she was not a writer. She had no memories and she had nothing to write about. I remembered the poetic letters she wrote back in the sixties, when she lived in San Francisco and I was a newlywed on the farm in Georgia. I read her letters over and over, trying to imagine myself living in a fascinating city on the Pacific Ocean. She was young and she was brave, I thought, to head out on her own. While I taught children in the same town where I had lived all my life, she experienced life in a way I never would.

Here is a photo of Gay at Wildacres.

   
 We meet for lunch about once a month and always have some good laughs.

Happy Birthday, Gay

My sweet little sister dressed as Dolly Pardon a few years ago. The guys acted like she was the "real thing."





That is the same lovely smile she wears today. What a joy she is to my life and to all who know her.
Below: The baby of the family was adorable and adored by her siblings. Such a delightful sister, playmate and best friend ever.

Happy birthday, my baby sister. Hope your day was good and the coming year will be even better.
Gay and writer, Darnell Arnoult have something in common besides both being creative people. They both use EFT to help themselves and others. Do you know about EFT? If so, tell us what you think in the comment section after this post.

Glenda and Gay or G & G as big sister June called us

Gay and

Glenda

like peas in a pod,

never far away from each other when we were kids, and we

still talk or email nearly every day. How do girls grow up without a sister? Who do you talk to if you don't have a sister? Nobody understands like a sister.

"Sisters, Sisters, There's Never Been More Devoted Sisters"

SISTERS Photo by: Barry Beall

June, sitting in the chair, and Gay behind her on her left are my sisters. I am the middle child, but only two years older than Gay.

How lucky I am to have these two always on my side. June recently moved with her husband Charlie to a Retirement "Resort" in Alpharetta. That was a turning point in her life and now she stays extremely busy. In fact, I have to call and find out when she will be available for us to visit. I am delighted to see June happier and healthier than she has been in years.


Gay, who practices her Reiki and EFT on all of us when we need it, is like a part of me. I call her when I am sad, when I want to celebrate, when I want to vent, or when I just need to hear her voice. How lonely and sad my life would have been without her. I wrote a story about how we almost lost her when she was a baby. It was published in an anthology.

I'll post a photo of us as kids. Together we can't be beat!