Cooperative Living February 2017 - 42

Rural Living | by Margo Oxendine, Contributing Columnist
Sisterhood and the
Progression of 'That Baby'
Kathy and I were at opposite ends of the sibling scale in childhood.
We rarely played with each other and, when we did, some sort of
fracas ensued.
O
ccasionally in this column, I have
mentioned my sister, Kathy. She
lives just four miles away. So near,
yet so far, as they say.
I was four and a half when she was
born. I'd been the solo Queen Bee, and
wasn't the least bit excited or happy about
the interloping newcomer. For a while, I
called her " That Baby. " Oh, That Baby was
grabbing all the attention formerly focused
on me alone. Bah!
She was maybe a month old when
I crept into her room and showered her all
over with baby powder. I remember it:
There were two little open holes - her
tiny nostrils - where puffs of powder
blew out. Thank heavens, she could
breathe; but I didn't think that at the time.
I ran downstairs. " Mama! Come look at
what That Baby did! "
Mama came to look and was not
amused; nor did she blame That Baby,
as I'd wished.
I'm ashamed to confess this, but one
night, Mom and Daddy drove to the store.
They left me in the car with That Baby.
And a candy bar wrapped in flimsy tinfoil.
I ate the candy and then got an idea. I
rolled bits of tinfoil into tiny balls, and
stuffed one in each of That Baby's ears.
Then, I chuckled to myself.
About four o'clock in the morning,
That Baby was screaming. She woke the
whole house. Everyone but I was concerned.
They rushed around, discussing the
perplexing problem. They called the
doctor (you could do that, back in the
day). Finally, tired of all the hubbub,
I suggested innocently, " Maybe she has
tinfoil in her ears. "
Yep. So, instead of going to the beach
the next day, we had to stay home. I spent
the day in the " doghouse " ; Even the
doctor was mad at me. I blamed
That Baby.
40 | Cooperative Living | February 2017
Kathy and I were at opposite ends
of the sibling scale in childhood. We
rarely played with each other and, when
we did, some sort of fracas ensued. She
was a tomboy; I was prissy. I did not
like to get dirty. She loved digging in
the dirt, collecting worms, actually
touching insects.
We all remember the
day she reluctantly
climbed on Santa's
lap and, after the
customary, " What
do you want for
Christmas, little
girl? " folded her
arms and
glowered, " Well,
I don't want a
d*** doll! "
We parted ways
for college and
careers (if my oddball
pursuits could be called
" careers " ). We usually lived at
opposite ends of the country.
Finally, our true sisterly natures
She was maybe
a month old when
I crept into her room and
showered her all over
with baby powder.
for dinner; I know she will fix exactly what
I love, because they're her favorites, too.
And, it will be high-end restaurant fare,
except better than what you find most
anywhere these days.
Yesterday, we had inch-thick, perfectly
medium-rare beef tenderloin, Potatoes
Daphne (divine, but don't try to
find them in your
hometown diner!),
spinach and
mushrooms in puff
pastry, yeast rolls.
I always save
room for Kathy's
desserts; she was,
after all, once a
prize-winning
pastry chef. She
has actually
created a dessert in
puff pastry shaped
like swans! Yesterday, we
had a parfait of HaagenDazs,
Chambourd, Godiva
emerged. When Kathy lived in South
Carolina and I in California, we mailed
Christmas packages back home. Turns out,
we each gave Daddy exactly the same
thing, wrapped in the exact same side of
reversible gift paper. What are the odds?
We look nothing alike. She's blonde/
blue; I'm brown/hazel. Yet, our voices are
eerily similar. We're both good singers;
we're cantors at church; we enjoy and
devour the same authors.
Magazine deadlines being what they
are, I write this the day after Christmas.
I just spent a wonderful afternoon at
Kathy's. Now retired, she was a chef for
37 years. When she makes a meal, I don't
eat the entire day, so I arrive famished.
Hers is truly the only house I like to go to
liqueur, topped with a perfect swirl of real
whipped cream, accompanied by
homemade almond macaroons. See
what I mean?
Our gifts to each other were a
revelation. Among them were certificates
to the same restaurants, and the same
place for pedicures. I hand-wrote a
certificate for lunch, with me, at our
favorite Lewisburg, West Virginia,
restaurant. Kathy gave me a $25 gift
certificate to that same place. So: I can take
my sister out to lunch and, in an ironic
twist, she's already paid for it!
Who knew? " That Baby " has become
one of my dearest friends. 
Enjoy a book of Margo's columns, A Party
of One, by ordering at 540-468-2146, MonThurs,
9-5, or email: recorder@htcnet.org.
www.co-opliving.com
http://www.co-opliving.com
Cooperative Living February 2017

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of Cooperative Living February 2017
