Every September since I started this accursed timesink of a black hole of a stupid web site, I’ve gone out of my way to wish my sister a happy birthday. This is a largely superfluous act, of course. My sister and I are so tight and such good friends that we often talk as often as twice a year which nullifies the need to send any additional messages.
In the off chance that we aren’t able to make one of our regularly scheduled meetings happen, she still lets me know that she cares by doing something thoughtful, like the time she burned my books because she was bored.
Just last night, Aydika and I were at a party where we were swapping stories of familial ha-ha’s with some friends. Aydika and I love the story of the Great Book and Furniture Burning of 2004, but it doesn’t usually go over all that well when we tell it to other people.
Aydika: …and then they threw all of Rory’s stuff into the fireplace!
Other People: [blink]
Aydika: Isn’t that funny?
Other People: It wasn’t very funny when Hitler did it.
Aydika: Yeah, but this is different, see? It’s funny because-
Other People: Hitler.
Aydika: I know - just let me finish what-
Other People: Hitler.
Whatever. Just because Hitler did it doesn’t mean it can’t be funny, although I’ll admit it certainly makes communicating the humor of the situation kind of an uphill struggle, especially since it probably wouldn’t be funny if Hitler hadn’t done it first.
But this is getting complicated.
Fortunately, I had another story that wasn’t as likely to start arguments about Hitler. I’m sure that some people could still find correlations, but let’s not do that today.
Let’s just enjoy the beautiful simplicity of the story of a brother and sister at the beach on a sunny day in California.
Sometime around 1986…
For reasons that would be too numerous and complex to discuss here, my sister and I spent one summer day in 1986 playing on the beach in Monterey, California.
I was eight years old, and my sister was nine. It was the height of childhood. We were independent enough by that time that we didn’t need adults to accompany us to the bathroom, and we were still young enough that we didn’t have to worry about things like line item number forty-seven from the “Form 1088 – Supplemental Income from Whale Fishing” tax form (line item number forty-seven is, by the by, where you specify how many whales you planted to make up for those that you farmed during the fiscal year).
Life was good. Simple. Peaceful. It was what you would get if you could distill and bottle the emotional content of the genetic crossbreeding of a Hallmark card and a Precious Moments figurine.
I was making sandcastles that day. Pretty little ramparts built up from the sediment of wave-worn stone. I made passageways and bridges, thinking about how fun it would have been if my mother had let me bring my collection of My Little Ponies with me on the trip (unfortunately, there wasn’t room in the RV – it was either my extensive assortment of My Little Ponies or the onboard septic system, and we had to make a choice – I lost). I could have placed them in various locations around the castles and played make-believe. I didn’t get to, but these things happen. No biggie.
My sister eventually noticed that I was making these sandcastles, and she decided to come over and help.
The way she helped was to repeatedly punch the gates, towers, and gardens until they were reduced back down to shapeless mounds of silt.
Ha ha.
It was really funny. I thanked my sister for enriching my life by choosing to play with me, but suggested that she run off and do something else, like get kidnapped.
She scampered off, and I made another sandcastle. Like the first, it was an exquisite masterpiece of attention and detail. Looking at it, you could almost taste the illiteracy, cholera, indentured servitude, and religious intolerance that made up castle life Way Back When.
Seeing that her work was not yet finished, my sister returned to “help” me again.
Ha ha.
It was a lot funnier the second time. I think I punched her in the forehead to thank her for the laughs.
Again, she ran off, and I went to work on a third castle. If anything, I was a resilient child, and I wasn’t going to let a little dose of Total Failure get in the way of sandcastle building.
But, I was smart this time.
When I was done, as expected, my sister came back to destroy the fruits of my labor.
I didn’t try to stop her. Instead, I stood back and coached her on different methods she might try to really do some damage. I demonstrated a grinding motion with my hands, showing her how she could use her claws to tear the sand apart and wipe out any trace of my creativity.
About a minute in, she began to suspect that something was up.
What was up is that I built this third castle on a gigantic pile of dog shit, and her hands were covered in it.
Ha ha.
My sister taught me many things in my youth, but I have to thank her for having imparted to me on that summer day the value and importance of unbridled, anger-driven revenge.
Happy birthday, sis. Bonne anniversaire, and many happy returns.
If ever you need something from me, then know that you can find it under the third sandcastle on the left.