Somehow, when we were growning up, I don't think my slightly older sister liked me very much.
Why? Well...one time she and her friend went up into the woods out back--I was about 6, at the time, and had never been allowed there, alone. I followed her and the neighbour girl. My sister sat me under a tall pine tree, and told me to "wait there, and don't move "till I come back." Being the polar opposite of my evil sister--I didn't wander off. And I waited, and waited...and waited. Finally, God only knows how long--I'd begun to cry, as it was getting dark, and I'd no idea where I was--'tho in reality, I was in sight of home--if somewhat distant. Sis finally trudged back for me, and yanked me home--mad as a wet hen.
Okay, story aside--do hens really get mad when they're wet? I should think "mad as a wet cat," would be more appropriate. Or, rather, "Mad as a soggy Moggy."
Meanwhile, seems dear ol' sweet sis went to the neighbour's house, and spent the afternoon listening to records. (remember those vinyl things with the holes in the middle, that got scratched if you so much as looked at them funny?). Yup. Dear ol' adorable sis completely forgot about me.
But...heh-heh-heh, I got even, eventually.
We had a bowling alley down the hill and literally across the tracks from us. One day, I borrowed sister's bowling bowl (I didn't have one), and went to bowl a few games. Well, about halfway through, I went to retrieve my ball from the chute--and there was only half a ball there. "So that's what the inside of a bowling ball looks like." I thought. Management not only refused to replace the ball, they were quite put out with me--not having a parent there to back me up, and the owners being absolute prigs about it. Went home, and sis didn't talk to me for a few days---Oh what blissful days they were, too. Incidentally, the management couldn't find the other half of my ball.
In my teens, around 1978 or '79, I didn't have a bicycle of my own, either, so I had to use my sisters--she absolutely never used it herself, as she was living away from home, most of the time.
I took that thing everywhere--a ten-speed Icarius was what I was--thought I could fly on that thing--used it just like kids here in the north country use their mountain bikes. Over woods, roads, fields--anywhere and everywhere.
One day, I noticed the handbrake was coming loose--told my dad--got the usual, "Don't worry about it," or "So what?" I don't remember--just that dad wasn't inclined to fix it.
Anyhow, I rolled down my driveway one day, on a ride, and soared down the street--and my handbrake fell off and landed in the spokes of the front wheel. I tried real hard to steer my bike on to the grass of my neighbour's lawn--and that's the last thing I remember, until I came to my senses--on the opposite side of the road where my bike had landed--with a load of blood filling my mouth and running down my throat. Scared the hell out of me, that did. But it was okay. I'd landed on my face.
Got 4 stitched in my ripped upper lip--still have the scar, and a few more in my left eyebrow, but no harm done--was a bit hard to eat, for a few days, tho'.
The bike did have to be put down tho', as the front wheel and frame were a total loss.
And believe it or not: Sis is still mad about it--over a bike she never used!
