by Lynne Griffin

Created on: May 12, 2009

She was tall and willowy with sharp elbows and knobby knees. At least she seemed tall to me, towering over me by a head. Her blond hair stuck up in various cowlicks. Her green eyes were calm with just a hint of rowdiness, in contrast to my brown eyes filled with rowdiness and just a hint of calm. Her name was Leah, and she was my big sister.

At ages seven and six, we played endlessly in our backyard, often waking up early to greet the summer sunshine. First, we trudged to the bathroom to brush our teeth and comb our similarly choppy hair. Our daddy was the barber of the family and assured us that our hair looked just fine.

Mama often dressed us in identical clothes, but at that young age, we didn't mind. In later teen-aged years, we would have rather drank arsenic than to dress in similar clothes. But that's another story.

Breakfast was always the same thing: scrambled eggs, bacon, and milk. We picked at our food-just enough to be allowed to go outside and play. Mama would then busy herself with the baby, leaving us to ourselves for several hours.

We didn't need much-an old spoon that Mama had thrown out, a rake, two empty coffee cans, a water hose, and several old tin molds we had found in the garbage. My sister was always the leader in our ventures. As she barked orders, I happily complied.

Sometimes we built pretend houses in our backyard with old grass clippings or leaves. Just the outline, you see. Then we would go from room to room and play out some catastrophe, depending on what part of the house we were in.

Other times we ventured to the front yard to sit on the curb of Beech Street. As cars passed, we would wave crazily to the drivers, and then burst into giggles. We were both shy, and this was a stretch for us.

One day a driver of a fast sports car lost control on Beech Street and smashed into a pine tree in our front yard. Mama never let us sit on the curb after that day. Believe me, we didn't want to.

One of our favorite activities was making mud pies on top of the rickety doghouse in our backyard. It had a flat tin roof that became hot as a firecracker in the blazing sun. While Leah filled one of the coffee cans with water, I started digging. In the summertime, the earth was dry and hard to break up with the small spoon I was using. There were tiny pebbles mixed in that we pretended were peanuts. I was determined to fill my can as my sister waited patiently with the water.

After my coffee can was full of the pale Arkansas dirt, Leah carefully poured water from her can into mine. A cloud of dust would swirl around our heads as we took turns mixing the concoction with a fat stick we had saved for just that purpose. After the mixture was sufficiently gooey, we filled the tin molds and placed them on top of the doghouse to dry. Later when they were ready, we would have a tea party.

Life lessons were learned out in the yard with my sister. How to get along, how to share, and how to laugh. I learned about love and trust and the value of having a best friend.

My sister lives far away from me now and we haven't played in the yard for over 40 years. But we still share a closeness that has never been duplicated by anyone else. Not girlfriends, not men, not children.

Many years ago, surrounded by mud and leaves and a water hose, my sister befriended my soul.

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