Sand Siblings

By: Judy Forney

Article Category: Judy Forney

SAND SIBLINGS
By Judy Forney

I’ve got a couple of girlfriends, one local and one back in Washington State, who each have a teenage son and daughter who at times… uhm… squabble.

Recently I was chatting on line with the west coast girl. She’d HAD IT with her younger brother. She’d typed and sent me a list of “The Idiot’s” most recent transgressions.

“You guys,” I clicked back, “need to try mixing a little brotherly/sisterly love in with the hate.”

While I waited for my response to fly through cyberspace, I realized I was repeating myself and that I’d said nearly the same thing to my Floridian friend’s kids, too. I guess maybe it had turned into kind of a running joke. At least I’m pretty sure the kids thought I was crazy when they heard me say it. “Love my, (insert brother or sister here)?!? Eeewww!”

“Yeah well,” a new message dinged across my screen, “you don’t know what it’s like. Your brother is nice!”

True. She knows the guy because we all lived in the same town out west. He’s a mild-mannered, helpful, devoted single father. What’s not to like? Now.

“Sure,” I typed, “but I didn’t always think so. Let me tell you a story about how it used to go down between us back in the day…”

I always planned attacks carefully, and tonight would be no different. I snuck in, dropped to my knees, and slid the paper plate under the bed. The sandwich crusts on the plate were gooey with peanut butter and jelly. When mom found the mess, and she would… oh boy, watch out! Crumbs attract ants, and Mom hated ants in the basement. Yep, this would bring big trouble down on the head of my enemy!

Twenty minutes later, just out of the shower, and brushing tangles from my wet hair, I walked across the hallway to my bedroom. Opening the door, I smelled them. Gym socks tucked in among my stuffed animals. Dirty, grass-stained, eye-wateringly stinky gym socks. Oh, how I hated my nemesis — my brother!

Two days later, our family piled into the station wagon headed off on vacation. Of course, the big jerkface and I ended up squished together in the middle seat. As we turned out of the driveway he shoved hard against my shoulder. I gave him the evil eye. He yelled at me to stop looking at him. I asked him to please stop breathing. Mom handed out cookies. I bit into mine then tap, tap, tapped chocolate crumbs into his lap. He returned the favor. I accused him, loudly, of pretending his cookies were cigarettes. Mom reached across the seat and squeezed my knee. My knee! I glared at my brother, folded arms across my chest, and hoped I could sleep the rest of the drive away.

I felt the familiar ess-ing curve of the road and opened my eyes. The miles of Western Washington State’s tall evergreens had bowed to scraggly, wind-battered beach pines. We were nearly there! My brother and I bumped elbows, grinned at one another, and began talking at once.

“As soon as we get to there…”

“…We should check the fort.”

“I was going to say we should hit the waves, but yeah, I guess we could check on the fort first.”

Last summer we’d gathered driftwood for one entire day, and had built the best fort ever between the two biggest dunes on the beach.

After arriving at the cabin, we ran toward the dunes, climbing to the top of the biggest one. Our fort was nowhere to be found, but we had five long days ahead of us to build another one. We slid back down the dune, coating our skin in rough grains.

“Hey, look,” I pointed to my legs, “sand’s like ‘Shake and Bake’ for people.”

We thought that was so funny we collapsed. Then we raced to the water. My brother hit the water seconds before me, his holler at the cold echoed by mine. The first waist-high wave knocked our breath away, but when it came back, it came back laughing.

Every day we were up at dawn till after dark. We listened in on seashells and chased crabs down their holes. Built castles and watched them wash away. There were smoky campfires, hot dogs crunchy with sand, and marshmallows, burnt to perfection.

Five very short days later we piled back into the station wagon. As we pulled away from the cabin, Mom and Dad shared the joke they did every year.

“It’s a shame we can’t bottle ocean air and pump these two full of it year round.”

“Yeah, keeping the ‘sand’ in siblings might keep the rivalry out.”

I rolled my eyes and then closed them. I hated to leave the beach behind. I thought back on the trip. Boy, we’d had a blast! “Sand siblings,” huh? Well, I guessed that was O.K. But just wait till we got home and my beach buddy found what I’d left tucked in his dresser drawer. Five days of vacation couldn’t have done it much good. I grinned and peeked out from under one eyelid.

“Stop looking at me!” my brother yelled and shoved, hard against my shoulder.

The big jerkface…