I am rapidly closing in on becoming a member of the “older generation” of my family, given that my parents and most of my aunts and uncles are deceased; and perhaps as a result, I seem to pay more attention to certain things than I did when I was younger. For one, I have recently begun to notice how so many people today do not communicate with their siblings and, in many cases, say they haven’t communicated with them in years. Worse, many of these same people often say they have no desire to communicate with their siblings and, in fact, have no use for their siblings at all and have even disowned them.  And, personally, I find this state of affairs quite tragic. After all, as my daddy always said, “Family is family.” 

I have two siblings, a sister, Vicki, who is two-and-a-half years older, and a brother, Bud, who is two-and-a-half years younger (Mama and Daddy believed in spacing the births of their “young’uns,” perhaps so Mama would have only one in diapers at any given time since she had her children back in the Pre-Pampers Era and we were so poor, she had to boil the laundry in an iron pot over an open fire in the backyard). Anyway, despite that two-and-a-half-year difference between the three of us, Vicki, Bud, and I were inseparable when we were growing up back there in rural Georgia. Granted, the fact that we lived in the country and didn’t have any other children around, except for the occasional visiting cousin, with whom we could play probably contributed to our inseparability; yet had we not enjoyed one another’s company, I think we probably would have either played by ourselves or else with the chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, mules, cows, goats, or assorted wildlife that shared the land with us on that winding red-dirt road.

As typical children, yes, my siblings and I had our squabbles. In fact, we sometimes got into yelling-screaming-kicking-pinching-biting fights, but after those fights were over (and they were always short-lived, probably because either Mama or Daddy—sometimes both—invariably intervened with an expertly wielded peach switch), Vicki, Bud, and I went right back to peacefully coexisting and enjoying one another’s company. We rode bicycles. We played softball. We played Monopoly, Checkers, Parcheesi, Old Maids, and Go-Fish. We made lean-tos and even entire Indian villages in the piney woods near the house. We waded in the creek. We caught fireflies in Mason jars. We played Red Rover, Simon Says, and May I? We set up our Sears & Roebuck Roy Rogers ranches (At Christmas, we usually each received the same toys from Santa, which I guess my parents figured would prevent sibling rivalry and jealousy) in the sandbox that Daddy refreshed with new sand each summer (we shared it with the cats, but being poor country kids, we never gave hygiene much thought). My point is that my siblings and I played together; we argued together; we laughed together; and, at times, we cried together; but we were siblings, and that’s what siblings did.  

Of course, like all siblings, the three of us grew older, and as we did, we developed our own interests, found hobbies, made new friends, fell in love, got married, had children, moved away from Fairburn, moved back, moved away again, changed careers, changed spouses, had grandchildren, and did all the things siblings have always done and probably will continue doing for centuries to come. And we occasionally had our differences and some fairly heated ones at that. But through it all—through all the changes, through all the trials and tribulations, through all the laughter and the tears, and the arguments—we were always there for one another. And we were also there to comfort one another when our mama died, as we were six years later when our daddy died. But that’s what family did, and we were family. And we still are. Even now, with the three of us fast closing in on our “Golden Years” and each of us living in a different state, hundreds of miles away from one another, we stay in contact. In fact, although our visits are limited, we call each other at least once a week just to say, “Hi, how are you? Are you happy? Are you well? Do you remember when—?”

What most people fail to consider is how, if they live long enough, they will actually have known their siblings longer than they knew their parents. I have now known my sister almost 16 years longer than I knew my mother and 10 years longer than I knew my daddy. My brother, since he’s two-and-a-half years younger than I, I have not known quite as long, but I still have known him longer than I knew either of my parents. And perhaps that’s sad, but it’s also reassuring in a way—to know that Vicki and Bud have always been there for me. Then again, the reality is that we will not always be there for one another, which is why I intend to treasure my siblings each and every day that I live. No, they are not perfect. Yet, neither am I. But we love one another, and as Daddy said, “Family is family.” I just wish other people understood this. If they did, they would not disown their siblings. Instead, they would pick up the telephone, call their brother or sister, and say, “Hi, how are you? Do you remember when—?”