Summer time, especially today with overcast skies, merits a trip into family nostalgia. Look what I found on an old external hard drive: A delightful sibling memory!

From the file: Lois Roelofs/Stories//10-25-2001

            You have to meet my sister Rose. She can change your life if you’re not careful. Recently, I made a major career decision based on something she said. And I wasn’t even aware of it at the time.

            As the second oldest of my three sisters, Rose is 66 years old. She is the tallest at 5 feet, 7 inches. Most of her life, she has been the thinnest—and the feistiest—of the four of us. But with recent health events surrounding her life, she now stashes her diet “cardboard food” deep into her kitchen desk drawer. “We’re going to need the extra fat on our bones when we grow old together at Porter Hills,” she says. Porter Hills was my folks’ retirement community.

            We have an older brother, but he pretty much leaves us alone. When I was born, he told the neighbors, “It’s another girl.” He was 11, Kay was 8, Rose was 7, and Esther was 5.

            I do not remember Rose much before she strutted into my high school American literature course. I was glad she was married, because I didn’t want anyone to know right off that this new teacher was my sister. The guys from Byron Center, a rural community near our suburb, were not there to learn literature. They dressed like Elvis—greased hair, white dress shirts with collar up, tight jeans, and black leather jackets. I’d get embarrassed to see Rose try to handle their You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog attitude. Try as she would to excite them about Poe’s pendulum or Sandberg’s Chicago, they’d rather swagger into class and stare out the windows at their’58 Chevys with souped-up engines and dual mufflers.

            It wasn’t until my fortieth-class reunion last year that a group of these Byronite guys came up to me and apologized, “We gave your sister such a hard time, but you know what? She was our favorite teacher. It just wasn’t cool at that time to show that we liked literature. How is she?”

            I do not remember Rose before that literature class. My folks sent her away at age 15 to finish high school in another city. I was only eight. The reason, they said, was so she could go along with Kay to college. Kay needed company because she was shy. Rose and Kay were only ten and a half months apart and had always been inseparable. But the real reason was that Rose was dating a high school jock that didn’t meet my folks’ approval. And they couldn’t stop her. Rose used to plan evasions with Kay covering for her. Kay tells about hiding in the cellar by the coal bin waiting to let Rose in the back door after a late night out.  

            I began to admire Rose in that American literature class. She made alliteration bump, bounce, and bang and onomatopoeia hum, buzz, and zig zag. Later, after I graduated from college and got married, I’d visit her in the suburbs where she lived with her husband and four young daughters. I learned mothering from her. “My, this is great cherry pie,” she said at the dinner table. She said you had to compliment yourself because husbands and young children don’t know enough to do that. And if you want to feel good about slopping up after kids all day, you must give yourself your own compliments. Later, I made similar announcements: “My, these chocolate chip cookies are simply yummy.”

            The four of us sisters are now retired, living in different cities. We are on daily e-mail. And Rose serves as our shopper. What Rose buys, we are sure to investigate. If Rose finds a bargain at Target on striped socks that are “just too cute to wear with your sandals,” we follow. If Rose finds a sale at Nordstrom marked down the third time on black gabardine pants that are “just a staple for your winter outfits,” we run to follow. If Rose finds a deal at Home Depot on mops that are “just the ticket for your kitchen floor,” we check it out. Even Esther, who has kitchen carpeting. Right now, we are dubious, though. Last week she surprised us with new glasses—”only $167.00 from Costco”—with black rectangular plastic frames. “The latest in thing. They can’t keep them on their shelves.” But we can’t get new frames again, not yet—we’re barely caught up with her last ones: “Gold, to lift up your face. Something we need, gals, as we age.”

            In the last two years, Rose’s husband has had four life-threatening surgeries. Each time Rose rose to the challenge. She packed an elaborate “hospital purse” full of comfort items: a “no-brainer” mystery paperback, TIME magazine, anti-bacterial hand lotion, toothbrush, Lady Godiva chocolates, fat-free granola bars, miniature pillow, and cell phone. Most importantly, she packed a copy of a pamphlet she used as a lay hospital chaplain, after her years of teaching, entitled God’s Promises to You. Later, I packed similar items when I accompanied my husband for his first cancer surgery. I even bought a similar purse.

            A year ago Rose and I were sipping mochas outside Nordstrom in Seattle’s Alderwood Mall. From nowhere, she asked, “When are you going to retire, Lois?”

  “I have no idea, 62 or 65, so that’s a few years off yet.”

  “Why wait? What are you waiting for?”

            “I don’t know. I guess because I don’t know what I’d do with all that time.”

            Pointing her finger at me, she said, “Lois, you are not trusting God.”

A few months later, in January of 2000, I announced my early retirement. Like I said before, you really ought to meet my sister Rose. She can make you do things you never would have thought of yourself.

###

Rose, my last sister to die, passed away at age 86 in 2022. My oldest sister, Kay, died at 78, ten years earlier. My closest-to-my-age sister, Esther, died at 80, five years earlier. My oldest sibling, Dewey, died at 74, 17 years earlier. I miss them all! But, at 82, I aim to surpass Rose’s age at death. Or our mother’s, who died at 95.

And, Rose, if you’re listening, I’ve honored your request. She “got a kick” out of this essay, but she made me promise not to publish it at the time. She didn’t want her little grand kids to know about her sneaking out to date. Those kids are all adults now, some married with children, and I think they’ll understand and get a chuckle out of their grandma’s request. Rose, I wish you were still here to offer me all your hints for living! For the record, though, I’m still wearing black plastic glasses.