Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page A

Michele, always got 100 percent on her spelling tests,” the teacher would start,“and her penmanship— why it was simply. . .” here it comes, “. . . perfect!” I’d mouth in unison. Ugh! Michele, Michele, Michele! I love my sister, but having to follow her in school—man, I could definitely relate to Jan Brady!
    But eventually we grew up and I stepped out of my perfect sister’s shadow. And now I feel it’s time to set the record straight. Picture it—Pennsylvania, 1985. I was still in college and living at home at the time, and Michele, now married (to, yes, the “perfect” man), had returned home for a visit. As all of our reunions ultimately turn out, hours of reminiscing over old stories, one spilling into the next, left us literally rolling on the floor in hysterics and crying tears of laughter. On this particular day, our high jinks led us into the only forbidden room in our mother’s home—the living room. From the sofa that was never sat on for more than a few seconds to take family photos, to its countless statues and figurines, this room resembled a museum more than a living room, and it was an unwritten rule that it was “off limits, except for company.” I’m not sure what started this particular chain of events, but the next thing I knew, Michele was juggling couch pillows, one came careening at my head, I ducked, and then there was a thud followed by a crash. Our laughter and horseplay immediately ground to a halt as we turned around silently. There, lying on the floor, was our mother’s cherished, black, ceramic bust of Julius Caesar—decapitated!
    â€œOhhh! You’re in trouble now!” I couldn’t help squealing.
    â€œOh for Pete’s sake, I’m an adult, what’s she going to do, ground me?” Michele retorted.
    â€œWell, there was that time she grounded you for a month— two weeks before you got married,” I reminded her which instantly set us both of into hysterics again.
    â€œOkay, okay! Quick, help me glue his head on,” the perfect sister begged between sobs of laughter.
    Working together, we used an entire bottle of Elmer’s glue and finally repositioned Caesar’s head back in place. And after we inked in the cracks with a black magic marker, it didn’t look half bad in our desperate minds.
    â€œThere, Mom will never know,” Michele said as she carefully placed the statue back onto the marble stand where he had sat untouched (except for his weekly dusting) for the past seven years since mom had gotten the hideous figure—I mean, work of art—for Christmas.
    The next few hours were spent patting ourselves on the back and winking and smirking about the day’s events all through dinner. Yes, we were home free—but that was until Caesar’s head fell off two hours later during a family photo session and rolled across the floor, landing at our mother’s feet.
    I’m sure no real punishment was doled out over “the incident” as we now refer to it in our family, but just to set the record straight, it was the perfect sister who delivered the “deadly” blow to poor Caesar—I was merely a party to the crime.
    Jodi Severson

THE BOLOGNA WARS
    M y younger sister and I were dyed-in-the-wool tomboys. When our family moved from the small fenced yards of big city living to the freedom of the country, we thought we had landed on our own little patch of heaven. We spent hours playing in the barn, walking the fields and riding our bikes down the gravel road that eventually reached a tiny town if you went the whole five miles. Near our house the road crossed a little stream that pooled on one side where a school of fish had made their home. The largest was probably only about six inches long, but to our childish eyes they all looked like twelve-pound salmon.
    On occasion we would venture into the small town library and check out books.