I am compelled today to interrupt my recent meanderings through the years of my youth in order to reflect upon something that’s been occupying my mind for the past several days: death.

No, this is not going to be a doleful declaration of depression. But I have recently received bad news about several old friends, friends of friends, and spouses of friends, and I’m reminded that this is one of the downsides of living long — you start losing people. And when I think of the people I’ve lost, I always think about my sister Merna, who — despite a lot of years of sibling rivalry and arguments — for the last quarter century of her life became my closest confidante, travel buddy, and all-around best friend. So it’s really a tribute to her that I offer you today.

We were exactly 5-1/2 years apart in age (she was older), so in the beginning we didn’t have much in common. But once I was able to walk and talk, she decided it was her job to be — not my babysitter — but my teacher. I’ve mentioned before how she taught me to read, write and do simple arithmetic by the time I was three. From that point on, I guess she considered me more of an equal, and we spent a lot of time together . . . much of it fighting and driving our parents crazy. But, that’s sisters for you.

Merna was always the more serious sister: well-behaved at home and in school, focused on her studies and becoming a grownup as quickly as possible. (Except for that sitting-on-the-cat episode . . . but maybe I should finally let that go.) I, on the other hand, was always the mischief-maker, determined to make Merna’s life as miserable as I could without actually causing physical damage.

But there were times we worked together. I remember when she was in 8th or 9th grade, maybe 12 or 13 years old (I would have been 7 or 8), and her class was reading Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, of all things. She had to learn Mark Antony’s soliloquy at Caesar’s funeral — a long, complicated piece of work. I was enlisted to hold the script and prompt her as she tried to memorize and recite it — over, and over, and over again. And by the time she finally had it down pat . . . so did I. And I would gleefully get on her last nerve by reciting it from memory along with her, until one day she finally threw down the script and stormed out of the room. We didn’t speak for a couple of days; but she aced that speech when the time came, just to prove to me that she could.

By the way, I still remember the first half of it: “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears . . .” Okay, that’s enough.

Skipping over the rest of our school years, it’s the adult years I remember best. As young, single women in the ‘50s, we dutifully lived at home with our parents (in our case, just our mother) until we married, or until we became “fallen women,” whichever came first. Those were the days! And because our mother — who, I assure you, did have many fine qualities, was also controlling, prying, jealous, and about as puritanical as anyone I’ve ever known — Merna and I had at some point in our development decided that we needed to band together in order to remain even marginally sane. So we went shopping together, restaurant-hopping together, partying together, and exchanging typical sister-secrets behind the closed door of our shared bedroom.

Fast forward about 30 years. Merna has embarked on a successful career in human resources, while I have gone into the legal field, gotten married, had one baby, moved to California, had a second baby, awakened to the fact that the marriage was a mistake, and moved back east and — out of financial necessity — into the old homestead. Which is when Merna got smart and became that “fallen” — a.k.a. independent — woman our mother always talked about. She moved out. And over all those years, even long distance, we fought, made up, fought, made up . . . And today, I can’t for the life of me remember what we found important enough to fight about — but I do know who was to blame.

One more fast forward, this time to 1991. We’ve matured, and are now well settled. We’ve had great jobs, my son and daughter are grown, and we’ve each traveled to different parts of the world. And on September 18th — Merna’s birthday, by the way — our mother passes away after a brief illness. And as we begin to make the necessary funeral preparations, we also begin — as people in these situations often do — to reminisce. And it suddenly dawns on both of us . . . AHA! She was the cause of it all. Our own mother, wanting and needing to be the center of attention, had caused most of the rifts between us by planting the seeds of discord. And the fog lifted; we became BFFs.

Both being single, we thought about moving in together — and quickly came to our senses. You see, as much as we had in common, in so many ways we were total opposites, as is the case with many siblings. Besides the basic serious-vs.-mischievous personality difference, there were other things — each small on its own, but cumulatively deadly to potential roommates. I’m a night person; she was an early bird. I love classical music; she preferred the “golden oldies.” I’m obsessed with all things Russian; her preferences were the histories of the U.S. Civil War and the kings and queens of England. I adore ballet and opera; she was hooked on Sinatra and Streisand. I lived for a while in Prague and Moscow; she lived in Bangkok and Saigon. So we wisely continued to live separately, but just a block apart, and there was peace. We dined out together, and found common ground in the joys of the musical theater (six times to Les Miz alone). And then, we began to travel together.

Now, I’ve mentioned that I liked to yank her chain every now and then, and I saw no reason to stop doing that as we got older. Because our birthdays were exactly six months — well, five years and six months — apart, we always took each other out to dinner on our respective birthdays, celebrating both the birthday and the half-birthday. There was the year I had had a bit too much of the bubbly on an empty stomach and proceeded to pass out on my way to the ladies’ room in our favorite five-star restaurant, coming to as a waiter lifted me off the floor and onto a chair . . . at a table with two men who had been enjoying a quiet business dinner. You can imagine Merna’s reaction to that one!

And the shopping excursion to one of our favorite clothing stores, when we squeezed onto the packed elevator (there was only one), and I was the last person on, with no room to turn around. As the door slowly closed behind me, I found myself facing a squished crowd of people, all completely silent. I looked around at the uncomfortable faces, took a deep breath, and said, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here today.” As the silence dissolved into surprised laughter, Merna tried — unsuccessfully, because there was no room — to sink to the floor in embarrassment. Heh, heh, heh. Gotcha!

But the travels were the best. It all started on the first anniversary of our mother’s funeral. She was laid to rest near her family members in a cemetery in Rhode Island, so as long as we were traveling up there for that memorial, we decided also to spend a little relaxing time at “the Cape” — Cape Cod, Massachusetts — or, as I think of it, Heaven on Earth.

Rather surprisingly for two people who really didn’t care for the beach, we both immediately fell in love with this perfect peninsula of surf and sand, picturesque towns with their sea-washed shingled cottages, delightful specialty shops, incredible seafood, and super-friendly people. We found our favorite inn and returned year after year, with some interruptions for other, business-related travel and the occasional surgery for one or the other of us. And then we discovered cruising.

Wanting something different, in 2005 Merna suggested a cruise. I was hesitant because I thought I’d be bored just lounging around on the ship’s deck, but I agreed to try a one-week excursion along the Canadian east coast. And we found one more thing we had in common — a love of life at sea aboard Holland America’s “Dam” ships: the Maasdam, the Zeuderdam, and the Eurodam. Each cruise was longer and more wonderful than the last. I even managed to get up early each morning for the day’s shore excursion, and Merna stayed up late for the after-dinner shows and a bit of gambling in the ship’s casino. It’s called compromise, and we had finally figured out how to do it. Our mother would have been so pissed!

We chose our excursions in advance, agreeing on each one; shopped ‘til we dropped (another mutual passion); and ate until we could eat no more. We signed up for the spa delights (massages, beauty treatments, and foot reflexology), and played — and won — musical trivia games in the piano bar. And we toured the Canadian east coast (from Boston to Montreal, via Bar Harbor, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and down the St. Lawrence Seaway to Quebec City). In one of our stops ashore, we ate lunch at a seaside seafood restaurant, where I gave lessons to a family from the U.S. midwest on how to disassemble and eat a boiled Maine lobster, as melted butter and lobster juice ran from my wrists to my elbows, and Merna silently thought, “Oh, my God, there she goes again.” And in Montreal, following a ride through the streets of that lovely city in a horse-drawn carriage, she cringed as I fed apples (provided by our hotel doorman) to the horse named Nagano, who showed his appreciation by slobbering all over me. And when we got home after that cruise, we agreed that it had been too short and immediately began searching for the next one.

That turned out to be Alaska, the very next year — cold, rainy, outdoorsy, and absolutely wonderful. And in 2009, the final — and easily the best — cruise was along the Baltic Sea coast, from Copenhagen, Denmark to Tallinn, Estonia; Helsinki, Finland; St. Petersburg, Russia; Warnemunde (and a long train ride to Berlin), Germany; Stockholm, Sweden; and back to Copenhagen. The details don’t really matter; just suffice it to say, it too was fabulous. And then, as we were trying to decide how we would ever find something to top it, Merna began a downhill slide that took her through a series of surgeries and a final, devastating, two-year battle for her life that she ultimately lost in October of 2017. And I had lost my best friend.

That was nearly six years ago. Whenever something interesting happens — good or not so good — I still reach for the phone to call her. We used to call each other a dozen times a day, until one of us would finally declare a halt; and that’s a tough habit to break. When I can’t think of a name or other detail from the dim, distant past, I know she’ll be able to remember . . . but she’s not there to ask. And when I want to share a bit of trivia, a peeve, or a recipe, she’s the first one I think to call. But her number has been disconnected.

Sister relationships are hard to define, and impossible to replace. So I try to stay focused on the happy memories, the funny incidents, and the old family photos. Like this one, taken 20+ years ago, with my two beautiful grandbabies:

And they always make me smile.

‘Til next time,
Brendochka
6/10/23