How My Sister Got Her Name

The title says it all. Little Sister Mine, I should have told this story long ago.

Sunday mornings the grocery store is most often peaceful and quiet. The parking lot is mostly empty. The isles are clear of stubborn carts with wayward wheels, each piled high with month�s supply of food. No mom�s trying to shop and control the pack of little pests at her feet. No rude folks cutting in front or ignoring the rules of grocery store etiquette. No indifferent, hassled and frazzled, clerks tired and ready to go home. Yes, Sunday mornings are simply the best time to shop.

But then as I recall younger years of decades past, grocery stores were so much different. Simple little places sitting on quiet neighborhood corners run by people you actually knew. The kind and friendly folks, who ran them, usually lived upstairs above the store and were always available when something was needed.

In my quiet neighborhood there was just such a place, Winter�s Groceries. Located on a corner intersection that had to be passed either coming or leaving home, it was, for a five year old little boy, a most familiar landmark. One that a little boy loved to visit for there was jars and jars of candies and ice cream, too. Mr. Winter was a kindly, white-haired old man who very often took pity on a bored little boy and allowed a little hand to pick out a piece of candy if he was �being good.�

The spring the weather had finally turned warm enough for a little guy to play outside in the backyard. Red cowboy hat firmly in place, six guns strapped around my waist out I would go to battle Indians, capture bank robbers, and horse thieves. �Shoot�em up� then �lock�em up!� "Yep partner, the sheriff was in town."

But it never seemed to fail, those robbers and thieves would �high-tail� it over that white picket fence to the Badlands and, of course, the sheriff just had to chase them. Carefully tracking each one, all the while keeping a wary eye �peeled� for Indians lurking behind every tree and rock, the sheriff would search. It always seemed that those desperadoes headed for the border at the Rio Grande.

Spurring Old Paint to a gallop, the sheriff headed straight to their favorite crossing. Past old Mr. Gookin�s saloon he rode, ignoring that heavily laden pear tree right beside it. On he rode around the last bend at Mrs. Galgreen�s boarding house knowing he�d catch them before they could get to Old Mexico.

In a cloud of dust, Old Paint rearing on hind legs, the sheriff would dismount and whip the reins around the limb of that nearby mesquite tree. �Dang it!� Another bloody little scratch from the thorns of that rose bush which Mrs. Roberts took such great pains.

Scrambling quietly to the edge of the cliff and peeking down, he saw Black Daryl at the edge of the Rio Grande.

�Hands up, you varmit!�

�Never!� he would shout.

Then the gun battle began. �Bang! Bang!� On and on the fight went until at last (remember the sheriff always wins) the desperado, hands high in the air, gave up.

The sheriff walked up to tie Black Daryl�s hands when sneaky thief kicked the sheriff�s six gun right out of his hand. It went spinning thru the air to land right in the middle of the Rio Grande.

�You no good *%^)@!+ � the sheriff cried. �#*& damned idiot!�

�BOBBY!�

Looking up to the top of the cliff thru tear-stained eyes, the sheriff saw the Judge, errrr ah, Mom, that is. How menacing she looked big belly and all!

�Home, right now, young man!�

�But��

�No buts! Now! I said� the Judge�.Mom decreed.

Without further ado, off went the sheriff expecting the worst. Surely this time it would be he, not the desperado, swinging at the end of that rope.

The chase forgotten, Old Paint still tied to the rose bush, the sheriff went home and straight to his cell knowing the punishment was going to be harsh this time. Long, long painful minutes, mourning the loss of the six gun and fearfully expecting the worst, past before the Judge came upstairs.

Towering silently at the foot of my bed she finally said �What am I going to do with you?�

�How many times have I told you to not to leave the yard?� she asked. �But what makes me really mad is your language, young man!�

Sadly, all too often my Dad would let loose a stream of profanity when he got angry and, of course, young ears figured if it was ok for him then it was ok for me to say. I knew, right then and there, the punishment was going to be worse than any of the many, many times before.

�Sunday school! Every Sunday morning!� the Judge finally decreed.

I was puzzled at this sentence because neither Mom nor Dad ever went to church. Oh, I had been to church a time or two with other family and friends but like all little boys I simply hated having to get all clean and dressed up. Just not the true image of a cowboy sheriff, you see.

What happened was this: Mom asked Mrs. Dalgreen if she would take me, along with her own boys, when she went to church on Sundays. Now Mrs. Dalgreen was a regular church-goer which was every time those doors were opened or a light switch turned on in the broom closet.

So every Sunday without fail it was off to Sunday school with Mrs. Dalgreen and her brood.
We always walked, right past Winter�s Grocery and up the street to the First Baptist Church. Sometimes on the way home, if each of us boys behaved, we would stop at the grocery store and have something to drink. Usually it was an icy cold root beer for Mrs. Dalgreen believe Coca Cola was one of the �devil�s drinks.�

I didn�t like having to go. My time could have been better spent capturing bank robbers and horse thieves but the Judge had sentenced me so there was nothing else to do but do my �time.�

Then one Sunday morning a new little girl joined our Sunday school class and sat right beside me at the back of the room. She had curly, curly dark hair and big brown eyes that danced in the sunlight pouring through the open window and she smiled at me as she made herself comfortable. Right then and there this tough little sheriff lost his heart.

Once class was over, outside we went for a few minutes of play before the service began. The little curly-haired girl and I began to talk. I told her my name and she told me hers. Caught, hook, line, and sinker, I quickly learned she lived in the �big white house� just down the street past Winter�s Grocery. She loved playing cowboys and Indians but didn�t like including the bad guys. We made plans to play at her house sometime soon as we walked into the church.

Church finally over the Dalgreen clan and I walked home without stopping for anything to drink. Charles, Mrs. Dalgreen�s youngest son, had �acted up� during the service so there was to be no reward that Sunday.

When I got home I couldn�t wait to get out of that little suit and rid of that strangling tie. In shorts and tee shirt I headed for the kitchen where Mom was cooking Sunday dinner which that day was only for us since no one else had been invited. Cooking all done and table set, Dad, Mom and I sat down to eat. Immediately they began discussing, as they had for quite some time, names for the new baby that was still some months away from �showing up.� All I wanted to do was eat as fast as I could and �pin on my badge and head back to town.�

My �sentence� lingering in the back of my mind kept me within the confines of the backyard, yet the adventure of chasing desperadoes kept growing and growing over the next few days. Then one bright sunny morning it simply became too much. There was a �new� villain to be caught and I could not resist, so over the fence I went.

I knew it was going to be a very long chase, longer than any before. She had told me �a big white house, close to Winter�s Grocery� so I knew right where to find the villain. Down that gravel street, across the Rio Grande, to the top of the hill and, then, the long road straight into Mexico, but as I neared the intersection what I saw was lots of �big white houses, close to Winter�s Grocery.�

I searched up and down all four streets leading to and from the corner but there were so many big white houses and no curly-haired little girl in sight. More than a �mite� tired and thirsty, back to Winter�s I went, in hope that I could persuade either Mr. or Mrs. Winter to let me have a Coke on credit.

Mrs. Winter, seeing the sheriff with his star pinned upon his chest, red cowboy hat and six guns ready, was a hot, tired, and thirsty little boy, sat me right down behind the counter with a cold Coke.

�You stay right here and don�t you move!� she commanded and then she disappeared to the back of the room.

Just a moment or two later I heard her say ��..yes, ma�am he�s right here with me.� Then the sheriff knew it was going to be the jail house for him one more time.

By then I had finished the Coke, Mrs. Winter came back and gave me one of my favorites�a big, thick ice cream sandwich. As I finished it I heard the screen door bang shut and I knew the Judge had arrived.

From the expression on her face as she thanked Mrs. Winter for looking after me, I could tell this time my �sentence� was really going to be bad. All the way home, I marched in front of the Judge like a condemned prisoner going straight to the gallows.

My sentence, you might ask? Accordion lessons! Yuck! No drums, no get-tar, no trumpet or bugle, oh no! It had to be the accordion and I had to practice for an hour every single day!

Several weeks later on another Sunday afternoon, over dinner Mom and Dad continued their �discussion� about what to name the new baby. Perhaps it was that I wanted to get outside or simply tired of their bickering but suddenly I blurted out �if it�s a girl�.!�

I will never forget the shocked expressions on their faces that I had made such a suggestion.
Then, there were the questions of where I had come up with that name. It was really simple so I told them all about this little curly-haired girl with the big brown eyes from Sunday school.

My Dad laughed so hard that he knocked over his tea and didn�t say a single cuss word. The Judge�Mom just smiled.

So, after all these years, Little Sister Mine, that is the story of how you were named�.Deborah Sue.

Reviews

[Steely]

That's an awesome story. I love the way it's told from a young child's point of view, how tempting it is to leave his backyard and how he gets in trouble for cussing. I love the way he really liked that girl and gave his sister the name, and how it's revealed at the end. Awesome job!

Keep on writing!

- Steely

[Angel's Lady]

hahaha Nicely written...I actually forgot I was reading a story so when I got to the end and found this place for my review, I find myself at a loss for words. It was more like a letter from an old friend. Thanks for sharing this very charming story. I liked it very much.

[Winter McPherson]

Very endearing, dripping with the nostalgia of a by-gone era. I was raised in a home where coke was the "Devil's drink". I still don't care for it to this day. lol

[[untitled]]

This seems one of those wonderful pieces that brings warmth to the heart of the reader. For some reason this piece particularly shows your skill as a writer.

[Ruby Moon]

haha...so thats what happened
you named your little sister
^-^

[Samuel Dickens]

What a great story! Your "judge" was much kinder than mine. My mom purposely made me wear shorts so she could sting my naked legs with her little switch. She used to light me up like a roman candle with that thing. It's a good thing your little friend wasn't named "Bertha Gertrude," huh?