Lucky Charms

There is a black and white photo on my dresser—it’s of me, two-years-old and I am tucking in my baby – bent over a doll cradle, fussing with a blanket. I love that picture, the essence of a busy mama.

I picked up the frame and was thinking how fast childhood goes, how precious the memories are, and I started getting all choked up.

Wait a minute! Look at the size of those feet! That is no baby doll! That is my one-year-old little brother! How on earth did I manage to lure him into that?

He was such a good sport—always there to shop in my store, attend class at my school, eat in my restaurant, and apparently, when he was very young, sleep in my nursery. He never questioned our games, just faithfully handed over pretend money, menus and math homework.

I used to tell people he was my Irish twin, but that was before political correctness, when you would say things like "sit Indian-style", "No way, Jose", or "You better not gyp me!" Now it’s uncouth to say anything that hasn’t been run past a lawyer or team of government experts.

We weren’t even Irish, but I liked the idea that we were twins of some sort and I was usually trying to model myself after our Irish neighbor. Her family attended church every Sunday and they sat down to hot lunch together on weekends.

Whatever you want to call us, I am so very thankful I had a live-in playmate. The closeness in age meant we usually ended up in tears or tattling, or both. We vied for our mother’s attention and would fight to the death for the last Ding Dong, but mostly I remember a friend, always around, almost my height, definitely as strong, and up for anything!