Just call me Jack Benny*, I’m 39 years old today.

That little, blonde cutie eating her breakfast? Yep, that’s me. I really am a natural blonde. The doll sitting on my tray is Buttons, my favorite childhood doll, who arrived on my first birthday. Which, yes, means today is her 38th birthday, and I really need to go give her a hug–she doesn’t get many these days, but deserves all she can get for putting up with me all those years. She doesn’t have any hair at all anymore, and has a crack in her face so that her head unfortunately comes off. I used to regularly wake up with her on the floor on one side of my bed, and her head on the other–talk about letting your mind wander. She was obviously well-loved, and she has the pride of place in the guest room, though, with the few, other dolls we still have. She shows up in a lot of my childhood pictures.

Anyway, yes. Thirty-nine years ago today, November 6, 1966, I surprised everybody–even the doctors. Nobody knew that I was coming. See, I was the second of a set of twins, but back in 1966 there was no such thing as an ultrasound, and since the doctor could only hear one heartbeat, he told my parents there was just one baby in there, not two.

My father, on the other hand, insisted it had to be twins (and has always been rather proud of himself for calling that one correctly). How many kids nowadays get to surprise their parents like that?

  Originally, the due date for our arrival was December 27th. 7 weeks from now–seems like a long time, doesn’t it? Think how far off Christmas and New Years’ are–that’s how early we were. Mom had been on bed-rest since October. This back before there were remotes for television–Dad would put on one channel for her before he left for work, and that was the one she was stuck with. And she had my 2 1/2 year old sister running around, too! Anyway, my twin apparently had other ideas about our arrival and decided we should be early. She was born at 9:57 pm. I came along and yelled “Surprise!” at 10:08. Mom was so surprised, she was unconscious and didn’t even know I was here until she woke up in her room later on.

Susan–my identical twin–only lived for about 6 hours. We were too early, and the premie-technology was too new to be able to save her. The doctors told my parents that if we made it through the first 36 hours, we’d probably make it–but that Mom shouldn’t see us until then, because it would be “too hard” to deal with the grief if either of us then died. (This is a far cry from modern practice where they more or less insist you see even a still-born child for closure.) Mom couldn’t wait that long to see me, though, and always tells me that I’m here at all because I was a fighter. (Why she is then surprised when I’m stubborn is beyond me–aren’t they more or less the same thing?)

I know my mother really regrets that she never got to see Susan. Dad did, briefly, through a glass wall, but not Mom. Dad also handled the funeral details for Susan by himself since Mom was still in the hospital, and he was almost alone at the cemetary when she was buried–my mother’s mother went with him so he wouldn’t be there entirely by himself, while my other grandmother watched my sister. I don’t know where Susan’s buried; she doesn’t have a marker; and we are unable to locate her exact, um, resting spot. I’ve tried. The church has a record of her burial and lists a plot number, but that number doesn’t appear on any of the cemetary maps. All Dad remembers is that she was “over near the wall,” and of course, my Grandmother has been gone since I was 9. So really, it’s a mystery. Except for that line in the church records, there’s nothing, anywhere, to prove that Susan existed–except for me. We were identical twins, after all, so pretty much, what you see here, is what she would have looked like. I try to bring her up whenever I can–I figure, my talking about her is about the only way people are going to know about her, right? She doesn’t have the solid relics like a grave marker for future generations to know her name. All she’s got is me, and the people I can tell about her, to give her brief life “substance.” So–keep her in mind, will you? I don’t want her forgotten.

It is strange that I feel like I have such a strong connection to a sister I’ve never really known? I pretty much feel that she’s always nearby, keeping an eye out for me, and that she rather likes the indefinite state of her old, physical self, nothing tying her down to one spot. I did see her name in a church hymnal once, though–my parents had “sponsored” one in her name and there was a bookplate at the front. I saw that hymnal once in Sunday School and was never able to find it again. Sometimes, really, I think she just likes teasing me. I’ve only been to a psychic once ever, but the woman immediately looked past my right shoulder–Susan’s always on my right–and said to me, “You dye your hair, don’t you, because hers is different.” That’s Susan for you–what a card.

  I do, of course, have a sister–Patty, my big sister that I was always trying to catch up to. I can’t begin to name all the things I did “early” because she was doing them–writing in script, reading hard books . . . She did always get to be the teacher when we played “school,” though, and heaven knows there were times when I wanted to be the one in charge, but she was a good big sister, I have to admit. She was two and a half when I came along, and had plenty of time to get used to the idea of a baby sister, since I didn’t get sent home from the hospital until December 21st. I was still a couple ounces shy of the “minimum” weight they’d send a baby home, but they wanted me to be home for Christmas.

Mom loves to tell the story of how they brought home a normal-sized bundle of baby and started unwrapping, and unwrapping, until they ended up with tiny little me, for whom they had to cut a newborn-sized diaper in half just to get it to fit. I was only 3 lbs 1 oz when I was born, after all. They also surprised my grandparents–they didn’t tell them I was home from the hospital (although my grandmother heard me in the background on a phone call). My grandfather did a triple-take when he came for Christmas and saw me under the tree. I really wish my eyes had been focusing properly to be able to remember the look on his face.

I do remember lots of things from when I was little, though (like wearing saddle shoes to the beach–apparently my sister was very helpful about going to get water for me to play with since I found the sand too hot). I remember being in (and climbing out of) my crib. I remember learning how to walk, for heavens sake–being determined to make it across the living room without falling. I remember riding in my carriage, having my diaper changed. I definitely remember learning how to read–the instant that the shape of the letters made sense. I even remember thinking at that moment that all I had to do was learn the words and I could read anything, and the family joke is that I’ve been trying ever since. (You’ve seen the monthly reading lists, right?)

  Let’s not forget my first–and so far, only–”husband,” Mickey Mouse. I absolutely adored him. The best Christmas of my life was the one when I found a “lifesized” one sitting by the tree, waiting for me. Please note, in this picture, how very cool I’m being. (”Yeah, sure, Mickey Mouse. Whatever. I do this sort of thing every day.”) But I was bursting with excitement inside. Also notice how short The Mouse is–kid-sized rather than adult-sized, which frankly I consider a nice touch. (Who knew he was still growing after all these years? When my niece and nephew went about 8 years ago, Mickey was taller than my Dad.) If I remember correctly, I apologized to him for wearing a shirt that had Donald Duck on it–I remember it was a “puffy” paint, too, so it was kind of 3D . . . I loved that shirt. I admit that this isn’t the most flattering picture of my Dad, though, so I apologize for that. (Also, note the poncho the lady in the background is wearing. I wonder if she still has it?)

All in all, it’s been a pretty nice 39 years. I’m really glad I came along for the ride.

Thanks for touring Memory Lane with me! Now, where’s the cake?

*Yes, I realize the reference is a little obscure, but come on, really, the Jack Benny Show was way before my time, too, and I knew that he always, but always, was 39 years old. Sometimes, you’ve got to give the younger people credit for knowing some trivia.

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