War and peace waged in a family style

A co-worker lent me a book she thought I would enjoy - a memoir of two sisters as told by the older one.

One of the author's fondest memories is of times the two spent huddled in her sister's closet with smuggled candy and a book, the author reading out loud to her younger sister by flashlight.

I don't have one recollection that is so pleasantly nostalgic.

I have two sisters. Karla is three and a half years younger and Toni is more than eight years behind me. My memories of growing up with Toni are vague; she was a tacked-on member of the family who required nothing more from me than occasional baby-sitting.

But what comes to mind on the subject of growing up with Karla are three emotions: indifference, frustration and more often, rage. Maybe she has some cherished remembrances of me standing up for her against the world or sharing a moment of sisterly bonding; I haven't retained the memory of one kind or giving thing I ever did for her (or she for me.)

I have only two vivid memories of her before high school years that don't involve confrontation: the nasty, tar-like smell of the special shampoo she had to use for her psoriasis, which hit her full force during her elementary-school years; and her obsession with being a gymnast, an unfortunate goal for a girl who would grow up to be nearly 5 feet 11 inches tall.

Otherwise, my memories of her lie in the anger that simmered throughout our childhood simply because we had to exist in the same house. Our words were rarely civil; we pummeled each other on a whim.

Karla's most egregious sin in my book was that she was an incredible slob. With our busy family of four children, it was hard to keep the house as clean as I thought it should be, and Karla did her best to aggravate the situation, scattering her possessions throughout the house.

My vengeful solution was to take anything of hers that was not in its proper place- clothes, shoes, records, homework - and hurl the offending items into her room without caring where they landed or if they were smashed to pieces in the process.

Though it may have seemed unfair for me to beat on someone younger, Karla was not a small or fearful girl, so I'm not sure I always came out the victor when things got physical. This was where blackmail became an excellent weapon.

She once made the mistake of allowing me to know that she had taken my father's unloaded gun out of a dark corner of my parents' closet. For quite a while, the threat of me revealing this very dark deed was held up against anything she did that might have been contrary to my wishes.

Though the gun incident was a foreshadowing of sorts - Karla's first career was as a police officer - our childhood war was no predictor of the future.

My old nemesis has become someone I not only love as a family member, but truly like.

Certainly we have the experiences of our own unique childhood to draw on, but my fondness for her has little to do with shared memories.

We just enjoy each other's company. When we get together, we laugh constantly. I call her on the phone and we talk with ease. She lives 1,000 miles away; I wish that she lived down the block.

(I feel similarly about Toni and my only brother, Kirk, but our relationships aren't set against the background of quite so much youthful hostility.)

So as today is Mother's Day, I suppose motherhood should be mentioned.

First, Karla has also grown up to be an admirable mother to her four children.

Second, the mothers out there whose children fight regularly to the death can take heart that someday, those same children might do more than declare a cease-fire - they might even become the best of friends.

Reporter Heidi Gaiser may be reached at 758-4431 or by e-mail at hgaiser@dailyinterlake.com