A sister’s birthday

The first week in February 1956, my father carried his fourth child, newborn and bound in blankets, over the threshold of our little Detroit bungalow.

In the era’s fashion, Dad wore a dark, long, wool coat and a dress hat to match. A remarkable smile revealed his white teeth.

A glint of lights attached to his movie camera sparkled in his eyeglasses.

Seventeen days shy of my seventh birthday, my older and younger sister and I stood huddled against the cold blast from the open door.

For one second, I worried about our mother before she stepped up into the foyer, wrapped in her black, fluffy winter coat.

My heart calmed when I saw her beautiful, flawless face and dark hair.

For she’d been away from home far too long.

Meanwhile, Aunt Goldie, one of Dad’s older sisters, cared for my sisters and me while our father barbered in the shop nearby on our street corner.

Per their generations’ mores, my parents believed it inappropriate to speak to my sisters and me of Mom’s pregnancy and forthcoming birth.

Whatever we learned about the birds and the bees we overheard in Mom’s conversations with Aunt Goldie, Sissy Norma, and other relatives, either by phone or while visiting and living with us.

And believe me, our household sheltered many Kentucky relatives in search of their place in Detroit’s webbed neighborhoods.

Dad removed his hat, sat down on the sofa and unwrapped our new, tiny, baby sister.

My sisters and I gathered around her.

“What’s her name?” we asked.

Our mother smiled. “Patricia Jo.”

I liked her name. One long. One short.

We’d never heard the name Patricia before. On the other hand, we knew Aunt Jo, my mother’s only surviving sister, whom she loved.

Yet, Aunt Jo lived in Kansas City. It’s entirely possible I’d never seen Aunt Jo before Patricia Jo was born.

Our baby’s black hair and dark skin were like my older sister’s. Since my younger sister and I were born with fair skin and light hair, Patricia Jo brought a balance to our family.

Week by week, month by month, Dad filmed what followed from that day of Patricia Jo’s homecoming.

He provoked our baby to crawl by placing his car keys on the living room floor and inching the keys away just as Patricia Jo reached them.

This he preserved for posterity.

Dad also staged and filmed our baby’s first steps before her first Christmas.

By that time, our older cousin, Sissy Norma, who also lived with us, claimed “Jody” for Patricia Jo’s nickname.

Dear Reader, the nickname “Jody” didn’t stick with my parents, sisters, and me.

Eventually, we briefed Patricia to Patty.

At present, both septuagenarians for a meagre two years, I enjoy Patty’s playful spirit that influenced the endearment, Patty Wack.

Truly, like her clothes and jewelry, she wears Patty Wack well.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com