Connie turned 80 last week. She’s my big sister, and I love her.
When I was a grade school kid, Connie woke me up in the dark. We walked our golf bags a mile to the golf course before it opened. Nine holes later, Connie left for work. I went back to bed.
Connie was the brightest of Vern and Irene’s four children. She won all kinds of scholarships and stuff. She collected close friends at Ames High School as easily as I collected lightning bugs.
Once, my brother Eddie was beating me up pretty bad. Connie came to my rescue, hitting Eddie with her left hand while biting her own right forearm. She wanted to make sure she was hurting herself more than she was hurting my brother.
As a frightened and confused teenager, I left home and hitchhiked from Chicago to “I don’t know where.” Cold, broke and afraid, I wound up at Connie’s apartment on Arapahoe Street in Denver, Colorado. After a few days, she sent me in the right direction.
I hope everyone has a sister as good as Connie. But I bet it’s pretty rare.