Well, after Billy was born, the whole routine of our lives was thrown into something that resembled a explosion of all the laundry in our town. Everywhere I looked was a pile of clothes and dishes

  Deanie Smith  and his family had moved to their newly built house out toward Hunter’s Cemetery.  Bob and I visited him twice before Billy was born, and admired the new features .

Since Deanie lived out so far in town, Mom didn’t let me run over there with Bob, who had his Little Silver tricycle and could pedal there faster.  Bob’s knees were rubbing the handlebars, and I knew the way things worked when it came to hand-me-downs. 

I soon would inherit the trike, and I would paint it bright green. 

So, Bob went to Deanie's house alone, by himself, without me, leaving me behind.  My heart broke each time I watched his back as he pedaled furiously along the buckling sidewalks, and sometimes I hoped he would tip over and get scraped up, so he would have to come home.  But that never happened.

It was just me and Mom with baby William, the one who so disrupted my life and changed everything I knew deserved  a name that began with W.  Stupid name.  During the day, Billy was a charmer and I could tell that Grandma had chosen him to be her favorite.  It wasn’t difficult to see why.  He had wispy blond hair and blue eyes, with round red cheeks.  He stuck his tummy out to be tickled and kicked his legs as he laughed.  I tried to do these tricks in front of Grandma Peck, as I lay on the floor at her feet, but she just stepped over me.

At night, Billy would be in my old crib, sleeping with his diapered bottom up in the air.  Mom and Dad would stand over the crib, looking down at him with such deep happiness and love, while I watched from my own little bed not three feet away.  They kissed his downy soft cheeks and patted his back.  Then Mom would come over and give me a quick kiss on my hair somewhere, pull the covers up, and say, “’Night, Sis.”  Dad just left and turned off the light.  I would fall asleep, feeling like I had disappeared from the family, and no one noticed.

Even the morning routine, where I used to sit on Dad’s lap and helped him drink his coffee was over.  Sure, Bob would go over to Mom and get his hugs, but Dad’s arms were full holding “Billy” and talking to him.  I slunk up into my chair until Dad looked up and said good morning like he was talking to some stranger on the street.  I don’t think my head could hang any lower than it was then.

After a while I knew what would happen next: my brothers would eat and run out to play. Deanie would show up at the door on his brand new shiny red tricycle and Bob would run off with him; Dad would go to milk Blackie; and, I would mope around the back yard where Mom could keep an eye on me.  No prison could ever be as bad as this.

I guess someone had noticed my beaten-wet-dog expression one particular morning, because when Dad stood up to go milking, he looked directly at me and said, “Sis, you wanna come with me to milk the cow?”

Did I!  You betcha I wanted to go with Dad to milk the cow.  Bob and I had never ever gone with him to do this chore, and now I was going to go with him.  “Hurry on up and get your clothes on!”  Dad said with a crooked smile, giving Mom a look.  She looked at him with an expression on her face that clearly said, “You’d better know what you’re doing, buster.” 

I think Mom and Dad could talk to each other without using words.  I ran to my room and put on a clean tee shirt with a clean blouse, over clean pants.  I put on clean socks and then worked my feet into my tied sneakers.   I grabbed a fresh bandana from a drawer and took it to Mom.

Mom tied it around my head, and gave me the power words that I could never ignore.  “Do what your dad tells you.  Be a helper.”  I nodded, while my feet were dancing on their own, ready to run alongside my dad’s long legs.  Dad put on his John Deere cap, and tilted it to the side, looking like he did on Memorial Day.  He picked up the sterilized bucket with its lid, and kissed Mom, full on the lips.  I looked down, a little embarrassed, like I had just seen something I wasn’t supposed to see.  Then Dad looked at me and said, “Let’s go, Sis!”  Such simple words, but they made me so very happy.

He took my hand and let me carry the milk pail with the other.  I skipped alongside his long stride, swinging the pail, and talking as if I hadn’t spoken in a hundred years, or longer.  I talked about everything that came to my mind, and it was a rambling expression of a four year old who never had had the sole attention of an adult in her whole young life. 

Dad smiled and nodded, and I knew he wasn’t really listening, but I was holding his hand, and he let me carry the milk pail all by myself.