While growing up on a farm in Southern Ontario, I spent much of my time playing with my little sister. Because I was five years older, I was convinced that I was the boss of her. That assumption — and my feeble attempt to bribe her — landed us both in hot water.
Our parents set a strict house rule for their four kids: no food or dishes outside of the kitchen (picnics excepted). Our mom had enough to do without also having to gather dirty bowls and plates scattered all over our large farmhouse.
When I was 8 or 9 (my sister 3 or 4), I broke that rule.
Lunch had interrupted our game of Pick-up Sticks. As usual, my sister finished eating before I did. Back into the living room she marched to take her turn. Always the slowest eater in the family, I followed right behind her with the last morsels of sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust her not to shift those sticks to her advantage if I wasn’t watching.
After my last bite, I set the plate down on the living-room floor. Our game ended (she won), we ran upstairs to play with our dolls.
When our parents called us both back into the living room, they were standing over that plate in the middle of the floor. My mom asked which one of us was responsible. My sister and I exchanged glances, and said nothing. (Our brothers weren’t home. We were the only suspects.)
When we didn’t answer, we were banished to our bedroom until someone confessed.
To save my own skin, I asked my sister to say she’d done it. Our parents would go easy on her as the baby of the family. She usually got little more than a stern warning.
She protested that she hadn’t left the plate there and didn’t want to lie.
I was in a tight spot. She might rat me out or just keep quiet until I cracked. But I knew how to ratchet up the pressure. “If you admit to it, you’ll get a candy,” I said, without mentioning that I’d be the one to give it to her. She capitulated.
Our parents were talking in their bedroom across the hall, so we headed over. Walking in first, my sister announced that she’d left the plate on the floor.
My parents looked at each other, and my dad thanked her for being brave and confessing. For a split second, I felt a huge sense of relief. That is, until my sister looked up at them with innocent eyes, and asked for her candy….
I froze. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, and my mom asked her to explain. She blurted out exactly what I’d told her about getting a candy.
My dad snorted in amusement. My mom turned her face away, perhaps to hide a smile.
In the end, we were both punished.
Who knows? If only I’d been smart enough to tell her that I’d be giving her the candy, the whole scheme might have worked. I never tried it again.
Sorry, Sis. You deserved better.
