I think every girl should have a brother; preferably two.  I know I’m crazy about both of mine.  But I also think that every girl should have a sister.  Lucky for me I have two of those too.  Oh, not in the traditional sense, but in every way that counts.  My first cousins, Wendi and Hope.

Growing up, Jason, Wendi, Hope and I were always together. A regular little posse. (Sorry Zach, I’m talking about before your time). If they weren’t at my house, I was probably at one of theirs, or we were talking to each other on the phone.  We were thick as thieves and knew each other’s every move.

Without them, I wouldn’t be me, and I like to think that without me, they wouldn’t be them.

Until Zach made his grand arrival, I was the youngest in the family.  Hope, Wendi and and Jason are each a year apart, and I’m three years younger than Jay. And I relished being the baby.

But being the youngest had its ups and downs.  Yes, I was indulged by all of the adults, but I had to work for my place with the other kids.  They loved to talk about things that had happened before I was born or when I was too young to remember, just to keep me in my place, and to remind me that the sun didn’t rise and set with my every move.

That’s a good lesson to learn, and one I keep in mind today… well most of the time anyway.

But now we’re all grown up, and I have to admit that I get a kick out of the adult versions of us.  We’re different, but our essences are the same, and in my head we’re the same old group of kids. Hope for instance, has always been the caretaker.

I loved going to her house when I was young.  For the longest time, we had a TV antenna out in the yard, and only three channels.  Oh the joy of watching a program and the picture getting fuzzy.  And most of the time, Jason was the lucky one with the job of going outside and turning the finicky contraption.

I can still see it now.  Jason, out in the yard adjusting the antenna, Dad yelling from the living room, “Almost got it.  Just a little more.”  Mom hanging her head out of the window, repeating what Dad said to Jason.  And finally Dad would yell, “Stop!” Mom would scream, “Stop!” and Jay would freeze. Ever so gently he would let go, but every time he did, the metal beast would move just enough to scramble the picture. And it would start again.

Dad would yell, “What did you do?  You had it. Go back where you were.”  Jason would sigh, and start at square one.

But Hope had cable.  I felt like a queen when I went to her house. We’d turn on her floor model television, flip to the Disney Channel, push the coffee table out of the way in her living room, and jazzercise with the mouseketeers like our very lives depended on it.  She’d make sure I had breakfast, share her toys and candy with me, always trying to make sure I was happy.

We’d lounge our summers away together at the town pool, and she shared anything she’d buy at the concession stand.  I can’t remember one time in my life, when Hope hasn’t offered to share something that she had and I didn’t.

One of my earliest memories is of Hope.

On Sunday mornings, Granny would take all of us kids to Sunday School.  Whether our parents went or not, the youngun’s were going with her.

One Sunday when I was young, before I’d even started kindergarten, we sat in the pew with Granny, singing along with the congregation before class began.  The song ended, and Hope slipped me a Lifesaver as we headed off to different classes.  Another downside to being younger, was that Jason, Hope, and Wendi got to have class together, but I had to go with the younger kids.

As I turned in the other direction, Malita, the older kids’ teacher, came up and grabbed me by the hand. My teacher was sick, so I would have to go to her class.

I remember the warmth of her hand, her flowered-print dress, her comfortable shoes, and the excitement I felt about having class with the big kids.

We gathered around the little wooden table, and I sat between Jason and Hope.  Malita smiled kindly at us, and introduced me to everyone.  I knew all of the kids, but I smiled proudly when I was introduced anyway. Then she said, “Let’s start class off with a Bible Verse. Keli, since you’re our guest, will you read John 3:16?”

And I promptly burst into tears.  Then sobs.  Malita was flustered, I heard her asking me what was wrong, but I was inconsolable.  Hope’s arm, was immediately around me, “Malita,” she whispered softly over my head, because she didn’t want me to hear and get more upset, “Keli can’t read yet.”

She took the Bible from Malita and read the verse herself.  I was miserable.  My first class with the big kids, and there I sat, a big crybaby who couldn’t even read.  Hope stuck by my side the entire class, and not a soul laughed at or made fun of me.  One look at Hope’s face, and they knew not to.

As an adult she’s not much different really.  She volunteers her time to more good causes than I can count.  She is caring, strong, loyal, and generous to a fault. She’s my rock. Just the same as she was back then.

Now poor Wendi on the other hand, stayed in trouble when she was a kid.  Not because she was mean, but because she was creative.  In fact, Wendi Ratcliffe was a star.  She knew it, and it wasn’t long before I knew it too. Everyday life with her was brimming with excitement.  She was always the one with the bright ideas.

We didn’t play house like normal kids.  Oh no, Wendi would take it a step farther.  “Let’s play yard sale!” She’d say with glee. (Yeah, I know, only a hillbilly kid would ever think of such a game). Her excitement was contagious, and I’d go along with anything she said with gusto.  We’d haul my toys out in the yard, setting them up strategically for our imaginary shoppers.  Come to the think of it, not once did we ever finish that game, because my mom or hers would always come ouside screaming for us to “clean up that mess”.

She spent the night with me every chance she’d get, and we’d cram ourselves into my little twin bed like a couple of sardines, giggling and talking the night away.

And Wendi was so artistic.  She had a gift for drawing, and made coloring an artform.  But her true talent was and is singing.  Could that girl sing! She would mimic Reba McEntire exactly.  I’ve spent countless hours of my life sitting in my mom’s kitchen, watching Wendi, perched daintily on a kitchen stool, crooning effortlessly through a hairbrush that doubled as her microphone.

I know, watching a girl sing through a hairbrush might sound boring.  But it was anything but. When Wendi sang, she was a force to be reckoned with, and somehow, she included me in her talent.  When she hit a high note, I was hitting it with her.

She talked about her dreams of Nashville and stardom, and she included me, her tomboyish, awkward little cousin in every scenario.  She was going to build Wendi Wood and I was going to help her, every step of the way.

Now, Wendi is all grown up, married, and has a daughter of her own. Hailey.  Wendi loves to tell me that Hailey is a lot like me.  “She loves to read, and she’s so smart Keli. Just like you.”  Wendi has always told me that I was smart.  She’s always lifted me up in a way that is so effortless for her, but means so much to me.

When I see Wendi now, it never fails, she gets a sneaky little grin on her face, and I know the exact same expression is mirrored on my own face.  People will even ask us, “What so funny?” or “What are you girls up to?”.  And the answer is, not a thing.  We just know each other, and know that if we’re together, excitement will follow, in some shape or form.

Wendi may be older now, and her name has changed, but she’ll always be a star in my eyes.

I have countless memories of my childhood, but if I had to choose a favorite, it would be one scenario that we replayed hundreds of times. So many times, but gone so quickly.

Jason, Hope, Wendi, and I are at my Granny’s house at my favorite time of day.  A time when the sky is still faintly washed with the gold of sunset, but the shadow of darkness is slowly creeping in.

Our parents sit with Granny on her porch. Talking and laughing about their own childhood, their own memories. Their voices serve as a comforting backdrop to us, as we chase each other around the yard, playing tag, passing the time as we wait for the grand finale of the day.

We look up, and Granny’s two huge maple trees are silhouetted against the darkening sky.  Finally, one of us says “There’s one!” And points to the magical lights beginning to twinkle in the sky. And it begins. Like a dance, we twirl around the yard, laughing and catching lightning bugs. We capture each one like it’s a precious jewel, and show them off to each other with pride. We keep going until our parents tell us it’s time to home.

To this day, I still catch lightning bugs, trying to capture a little of the magic I felt when I was a kid. The same magic I feel when I spend time with my brothers and my two sisters, Wendi and Hope.