So let her eat cake...

Today, my little sister leaves our fine nation of apple pie, football and “Don’t Tread on Me” for a land of Tart O’ Pomme, Joue au Foot and “I’m le tired…” It is a big deal. She’ll be on her own for really the first time in her life. I don’t believe she has ever been farther away than a day-trip from her parents… ever.

Elizabeth is, and always has been, the baby of the family. And with our clan, this came with its perks and its quirks.

For instance, I remember the tete a tete (a tete a tete)’s between the four of the Golemo children invariably resulting in having Beth always be the one to “butter-up” my father when we wanted to see a movie on a Friday night instead of “spending real time, damnit” at home playing Trivial Pursuit as a family. Yeah, dad, “real-cheap-time.”

As the youngest of 4 button-pushing children, Elizabeth was always more than just the “cute one.” She was a combo-plate of a full-size, interactive, babydoll, 11th man, lab-rat, and test-monkey.

Through taking advantage of her natural trust and adoration, Kate, Ben and I were all able to learn much about life and the human condition. We all took advantage of her naiveté (ah, the malleability of the young mind) and used her as a personal megaphone from one time to another. If we thought the actions of a certain family member, for instance, was askew but family politics (where hypocrisy is defined) demanded that we keep that particular opinion to ourselves, one needed only to make a well-worded observation in an authoritative voice within earshot of an always-eager-to-be-paid-attention-to Elizabeth, and then remember to act shocked when we hear the opinion how “Rachel has always been a slut when it comes to Ross” spew forth from the mouth of a 3-year-old.

They grow up so fast.

My sister has what could be the worst temper of anyone I’ve ever known; especially when it comes to showing violence. And upon a moment’s reflection, I don’t know that I am not at least partially responsible. I remember the three of us torturing her based on her inability to pronounce certain phrases such as “froon-ral” as opposed to “funeral.” “Froon-ral girl! Froonral girl!” we’d croon. My mother still tells stories about how my little sister would just simply make words up, when she couldn’t remember which one to use. For instance, “Steel Pag-na-doolian” starring Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Julia Roberts, Olympia Dukakis, etc. was a favorite movie of hers as a 4 year-old. “And why not?” my mother would defend.

But back to her temper, I remember once watching her stop -in mid-swing- and with narrowed eyes, coldly consider the hammer in her hands to muse which end (the claw or the head) would do more damage to the face of an older (handsomer) brother who just gave her a wet-willy.
I remember watching my father hold her with one arm and hold a spoon in one of her hands with his other arm and help her lip-sync Stevie Wonder to the entertainment of us all. So one can understand how strange it is to imagine my little sister living –more or less- on her own, in a country across an ocean (a big one, at that).

I don’t doubt her ability to make it on her own. Not at all. It just sorta snuck up on me. She turned 21 last month. When did this happen? I don’t know if I’m ready to stop seeing her in her First-Communion dress practicing converting the neighbor kids with Necco-wafers.

Elizabeth, just like all of my parent’s children, has never really resided in the real world. With her, it really is possible to make a living as a theatre major with a degree from a small school and tons of college debt. And you know, I’m not so sure that she’s wrong. The world is changed not by those who see things as they are, but as they could be.

One more story. I remember when I got the make-a-wish thingy and our family took the trip to Disney World and then up along the East Coast. “Our great family adventure.” Yes, I remember the dorky matching outfits we all wore “in case one of us got lost, we’d all know what everyone else was wearing.” I remember meeting Mickey and the smug look on my father’s face when he found a faster way to do anything.

But I also remember the one who had the most fun of us all, the one who made friends with every waitress or waiter or stockboy at every restaurant or store to which our horde went. I remember the one of us all who managed to make an impression upon every park-ranger and tour guide we met. It wasn’t the bald-headed kid on chemo. It wasn’t the sharp-witted older sister. And it wasn’t the always solemn and completely honest Bennie-hanna. It was the two-year old who had no fear and knew no strangers.

Bon chance, Elizabeth Erin Rose Golemo. I envy the hearts you’ll make a little bigger wherever you go.

Bon Voyage, and Bon chance!

Je t’aime.