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Column

There's a fork in the road on Memory Lane

By ANDREW SKERRITT
Published August 28, 2007

It's a mixed blessing having my sister and my wife under the same roof. I love the company, but it's a bit scary whenever they have too much time to compare notes.

My wife has listened to me embellish stories for 20 years. My older sister remembers them differently. Whenever she visits, as she did last week, my wife expects her to correct the record. It takes me down a notch or two.

According to my version, I was a dutiful, helpful brother, who washed the dishes every day, swept the yard with coconut brooms and painted the house at Christmas time. I was also a peanut vendor who sold roasted treats to passing motorists and pedestrians.

My wife once pretended to be impressed but now says she was always skeptical. That "industrious" boy grew up to become a procrastinating hubby.

My sister could have predicted it. We grew up on the Caribbean island of Montserrat with our maternal grandparents. We both left home within two months of each other. She got married in October and I went off to college two months later. That was 24 years ago. But her memories of our childhood are clear; her recall of my exploits ... well ...

The stories she tells are of a sickly younger brother who caught every strain of flu that emigrated to our small island, who contracted each version of the measles. Because of illness, I missed a week of school almost every semester.

It's a miracle I survived childhood. Not only was I sickly, but I was a precocious little boy with a penchant for delinquency and misadventure.

During our summer vacation, I'd leave home early each morning and not return until nightfall. Then I'd slip in the back door leading into the kitchen, unsure what kind of reception awaited me: my grandmother's whip or my granddad's embrace.

Although she was three years older than I, my sister had far less freedom. She was expected to help around the house, while I foraged all day for mangoes and guavas or played cricket in the street.

Trouble always seemed to find me. Like the time, my granddad was picking breadfruit and a soft, ripe one fell from the tree and covered me in a mushy, yellow goo. Then there was the time when I almost lost an eye because I tried to peek into a clogged drain as my neighbor tried to clear it.

My grandmother rushed me to our family doctor, an English man who always wore shorts, short sleeves and sandals when he saw his patients. I left his office proudly wearing an black eye patch.

My sister also remembers the Saturday night when I ate some chocolate off the kitchen table only to soon learn that I had just swiped someone's laxative. Fortunately, the English doctor kept late weekend hours.

But nothing defines my boyhood for my sister like the time I planted a copper penny in the backyard. I wasn't trying to save for a rainy day. She said I walked into the house and proudly announced my intentions. I was growing a money tree.

I believed in endless possibilities. Miraculously, I still do.

Andrew Skerritt can be reached at 813 909-4602 or toll-free at 1-800-333-7505, ext. 4602. His e-mail address is askerritt@sptimes.com.

[Last modified August 27, 2007, 20:40:22]