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Wash Away War
My sister just under me is called Lois, which means war maiden, but we’ve always called her Mandy (although recently she prefers Mandi.) When Mandy was 16, she and my mom would often get into some pretty involved arguments. When the war would break out it was time to grab my three younger siblings and go for a drive.
We would crowd into my golden brown Chevy Citation purchased from my uncle for only $400 because of the accident. My grandpa and I had done a ‘fix’ job on it but now the car had what appeared to be a crocked smile or a lopped eye. Not a big deal when it’s your first car and you are running before you become a victim of the battle going on inside the house.
We were use to these events - leaving the house while the two of them went at it. On this one day we decided to take the ‘other’ route into Yucaipa, what is now known as the ‘back way’ with the introduction of the completed freeway. This way would take us through small towns and the wash. It also drove by the orange groves, which were heavily rumored to have Satan worshippers in their depths. It was said that there were some who had progressed up the chain and were now on human sacrifices. I didn’t believe it completely, but enough to be leery near them.
Arriving at the bridge that went over the wash, we got out and started down the incline to the river bed. It had been years since the river had flowed freely. The two dams up the mountain had made sure of that. We ‘played’ for a while and then thought we had been gone long enough that it might be safe to return. As soon as we mentioned returning the debate began of who would sit in the front seat for the ride home. My sister, Kirsten, was around 12 years old and felt that she should sit in the front, even though she had sat up front on the way out there. She proceeded to throw a fit when I told her that someone else would get to sit up there. Granted everyone wanted to sit in the front seat next to their big sister and closer to the B-52s coming out of the tape deck.
Our wills continued to clash as we started up the side of the empty river towards the car. She was threatening to stay, but there seemed to be an invisible cord that would pull her closer the closer we got to the car. She still refused to get into the car unless she was in the front seat, and I still refused to allow her to have the front seat. The other two really could care less which of them had the front seat, as long as Kirsten didn’t win.
We crossed the street to where the car was as she was cresting the road. The game continued of who would give in as I climbed into the driver’s side and the other two worked out who would sit where. Kirsten was not moving as she threw me dirty looks, also known as crusties, from across the road. With my seatbelt fastened I made the next move by starting up the car. Still just folded arms and pinched face. I put the car in drive as the B-52s continued letting me know about the Love Shack being lil ol’ place. My foot moved from off the brake and onto the gas, but still no action from the statue refusing to move.
The Citation was rolling down the road and my other sister and brother were laughing that we would just leave her there. We liked winning. As we drove further away, towards Yucaipa, not our place, I started to think of how responsible I should be as the big sister even though I was only 19. It took me a mile, maybe a bit more, to realize I had probably showed her I meant business. We turned around and headed back towards home.
When she climbed into the back seat, I still felt like I had won. Until we returned back to the house and I realized we were still all refugees. We had survived our small skirmish but we were just amateurs in the large game of power and control.
