“To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.” ~Clara Ortega

“Secret Plans and Clever Tricks”: The Special Language of Siblings

I earned the nickname “Motor Mouth” at about the same second I learned how to put syllables together to form words. Once I started talking, I never stopped. English and German, which would ultimately be my college major, were always my favorite courses in school. I’ve always enjoyed writing, learning new languages and have always taken my “verbally prolific” teasing in stride – it does describe me very well and illuminates one facet of my personality that, though quirky, I don’t mind.

There is another language that I speak fluently, but have never put it on a resume or highlighted it as a skill in an interview. Though many people have the same skill, the number of unique and distinct dialects are in direct proportion to the number of people who speak it – it’s not of Germanic origin; it’s not considered a Romance language - it’s a special communication I’ve been mastering since I was 27 months old, when my brother was born. It’s the special language that only siblings share.

On the last day of August 1977, I had to share the spotlight in the Payne household with a dynamo with “dancing eyes,” as my mother always said, when my brother Andrew Payne was born. Life as I knew it would never be the same.

When I speak of the “special language of siblings,” it’s not simply a vocabulary or genetic Morse code; it’s more than just a series of common experiences, tragedies and triumphs that conjure up lengthy reminiscences and fond “remember when’s?” It’s not even the role that I had for the first six or seven years of Andrew’s life as “translator” to all adults until the grueling hours he logged with a speech therapist morphed his lengthy lisps, improper plosives, and indistinguishable intonation into a fine orator without dippy dipthongs. Even our parents would shoot a questioning glance my way when my little brother would question “Can I these if Tshcottie wanths to pwray riffthles?” I’d roll my eyes and say “He wants to see if he can go across the street to see if Scottie wants to go and play with their G.I. Joe rifles?” Come on – that’s like asking if the sky is blue? See, big sisters are good for something!

As the years went on, only Andrew could understand the total mutual disappointment we felt after creating THE WORLD’S LARGEST SNOW OTTER after a huge snowfall rearranged our afternoon activities from diagramming sentences to making snow angels. We even called the paper to REPORT the building of the LARGEST snow OTTER EVER (now, I would venture to guess, the only snow otter ever). We waited and waited and waited, and no version of small town paparazzi deluged our driveway to marvel at our hard work. Only a brother can understand that.

Only a brother like Andrew could go with me to the investigative lengths that we did to buy our parent’s Christmas presents. To this day, this operation is called “Secret Plans and Clever Tricks.” We would save our money, sneak into our parents bathroom when no one was looking at take copious observations about what kind of toothpaste they used, the knock-off cologne we could afford, the colors of sweaters mom had that needed earrings….so we could purchase all of these gifts at the only place we were really allowed to walk or ride our bikes. The PEOPLE’S DRUGSTORE. I still thank my mom for being so gracious in telling us how much everyone admired her DRUG STORE EARRINGS in sea foam green that we had FOUND to exactly match a new sweater. Every year, we got the right toothpaste, knock off cologne, probably even some stale Cadbury eggs knowing that Dad loved those, too…..and I’m sure a shelf life of 9 or 10 months was reasonable. Even when we moved up in the world and got them matching sweatshirts that said “MOM” and “DAD” (though, I admit, “Mom” did look more like “Man” because we thought script was classier), our parents never complained. This year, in organizing secret plans and clever tricks, we got them Tivo. It’s not exactly the same, though, as the magical gifts of AquaFresh of our youth.

My little brother has grown up to be a fine young man and one of my best friends. He stands several heads taller than I am now, but will always be my LITTLE brother – the kid who would start talking to neighbors out for an evening stroll and follow them around the perimeter of our corner lot…as they walked further and further away, his voice would rise in volume and intensity “I’M NOT ALLOWED TO CROSS THE STREET BUT I CAN KEEP TALKING TO YOU, OKAY?” I see a grown man in a police officer’s uniform who will celebrate his 32nd birthday this year, but that is the little voice I hear. I remember baking biscuits which magically morphed into hockey pucks in the oven and him dialing 911 fearing I had burnt my hand clear off when I said “OW!” as a tiny bit of exposed flesh touched the baking sheet. I remember thinking we were the next greatest contributors to Alexander Graham Bell’s gift to communication when we attempted to “talk” secretly through our heating “grates” in the floor. I never thought I’d see the day when he couldn’t give a toast at my wedding through his happy tears.

Though my parents may think the bicycle they’d lovingly picked out for me one birthday. the Christmas kitten they’d selected to fill the void of a furry friend who had crossed the Rainbow Bridge or the Coca-Cola rugby and Cabbage Patch Kid for which they’d searched for days and waited in endless lines were all in contention for the greatest gifts they’d ever provided, with great appreciation, I’d have to disagree. My greatest gift is a young man who I am proud to call my brother. His humor delights me. His support encourages me in my darkest times; his strong arms are there to catch me in the most literal sense. He knows when to help me focus and is wise to sense when distraction is the best way in which he can help me make it through the day. When  the telephone rings and the familiar voice of my beloved brother asks politely to speak with “Shit for Brains,” I know my day will be better than it was just moments before. His tears are mine and I’d like to think that I play a small role in some of his triumphs. We share the same warped senses of humor, acerbic wit and undying loyalty to one another. I cannot thank my parents enough for my brother. My heart beats in synrchronicity with his – and until mine stops, it always will.

The language of siblings is not a “Germanic” language like I studied in college, but it has shaped my life more than any education could. It is not a “Romance” language, but one created out of love. We don’t see each other as often as we’d like, but always make time for “secret plans and clever tricks.” And now that he IS allowed to cross the street, we don’t have to yell quite as loud.

I love you, little brother. Our giant snow otter truly was front page material for the paper; our bicycle trips to the Village Pantry are among some of my greatest journeys; And NEVER let anyone even TRY to “one up” your tennis racquette guitar solo with OR without the rat nose. There was never a doubt that you’d be my “best person” at my wedding…and I even spared you a hideous dress with a bow on the butt. That’s what good sisters do. xoxo

Kent, Andrew and Daddy - my three Muskateers

Clowning around

"Beat It" never sounded so good on a tennis racquette