19 July 2026
1189
R. Linda:
A little ago, I received word that me sister, Sheila, has got the writing bug. Yes, me Mam told me over breakfast that Sheila is writing about her childhood in Northern Ireland. It didn't take me half-asleep brain any time at all to realise yours truly would be included in that massive missive. That brought a cold chill to me heart, it did.
"How far along is she on this memoir of hers?" I asked.
"Oh, quite a bit, I should tink. She started it last year."
"And, I am just now hearing about this?" I was incredulous.
"Well." She shrugged her shoulders.
I sat there amazed. I was hearing about this now, because Sissy was probably near finished, and I couldn't do a thing about it at this point.
"So, Mam, what did she write about me?" I asked point-blank.
"Oh, I dunt no. I 'aven't read it." So innocently said.
I rang up me sister and demanded to see the manuscript because I was quite a bit certain she distorted history, my history. She initially dismissed my request, but after I followed up, she reluctantly sent me a chapter.
It had numerous grammatical errors and was hard to read, so I corrected it first and then read it. It became a near obsession. There were significant issues with her sentence placement, her paragraph breaks were almost non-existent, and I was beside meself before I realised that if I left it as is, no editor would even look at it.
Then the truth dawned on me. She wasn't that inept at grammar. She did that on purpose to make me insane enough to work on correcting it and not really read what she wrote underneath the mistakes. Me sly sissy deliberately weaponised me proofreading instincts!
I started over, this time to read it and let it sink in. I noticed she had got in touch with Weasil of all people, who supplied her with anecdotes that were entirely untrue. I had requested a chapter that pertained to me, and well, I got one!
I needed to remind her that Weasil was not part of our shared childhood; he wasn't even born! He lived in Scotland for crying out loud. She wrote about several embarrassing events she orchestrated, and I got blamed for them and grounded for years as a result of taking the fall for her. Did I get any credit for doing that? Nah. But she got Weasil to back her up that these terrible things were my idea, and that they actually happened, when he wasn't even around for any of it.
Not to be outdone by Weasil, me own Mam supplied photographic evidence! What the hay? I started to correct this blarney, then realised it was counter-intuitive, and I should write a competing memoir.
I rang Sheila up and told her what I was doing. We both threatened to expose each other's ridiculous childhood secrets.
There was a long silence on the phone.
"So, that be the game yer playin' now, is it?" She asked me.
"Aye," I said. "You've started a literary war, ya 'av."
She laughed. "Fine den. Jus remember, I still 'ave the photograph of you dressed as a cowboy, crying because the horse at Barry's Amusements sneezed at yer fine self."
"That horse was unstable!" I protested. "It had a madness in its eyes."
"It was tied to a post, it wuz."
"That be beside the point."
She ignored me. "An' Mam still has the picture of you trying to convince everyone you were a famous explorer after getting lost in the field behind our hoose."
"I wasn't lost. I was conducting a survey."
"You were found by Mrs. McKinney three hours later, sittin' in a ditch eating blackberries."
"That is a vicious rumour."
"It happened."
"It allegedly happened."
She giggled, and then I heard the words that sent another chill through me.
"I 'aven't even got to your teenage years yet."
Oh, sweet suffering saints!
Now, I know you're thinking, Why not simply deny everything? That's what any sensible person would do. Unfortunately, me sister has a filing system. She has notebooks, letters, photographs, Christmas cards with notes scribbled on the back, and apparently witnesses who are more than happy to testify against meself.
Even worse, me Mam has become the chief archivist for the prosecution!
Every time Sheila asks, "Do you have a picture of Gabe doing such-and-such?" Mam disappears for five minutes and returns triumphantly with exactly the photograph required.
It's like living under investigation by the Historical Society.
So now I have no choice.
If Sheila is writing her version of our childhood, then I shall write mine.
Mine will, of course, contain only verified facts, impeccably researched recollections, and the absolute truth.
Well . . . my absolute truth.
And if, purely by coincidence, Sheila ends up looking like the mastermind behind every bit of mischief that occurred between 1965 and whenever she finally moved out, that's simply because history has at long last found an honest historian.
She says her memoir is about remembering our childhood.
Mind is about correcting the record.
May the best liar . . . er . . . historian win!
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