Happy Birthday, My Dear Sister
Or As We Used to Say, “Felix Cucamonga”!
My big sister Eileen — Sissy to me — was never comfortable with others making a fuss over her. Sadly, she remained true to form even in her passing. Not wanting to bother anyone by complaining, she slipped away as quietly as a kitten six months ago. I have thought about her nearly every day since, but on this day, her birthday, my mind is overflowing with memories of her.
Sissy had a great affinity for the Spanish language. Before the ink dried on her 1968 education degree, she’d already applied to become a flight attendant to indulge her penchant for travel to Spanish-speaking locales. From Puerto Rico to Mexico to Spain, she soaked up Latin culture and even entertained a marriage proposal from a wealthy Mexico City hotelier.
Years later, Sissy delighted in helping her granddaughter practice the Spanish words the kids were learning in kindergarten. On one occasion, her granddaughter asked Sissy, “Do you know felix cucamonga?”
“Felix who?” replied Sissy, genuinely stumped.
“Cucamonga,” her granddaughter insisted as she began singing, “Felix cucamonga a ti…” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.”
Felix cucamonga, feliz cumpleaños, eh, close enough.
From then on, “Felix Cucamonga” was my birthday greeting to Sissy. Until today, that is, because she isn’t here to celebrate.
Eleven years my senior and naturally maternal, Sissy regarded herself my second mother. She read to me, colored with me, and introduced my young palette to the sublime pleasure of a strawberry ice cream soda at the Dairy Dell. When I was five, she took me to the local pool and patiently taught me to swim.
A maternal image, however, isn’t what she wanted to project at the pool. Between the way her maturing curves filled out her pink two piece and the fact that I was usually in tow, she worried boys her age might mistake her for a young mother. Thus, she constantly reminded me to call her “Sissy” in a loud, clear voice whenever any teenage guys were within earshot!
Looking back, what amazes me most is Sissy made me a real part of her life, never treating me like an unwanted tagalong. She and her high school boyfriend willingly included me on their miniature golf outings and she even arranged for him to be my first “date” — escorting six-year-old me to a performance she was directing at the high school. No Disney princess ever beamed as brightly as I did when my borrowed Prince Charming led me by the elbow to our seats in the auditorium.
That generous pattern of inclusion continued throughout my growing-up years. I spent time at her college apartment where she forced my resistant ears to listen to Bob Dylan, but also let me order apple pie à la mode two times in one weekend.
After college, she paused her swinging single lifestyle in Miami long enough for me to fly down from Pennsylvania and experience for the first time the marvel of swimming outside right in the middle of winter. My middle-school mind boggled. And a few years later, it boggled further at how she, seven months pregnant, stood in an endless line with her husband and me in New York’s bitter December cold, waiting for the Radio City doors to open for the 1971 Christmas Show. She insisted I have that experience, and all these years later I still have the program from that night.
A kaleidoscope of images spins in my mind today, Sissy’s Cucamonga Day. From shopping together for my first “training bra” (P.S. I never did make first string) to shopping for my first prom dress. From Sissy holding my hand as my matron of honor to her holding me up when that marriage abruptly dissolved. And just when I’m certain I will sink irretrievably into a sea of sadness, a different memory bubbles up to the surface and pulls me with it.
My sister was a gifted pianist, displaying a remarkable talent from an early age. The only thing more remarkable was her complete lack of singing ability, which she also displayed from an early age. The odd disconnect between these two seemingly compatible abilities, and my sister’s unwillingness to recognize that disconnect, was stunning. She really thought she could sing! She really could not.
Once during Sissy’s flight attendant days, she and I were riding in a taxi. She chatted happily about her airline’s catchy new jingle, tickled it would even be sung in Spanish in Latin markets. She belted out a few bars, in gloriously off-key “Spanglish,” and then paused, explaining matter-of-factly, “Well, I don’t know all the words, but the melody is the same as ‘Born Free,’ obviously.” It was anything but obvious, and not even the cab driver could contain himself. His head fell back as he exclaimed, “Oh, lady, I’m sorry, but that didn’t sound nothin’ like ‘Born Free’ in English or Spanish!”
And now I’m actually laughing out loud, just as I did in the back seat of that long-ago cab. Felix Cucamonga, dear Sissy! Sing out loud and proud as you fly among the angels now. It will surely be the sweetest sound on either side of heaven.
