Snoopy

My sister Carole  is just thirteen and a half months younger than I am, and when we were kids, that small gap made us feel almost like twins. We were inseparable for so much of our early years—two companions moving through the world together, creating stories, adventures, and laughter out of whatever was in front of us.

Carole had the most amazing imagination. She could breathe life into the simplest of things, especially her stuffed animals. They weren’t just toys—they became real, with personalities and voices that she seemed to channel as naturally as if she were introducing us to new friends. Her Winnie the Pooh stands out the most in my memories. Somehow, he became part of the family, so alive with character that we all treated him as more than just fabric and stuffing. Over time he was loved nearly to pieces—literally falling apart—until he finally had to be put away. Even then, the memory of what she gave him lingered.

That sense of creativity shaped so much of our childhood together. One year for Halloween, my mother sewed costumes for us: Charlie Brown and Snoopy. She even made the masks out of paper mâché. Carole was Snoopy, of course, and she played the part perfectly. The nickname stuck with her for years afterward (she even used the costume to play Snoopy for special events), a little badge of honor that seemed to capture her spirit.

Our backyard often became the stage for whatever new idea Carole dreamed up. Sometimes it was a carnival, with games and activities for the whole neighborhood to enjoy. Other times, it was transformed into something bigger and bolder. I still remember the time we opened our own restaurant (if only for a day), proudly named by Carole: The  Feed Your Face Place. We sold pizzas, hot dogs, and hamburgers out of our kitchen window to the neighborhood kids, and for that afternoon, we felt like we were running something real. Carole always had a way of making pretend feel almost more genuine than the ordinary world.

As the years have passed, life carried us apart. We are no longer close.Yet when I think back to those days, I am filled with warmth and gratitude. Childhood is fleeting, but the memories stay—the games, the laughter, the shared secrets, the way my sister’s imagination colored everything we touched.

Carole was the heartbeat of so many of those moments. And it makes perfect sense that the imagination she showed as a child eventually led her into a career in advertising, where her creativity could truly shine. Today she is also a wife and a mom, roles she has embraced with the same energy and warmth she carried through our childhood.

Carole may not be a part of my daily life now, but she will always be a part of who I am. Those childhood years we shared are stitched into my memory like a favorite quilt—sometimes frayed, sometimes faded, but always warm. No matter how much time has passed, I will always carry with me the gift of her imagination and the joy of those days when we were just two kids, side by side, discovering the world together.