So Get a Witch's Shawl On, A Broomstick You Can Crawl On

Not the expected reaction.

My sister senses that there is more to the story - concealed from view by by our friends Virginia, DC, Maryland and Delaware. Again, thank God for the colonies.

While Estelle rants in a ragged, ravaged by years of smoking, possibly wrecked beyond redemption by white zinfandel, sobs (OK, admittedly no one sounds like Nora Jones when they are crying) my sister redirects the conversation.

This takes years of practice.

She tells Estelle that while she is sure it is remarkably more comfortable to believe that our sister-in-law is the spawn of Hell and the one true reason for all the wackiness we endure from that corner of the family, that she is naive and delusional to dismiss the notion that our brother is a prime contributor to the ongoing antics. He initiates some of it himself, and he is culpable for the actions of his family for not expecting, insisting, demanding more respect, more familial communication and more decency. His failure to act is an error of omission. But it is his error.

Estelle remarks that her life is falling apart. (Hats off to the colonies, once again, for the distance they provide from said disintegration) And hangs up.

My sister dials my number to relay the inane conversation. Five minutes in, Estelle is calling me on my cell. I am too enthralled in conversation to even consider picking up (I think Call Waiting is the height of rudeness) but steal a glance at the impossibly small screen to see it is Mom calling.

I tell my sister, who flies from connectivity yelling for me to call her back.

But I've missed the call.

I wait for the chime at the end of an extremely long winded message. But it does not come.

I start cooking dinner. Wonder what to do. I feel awful that Mom is upset. Yet I do not want to enter into some conversation intended to rally support for my idiot brother at my sister's expense. I will not bash. I have her back. My brother is wrong, and my sister is right. Few things are ever this black and white.

But it is my position in the family to be the one who says what I think. I am the classic middle child, truly fitting in nowhere and comfortable with the uneasiness of it. I, as they say, "can get away with it." It is by no means pleasant, but I am flogged a little less, and forgiven a little sooner for my dissenting opinions. I just need to be convicted in them.

Over the din of simmering pots and pans, I dial my mother.

She answers on the first ring - and I launch into my greeting. "Hi Mom. What a day!"

And oddly, her mood is bright and sunny with no sign of drama.

Better open the chardonnay.