Our father kept a wooden ladder permanently leaning against the eaves of the cinderblock duplex he built to house his family. It was not a ladder like you’d imagine poking out of the dark well of a kiva. Instead of hand-shaved poles, it was nailed together from wood leftover from various projects, and it was heavy, so maybe that was why it was always there, never put away—a permanent invitation to climb up out of routine and meet the wider world. He used it to tend the swamp coolers that needed pads changed, hoses reattached, belts tightened; his children used it to escape homework or spy on each other or read a book instead of mowing the lawn. Maybe he went up there to think, too, especially that Phoenix summer day when his second child turned out to be twins. Rukkila A and Rukkila B it said on the bracelets on their tiny wrists at the hospital.
Not a surprise that his twin daughters might be spotted on a roof 60 years later. My sister came out from Connecticut to visit me at my winter studio in her cabin in Prescott. After baking butternut squash and cooking a turkey, and savoring a day of bird study, naps and leftovers, she decided it was time to peer down the chimney. With rented wire brush and gloves and a broom to sweep out the gutters while we were at it, we climbed onto the roof and couldn’t help breaking into song. “Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey chim chim cher-ee, a sweep is as lucky, as lucky can be …” Only a day before a dear friend, the boy next door from our youth, had stopped by and reminded us how we three had seen Mary Poppins together six times. No surprise, then, that the memory of Dick Van Dyke’s voice would join us in our rooftop chore. But it is also true that sometimes our mouths open spontaneously and the same song comes out. It is one of the privileges of being twins that a shared brain plays well together.
Still, for me it is a relief that we are so rarely mistaken for each other anymore. Growing up, it puzzled me that others couldn’t see how very different we are, but of course most people don’t see inside your heart when they first look, most people start with appearances: eyes, build, hair color, etc. As tow-headed girls we did present the puzzle of seeming sameness. That I preferred cowboy boots to dresses seemed a minor detail when our child smiles echoed each other. It disappointed me, though, that so many teachers and strangers just didn’t get that though we might be cut from the same pattern, we were separate adventurers.
Independent explorers, yes, but she did bring me the postcard of the jackalope. I’d seen a particularly good depiction of the antlered rabbit weeks ago and thought of mailing it to her in Connecticut, but forgot. And then, doing a bit of Christmas shopping here in Arizona, she spots it for sale and brings it to me.
But we’re different, I insist. For one thing, Joyce is much smarter than I am. She and her good husband raised a fine young woman from baby to professional, a feat that seems more a marvel the older I get. And being secretary to the First Selectman in a small New England town has given her a kind of master’s degree in human nature for sure. On top of that, she is a much-respected EMT and Rescue Lieutenant on her town’s volunteer ambulance squad. I’m frequently amazed by the wisdom she brings to dilemmas large and small. When I present to her some puzzle of human entanglement that has me stumped, she shrugs and says, “Well …” and insight follows. And she also gets things done.
Like the curtains in this cabin. I was clever enough to score some heavier drapes at IKEA on sale, but I’ve been looking at the length for months, undecided how to go about shortening them. With no fanfare at all, she sorts out how to pin them, what stitch to use and “Voilà!” While she is pulling thread, I describe a bit of low feeling I have about assorted non-accomplishments and then buck myself up by comparing progress on a couple of fronts, small changes I have made since a year ago that clearly make my life easier. She pulls the extra pins from her mouth, pats the folds of the curtain back into shape and begins singing that lovely David Mallett song that is so sweetly inspiring, you sometimes find it in Unitarian hymnals. “Inch by inch …” she starts, and I join in, “row by row, I’m gonna make this garden grow …”
