I was three, and there was never any doubt in my mind that I was the Center of the Universe. So when other people, namely my older sister, didn't recognize my position of sovereignty, it needed to be dealt with swiftly and sternly.

I threw open the door to the basement of our small house in Fairbanks, Alaska, and glided down the stairs. My sister was tearing around in circles on her pretty, shiny red tricycle. I stepped onto her expressway as she rounded the bend and with one hand on my hip I signaled with the other for her to HALT. Out of sheer curiosity, my 6-year-old sister screeched to a stop within inches of my imperial toes. I laid hold of the handlebars and announced, "See this bike? It's mine now. Get off right now and don't touch it without asking me." With a glint in her eyes, she revved up and promptly ran me over. Then she put it in reverse and ran me over again to make sure I got the message. The gentry rebel.

Fast forward. I was 5 and she was 8 when I gave it another go. I barged into her room and started unplugging her Holly Hobby lamp. "See this lamp? You've had it long enough. It's mine now. It matches my curtains and you're gonna let me have it." She grabbed the other end of that lamp and let me have it, all right. Have you ever actually seen stars after a blow to the head? They're pretty. 

Fast forward. Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska. I was 7, she was 10, and it was time once again for our Saturday Morning Breakfast War.

"I get the first pancake," she announced.

"Bull Honky you do. You watch. I'll get it because I'm littler, cuter, and everyone likes me better," I countered.

As the spatula bearing the golden circle made its way toward the table, we both

mentally willed our mother to drop the prize upon our plate. I smiled evilly at my adversary as it landed in front of me. I was the victor. Without hesitation, my sister stretched across the table and licked the length of my pancake from top to bottom and said, "Enjoy."

The only thing I could do at that point was sneeze on it twice and slide the plate over to her. Then we both waited for my mother to bring the next pancake over for us to fight over.

Fast forward to 1982. Greenham Common Air Force Base, England. I was 10 and she was 13. As the school bus pulled onto our street, Gena leapt up before me to beat me off the bus. Taking this as a challenge, and wanting our large audience on the packed bus to know who was in charge, I pushed her down and clambered over her, then ran out onto the green field to jeer and dance at her. Within seconds, the entire busload shifted, and all the kids were pressed up against the windows to see the retaliation. And then suddenly I was airborne, being swung around and around in circles by my long stringy brown hair while the bus crowd marveled at my sister's strength—and at the distance she was able to hurl me. Such impudence. It was unfair that the bus pulled away before they were all able to witness the bloody nose I gave her. Yet, such was life.