"Little Joe"

My sister is five years older than I am. She was a difficult baby in a lot of ways. Mostly because she had a milk allergy in a time before wide-spread use of soy formulas. After numerous hospital visits with major allergic reactions she was raised on goat milk from an obliging neighbor's goat. The on going medical problems and her frailty caused my parents to create a world where she was pretty much the center. This may partially explain why it was so long before my parents got up enough nerve to try a second child. (If I had been first I'm reasonably sure I would have been an only child.)

My mother had a best friend that she shared everything with. The two women had been friends since childhood and remained boon companions until my mother's death. When they married, the friendship only expanded to include husbands and children. We grew up spending as much time in one house as the other. At the time my mother became pregnant with me, both of the women had one child. My mother had a girl and her friend a son a couple of years younger. My sister was always a motherly child and loved supervising and probably tormenting the little boy with her smothering.

My sister was delighted with the coming baby, but adamant that it would be a boy. Nothing that they could do would convince her that she might not get her wish. In her mind the new baby would be her little brother, period. Not only would it be a boy but he would be named after her small companion, Little Joe. Now the story gets a little confusing, since the little boy wasn't named Joe at all. He was named Vic. However, his father was named Joe and my sister in her pig-headed way refused to call the son anything but "Little Joe". As a testament to her diligence, everyone accepted that to her he was "Little Joe". The wonder is that he did grow up known by his real name.

As the time for my appearance drew near, Mama tried and tried to convince my sister that I might be a sister not a brother. Names were discussed but all were over-ridden by shouts of "No! Little Joe!" If you have ever tried to discuss anything rationally with a distraught five-year old, you can imagine their frustration. Soon everyone was praying for a little boy.

Naturally, when I arrived I was not a boy. My mother looked into the radiant face of her older daughter as she beamed at her "Little Joe" and named me Sallie Jo, in capitulation. To this day I am known in the family as Jo.

So, Vic, thanks for letting me have your name. (and you can thank me for getting you off the hook as her target for mothering and smothering.)