Bonni Dee & Pamela Jo / Circa: 1966-ish
My parents may have been under the influence of Southern Comfort when they named us "Bonni Dee" and "Pamela Jo." Multi-syllable names with a one-syllable aftermath. Blahhpitty-blah-blah. Blah.
Dressing us as twins, even though we were two years apart, was my mother's flair. All of our clothes were hand-sewn. From outings to visit our cousins in Chicago (above) to a day at the beach, Mom wanted "The Girls" to look spiffy.
Pamela and I grew up in a grand Georgian Colonial in Maplewood, New Jersey. Focusing in on our bedroom, we shared it. Two bookshelves divided our twin-size Captain's beds with two big drawers underneath. (Perfect hiding place for Halloween candy. Around Easter vacation, I'd remember where I stashed it. Being six months later, though, everything was usually hardened and stale.)
My sister and I had a code. If one of us was snoring, we'd knock on the side of the bed. Invariably, I knocked a lot because my sister always seemed to have a booger that whistled in her nose, and it drove me crazy.
When I was 12 and Sister was 10, she moved across the hall. The only thing I remember about her room was that it was all green, and someone had stepped in the can of paint, leaving a hard circle of dried green paint on her new wall-to-wall rug.
Also, there were gerbils. I liked to terrorize them.
But before Pamela moved, we had to say the same thing every night before falling asleep. It went:
Bonni: Good night, Pamela. Pleasant dreams, and I love you, and God bless you.
Pamela: Good night, Bon. Pleasant dreams, and I love you, and God bless you, too.
B: Thank you.
P: Thank you, same to you, too.
B: You're welcome.
P: You're welcome, too.
B: Good night.
P: Good night.
Pretty precious, huh?