Memories of a Great Sister Ginger was almost 19 years old when I was born. The story was that my mother’s pregnancy didn’t show until very late and rumors had begun that I was actually Ginger’s child. Ginger’s fondness for me fostered her sense of humor, for just as certain individuals take peculiar glee in tying strings onto a cat’s tail, putting scotch tape on their feet or annoying them with laser lights, Ginger began propping me up on sofas and in chairs, and dressing me in girl’s clothes, Puerto Rican straw hats and big sunglasses then photographing me for family photo albums and to show her friends. Thank goodness there was no YouTube or FaceBook at that time. I just have to seriously doubt that neither my mother or father, nor Ann Marie or Sandra, took all those pictures of me naked or sitting on the potty chair, so the person I long suspected was, of course, Ginger. It was always Ginger. Ginger appears to sport the ever so slightly shorter hemlines than her sist