The year was 1942.

I was 8 years old.

My father and I went to Bronx Hospital. Our mission was to pick up, and take home, my newborn baby sister. They had already named her "Sura Laya," which anglicizes to Sandra Leah.

Being 8 years old caused me to be dumbfounded. How did all this stuff happen? I was completely unaware. At the time, I was a ball-playing fiend and this whole thing was definitely out of my area of interest and expertise.

How would my parents handle this new family member? Now they both worked in the store around the clock. How would they find time for this helpless new item? I hoped they wouldn't depend on me. It probably cut into my basketball and baseball time.

Also, where would this new thing sleep? We only had a two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor in the East Bronx.

Holy Cow! She was going to wind up in my bedroom. There goes my privacy. There goes jumping up and down on my bed with my pals from the neighborhood. There goes my standing and performing in front of the mirror, flexing my non-existent muscles.

Ah - she is kind of cute. Maybe I could make some room for her. I don't remember much else, but we slept in the same bedroom together, through my high school and college days until I left for Korea in 1959.

She was and is a pretty good sister. When I see her now, it is hard to reconcile that pretty little pink thing with the senior citizen that she is now.

Tempus Fugit!