Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes

I spent the better part of my youth "looking" for my baby sister.

In our family, with four kids, "holding hands and sticking together" took on real meaning. And when the family was out and about, my Dad would often shout "Partners!" which translated to the four of us pairing off.

As the eldest, this meant that I was to grab my baby sister's hand and hold on for dear life. Paula and I were always "partners" -- as were my sister Kathy and brother Jeff.

For whatever reason - Kathy and Jeff never had any issues with 'holding hands and sticking together.'

But Paula and I were another story altogether.

Almost everywhere we went as a family, Paula got "lost." Theme parks, malls, baseball games -- you name the place, and my baby sister probably got lost there.

I wish I could put the blame squarely on her little shoulders, but I cannot.

We always started out with the best of intentions - truly, we did. Dad would shout "partners" and we'd grab hands, smile at each other, and pinky swear that we would NOT separate.

I think our 'best time' was about 15 minutes of togetherness.

Then, at some point, I'd realize that I was no longer holding her hand.

The first few times it happened, much terror ensued -- security called, parents hysterical, etc. But after several years, it became such a common occurance that we all knew our parts: Dad would start shouting for her, Kathy would find a policeman or security guard, and Mom would pointedly ask me "how in the world I managed to lose her AGAIN?"

And I wasn't losing her on purpose. Really.

I'd just get distracted...or we'd start singing and dancing and eventually drop hands. Or she'd stop to blow her nose and take a drink... and next thing you knew, she was gone.

We always found her.

When she was around 4 or 5, I taught her a song to sing -- so that if we got separated, she could sing the song until we found her:

"Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes - hey has anybody seen my sweet Gypsy Rose!"

I told her that if she'd sing the song, loud and strong, I would always find her.

It was as close to hanging a cow bell on her as was appropriate.

To her credit, she never seemed to panic when she got lost -- we'd find her with a policeman, singing her little heart out.

And she'd look up at me with these big green eyes and shout, "I knew you'd find me Lolly!"

To this day, I can't hear that song without thinking of searching for Paula in Hersheypark...or Disney World...or Veteran's Stadium...

And I'll freely admit that all these years later, when the two of us are out together, I have to resist the urge to take her hand in mine and hold on tight.

But I'd probably lose her in about 15 minutes or so...