Another Story, Entirely

I remember when bell bottoms weren't cool, and we knew it. I remember thinking: "Who wears polyester by choice?" We would complain to our mom that we didn't like it and that the bell bottoms were not okay but when a family with 5 kids lives off one disability income, you wear what you can. I say: "I remember" because they called me that: "The Remember Child". It was not because I actually did remember, but because I always thought I remembered. There is a big distinction.
My oldest sister and I like to look back on the time "before we knew". There are memories since the days of bell bottoms and polyester that we both could live with out. You hear the phrase: "It was simple then" all too often yet I am here to say: "It was simpler then". We know things now about the neighbor's grandpa or our own grandpa that we could live with out. I liked thinking that everyone was basically good with good intentions. I liked living in the days when I believed that everyone else believed basically like us. Boy was I wrong!
I think that my fondest memories come from being outside on sunny summer days, standing on a grassy knoll in our vast, green yard, looking out at the fields in the valley where we lived. Sometimes the wind would blow softly like a gentle breath, and sometimes the trees would rock; one time a tall one across the road, by the river, actually fell down! We worked a lot as a family, at least as I remember it. There are some memories that in the writing down will be corrected for me by the four older siblings while other memories are all my own to write as I remember them. This isn't a memoir so much as a disjointed collection of my memories. I could have lofty goals in the writing of them, but I don't. I think I mostly got tired of the words swirling around in my head; there is a lot up there that could get knocked loose if I just left all of them in there, so I write them down here. My brother's used to tell me that when God was handing out brains, I thought he said trains and I didn't want one. I disagree, I like trains.
There was the time when we were working in the field putting up fence when my dad told my oldest brother that he could have fun or dad would spank him until he had fun. Dad says he only said that once. With five kids, it doesn't really matter if you say something once or one hundred times, the saying goes down into history. You know how kids are: "Daddy, tell me the story about how I wouldn't do what you asked me to so then you said...". By the time they tell you which story they want, they have already told you the story. Alas, you must now tell them the story back! Oh! And don't get the story wrong or else they will correct you! It's like reading their favorite story book (the ones with three words to a page); they can't read but if you say the wrong word or skip a page: zap! They got you!
I think my childhood was like that. I must have incorporated some of those stories into my memory because I think I remember things that I can't have a memory of. There are also those memories that we block like the time my older siblings convinced me that the goat turds were raisins and, they say, I ate some. I don't have a memory of that, but they all claim to.
I spoke fast and sloppy as a child, okay, I still do. I hope that it has gotten better over time but I still see that same ol' look of: "What"? I know! "Yes! That was English". I would get so excited and have so much to say that it all kind of came out in a jumble. That made for fun memories too like the time my cousins and my siblings and I were playing in their parent's barn. We were playing Indians so we all had to come up with our own Indian names. Somehow the chickens were part of the game but I don't remember the details on that. So! I thought long and hard on my name (I must have been 10 or 11, I think) until I came up with a winner: Black Raven. I was excited with my visions of grandeur! When it came to my turn to share my name I stated it loud and proud. But they were laughing at me! To this day I still get called Black Raisin. Black Raisin? I know, but I didn't speak clearly enough and when I tried, in all my frustration, to correct the name discrepancy, they laughed all the more and were even more insistent on calling my Black Raisin. In fact, years later when one of my cousins got an opportunity to go to Alaska, she brought me home a coffee mug with black ravens holding an orange berry on it. It is my favorite coffee mug.
Those cousins, who were our double cousins, were also the ones who helped me to stop caring what people called me. One of them called me Denny. Denny?!? I am a girl! Denny is not a girl's name! Why would they call me that? All of the exasperation must have been written on my face as well as in my tone of dissent. No! I would not be called Denny! Until they just wouldn't stop calling me that over a period that might have been days or might have been hours. I finally gave in. I made a choice to let it go. There are things, in life, that must be thought of, worried over, pondered...what people call me is such a small thing that it doesn't get to be on the list. Sometimes I still get called Denny. What can I do?
I have a "thing" about not being a prisoner to my fears. If something scares me, I try to do it. If it's something like a spider, I will kill it, unless it is on me then I will be too busy freaking out. When I was 11 or so I decided that I had two choices with my fear of spiders: I could be the girl who screamed and ran or I could be the girl who screamed and squished. I despised those fru-fru girls who couldn't do anything for themselves. I chose to scream and squish. I think that decision affected more than just that area of my life. I became a more do it yourself person. Now, my brothers are probably laughing by now as I was the kid who hid in the house "helping" mom rather than doing work outside with dad. Really, though, I started to face my fears early. I don't regret that decision.
Hiding inside with mom reminds me of another memory, or memories. I had this theory that I didn't want to have to go back and forth to the house too many times so I decided to use the bathroom before we went outside to work. So, the joke began that as soon as Mom or Dad would say it was time to go outside for chores, I would say: "I have to go to the bathroom". Apparently I took a while in the bathroom so they assumed it was all a ploy to get out of work. While it didn't start out that way, I wont deny that it might have ended up that way.
Sometimes, when the going got rough outside working, I would go inside "to use the bathroom" and then talk mom into letting me do some sort of inside chore. Now, I understand that it looks like Mom did the work inside while Dad did the work outside, but that is not the case. It was only the case during the examples above. When both parents were outside, I was stuck outside. If I went in to go the bathroom and never return, an older sibling would be sent in to retrieve me.
I should state at this point that my Dad was the disabled one who was in constant pain from his injury (loss of leg among other things) and from the fibromialgia (FM) that decided to join it. Being a father of 5 kids and still the sole provider on a disability income was stressful for my dad, so working with him could be stressful for all of us. We learned to work, though, and we all look back fondly on our childhood; at least, that's how I choose to remember it.
I should tell you a little about me. Where we start is about 3 when I had a bowl-cut hairdo over my thick brown hair. It really looked like a bowl had been place on my head and the hair that hung below it was just cut away! It was a nice freeing hair do: no muss and no fuss! Back then my eyes were always blue; now they are sometimes greenish-blue. I also had a round little nose in the middle of my round little face. In the mornings there would be a red crease-mark across the top of the round part. My sisters used to tease me that I "folded" up my nose when I went to bed. As payback, two of my oldest sister's children were born with red creases a' top their noses. Ha!
As I got older my hair got longer and still dark brown. I think that I was an awkward looking girl with identity issues. As a young girl, I was often told how pretty I was, but I was always too worried about whether I had man hands or if I actually looked like a girl. We didn't have money for fine shoes or name brand outfits, so I often wore my ducky boots (shoes that are boots or boots that are shoes, depending on how you look at it) off the farm. It seems silly now, but I do have to wonder what would have happened to me with those concerns had I not had such a healthy and supportive family to guide me. People often fail to see that family is supposed to help us keep on the right path, tell us to "knock it off" when we are being stupid, guide us through our struggles, listen to our silent and audible cries, and be hands-on. There is this notion now days of: "Oh, Little Johny is just experimenting. He'll grow out of this phase if we leave him alone and support him". No! Tell Little Johny to knock it off! Explain to Little Johny how things should work, figure out what's causing his experimenting, give him alternatives, and, if all else fails, lock him in the closet until his sanity returns. (Maybe not actually lock him in the closet, but you get the picture.)
I don't know, I think I was an average looking kid for the 80's with my hand-me-down and home made clothing. There wasn't anything awkward about that, I say riddled with sarcasm. I shouldn't complain, I am sure my oldest brother got worse than me, at least, I am sure that would be how he remembers it.
Before I let you go, for a while, I want to pass on one more story. When I was about 3, I approached my Mom who was busy standing in front of the stove. I can only assume that she was cooking but I don't recall for sure. Looking up at her I asked: "Mom, how old are you?" She looked down and said: "Twenty-Seven." I began to cry. "You are going to die soon!". The moral of the story should be that I had concern for her and wanted her to live for much longer. I turned 30 this last year; I have no plans of dieing anytime soon and am happy to say that my Mom is still looking quite healthy and so we can assume that she will also live much longer.
Kids are funny. Who knows what put the idea in my head that 27 was old, but there it was. As a parent, you never know how your kids will remember conversations and events. My advice is simple, straightforward speech and actions to match.