Tales of Treachery and Tortures Past I
“You can trust me.”
Famous last words…to the person dumb enough to listen to them. It was a harsh lesson I was forced to learn at an early age, ranking right up there with:
1. Shampoo is not for drinking;
2. Never stick your pinkie in a pencil sharpener and turn the blade just to see what’ll happen; and
3. If your mother is ironing and leaves the room for a second, don’t trot up to the iron and stick your hand on it (and I’ve got the permanent scar on three fingers of my left hand to prove it).
No, I wasn’t stupid—just an extremely curious child, always looking to crack the next “cause and effect” theory. And it didn’t help that, being the youngest in my family, my parents were so worn down from running behind my older sisters that they pretty much left me alone. As long as I didn’t burn the house down, kill myself, or permanently maim the neighbors’ kids, it was all good. I had free rein.
I knew it. My sisters knew it. And I guess they didn’t much like it.
In my childhood haze of naïveté, sprinkled with a healthy dose of memory shortage, it took me a long time to realize they had it out for me. Sure, I might’ve suspected it on a few occasions, but the concepts of “vendetta”, “nursing a grudge”, and “take her down, at all costs” are kinda foreign to a preschooler. I mean, I was Daddy’s Little Princess, which meant my sisters should also adore me for the perfect, precious gift from above that I was, right?
Yeah. Naïve.
There were times, though, when I’d kind of catch a clue about my oldest sister, Cara*—something in the way she threw me over chairs or how she’d gleefully sit on me to stop me from watching my Saturday morning Smurf marathon was a bit telling. Or it could even have been how hard she worked to convince me I was adopted. But at least I can say that she was pretty upfront with the hate. It’s not her fault I was too wrapped up in my princess world to recognize it.
But my middle sister…ooohhh, my middle sister was a sly one. Veronica. The one who laid back in the cut in order to keep her hands from getting dirty. I always thought she was on my side, even though looking back on it, I’m not sure why. Word to the wise: your perception of the past does get clearer with age—right around the time your memory starts failing.
Veronica just came across as so…so trustworthy. Even though she was the self-appointed Bonnie to Cara’s Clyde, I could never seem to hold anything against her. She was just too cool, too funny, too down-to-earth. In my eyes, nothing was ever her fault. She could do no wrong.
Until I turned six.
It was a bright summer day. I remember flowers and bees. And dandelions. Definitely dandelions.
I’d been playing over at a friend’s house. We were in the backyard with a bunch of other kids: girls and boys. And somewhere between hopscotch and jumping rope, we decided it would be cool to slide in an impromptu round of “show and tell.” Okay, more like “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” And it was my turn to show mine.
Now, let me interrupt to say, we were only showing underwear. Yeah, even back then, I hung with a tame crowd.
I had on a pair of purple OshKosh B’gosh knickerbockers. And with a snap of a button and a quick yank on my zipper, those knickerbockers fell to my knees as I flashed my flowery undies to the world. The crowd cheered; my blossoming ego was satisfied. I zipped up, went home, and started picking dandelions.
I was on my second handful when Veronica walked up with my friend’s older sister—the friend whose house had just been the site of my first exhibitionist showing. “Hey, can I ask you something?” she said.
I paused from my amateur gardening. Eyes narrowed, I looked back and forth between her and the friend. They stared back, harmless. I nodded.
“Did you show your panties to a bunch of kids?” Veronica asked.
I opened my mouth, about to answer truthfully, but something in her eyes stopped me. They looked a little too shifty. “No,” I said.
She didn’t blink. “Okay.” With nothing more to be said, she walked away, her friend trailing behind her.
Misgivings forgotten, I lay in the grass, blowing the dandelion heads into the air. Mesmerized by their fluffy trails drifting in the wind, I barely noticed Veronica’s return.
“Hey,” she said.
I frowned at her. “What?”
“Are you sure you didn’t show your panties to your friends?” She smiled. “You can tell me, if you did. I won’t tell anyone.”
I bit off the response that came to my lips.
Veronica walked away from her friend to stand over me. Her voice softened. “You can trust me.”
At the sound of those magic words, all suspicions dissolved. I grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I did.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes glittering. And then she was gone.
Five minutes, later, she was back. Alone.
“Hey,” she said, “Momma wants to see you.”
It only took a few cautious steps inside the house before my mother had the belt whipped out and proceeded to teach me another harsh lesson of life: never show your goodies to little boys.
And yes, it was a bare bottom whooping. She had to make sure I felt the full, painful effects of that particular life lesson. Or, as she so eloquently put it, “Since you (whack!) like to pull your pants down (smack!), so much, how do you (wham!) like having your pants down, now?”
As I type this, I find it so ironic that after the many attempts made by Cara to get me in trouble, it ended up being Veronica who succeeded in taking me down, all on her own. Ronnie, the cool one.
But as usual, I couldn’t stay mad at her. That was an impossibility. And I guess I should be grateful to her for selling me out because, in hindsight, I really shouldn’t have been showing my stuff to little boys. So, even though I couldn’t trust her to keep my secret, maybe it was a secret I never should’ve had.
Good looking out, sis.
So as I sit here and reflect on my belovedly treacherous sister’s exit from this earthly realm, I thought it only fitting to dedicate my first blog to her memory. To the “fly girl” who taught me some of life’s greatest lessons, whether through her words of experience, by example, or with her loving and selfless actions. Who knew that, one day, my greatest Judas would become one of my greatest and most trusted friends?
And as I sign off, I leave you with one last item I learned about trust and family in those tender, impressionable years: never take a piece of chocolate from your father when everyone else in the room is snickering behind your back. Because, yes, it is a laxative.
Trust…it truly is all relative.
Pun intended.
* Names have been changed to protect the kinda, sorta, not-so-innocent
“You can trust me.”
Famous last words…to the person dumb enough to listen to them. It was a harsh lesson I was forced to learn at an early age, ranking right up there with:
1. Shampoo is not for drinking;
2. Never stick your pinkie in a pencil sharpener and turn the blade just to see what’ll happen; and
3. If your mother is ironing and leaves the room for a second, don’t trot up to the iron and stick your hand on it (and I’ve got the permanent scar on three fingers of my left hand to prove it).
No, I wasn’t stupid—just an extremely curious child, always looking to crack the next “cause and effect” theory. And it didn’t help that, being the youngest in my family, my parents were so worn down from running behind my older sisters that they pretty much left me alone. As long as I didn’t burn the house down, kill myself, or permanently maim the neighbors’ kids, it was all good. I had free rein.
I knew it. My sisters knew it. And I guess they didn’t much like it.
In my childhood haze of naïveté, sprinkled with a healthy dose of memory shortage, it took me a long time to realize they had it out for me. Sure, I might’ve suspected it on a few occasions, but the concepts of “vendetta”, “nursing a grudge”, and “take her down, at all costs” are kinda foreign to a preschooler. I mean, I was Daddy’s Little Princess, which meant my sisters should also adore me for the perfect, precious gift from above that I was, right?
Yeah. Naïve.
There were times, though, when I’d kind of catch a clue about my oldest sister, Cara*—something in the way she threw me over chairs or how she’d gleefully sit on me to stop me from watching my Saturday morning Smurf marathon was a bit telling. Or it could even have been how hard she worked to convince me I was adopted. But at least I can say that she was pretty upfront with the hate. It’s not her fault I was too wrapped up in my princess world to recognize it.
But my middle sister…ooohhh, my middle sister was a sly one. Veronica. The one who laid back in the cut in order to keep her hands from getting dirty. I always thought she was on my side, even though looking back on it, I’m not sure why. Word to the wise: your perception of the past does get clearer with age—right around the time your memory starts failing.
Veronica just came across as so…so trustworthy. Even though she was the self-appointed Bonnie to Cara’s Clyde, I could never seem to hold anything against her. She was just too cool, too funny, too down-to-earth. In my eyes, nothing was ever her fault. She could do no wrong.
Until I turned six.
It was a bright summer day. I remember flowers and bees. And dandelions. Definitely dandelions.
I’d been playing over at a friend’s house. We were in the backyard with a bunch of other kids: girls and boys. And somewhere between hopscotch and jumping rope, we decided it would be cool to slide in an impromptu round of “show and tell.” Okay, more like “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” And it was my turn to show mine.
Now, let me interrupt to say, we were only showing underwear. Yeah, even back then, I hung with a tame crowd.
I had on a pair of purple OshKosh B’gosh knickerbockers. And with a snap of a button and a quick yank on my zipper, those knickerbockers fell to my knees as I flashed my flowery undies to the world. The crowd cheered; my blossoming ego was satisfied. I zipped up, went home, and started picking dandelions.
I was on my second handful when Veronica walked up with my friend’s older sister—the friend whose house had just been the site of my first exhibitionist showing. “Hey, can I ask you something?” she said.
I paused from my amateur gardening. Eyes narrowed, I looked back and forth between her and the friend. They stared back, harmless. I nodded.
“Did you show your panties to a bunch of kids?” Veronica asked.
I opened my mouth, about to answer truthfully, but something in her eyes stopped me. They looked a little too shifty. “No,” I said.
She didn’t blink. “Okay.” With nothing more to be said, she walked away, her friend trailing behind her.
Misgivings forgotten, I lay in the grass, blowing the dandelion heads into the air. Mesmerized by their fluffy trails drifting in the wind, I barely noticed Veronica’s return.
“Hey,” she said.
I frowned at her. “What?”
“Are you sure you didn’t show your panties to your friends?” She smiled. “You can tell me, if you did. I won’t tell anyone.”
I bit off the response that came to my lips.
Veronica walked away from her friend to stand over me. Her voice softened. “You can trust me.”
At the sound of those magic words, all suspicions dissolved. I grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I did.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes glittering. And then she was gone.
Five minutes, later, she was back. Alone.
“Hey,” she said, “Momma wants to see you.”
It only took a few cautious steps inside the house before my mother had the belt whipped out and proceeded to teach me another harsh lesson of life: never show your goodies to little boys.
And yes, it was a bare bottom whooping. She had to make sure I felt the full, painful effects of that particular life lesson. Or, as she so eloquently put it, “Since you (whack!) like to pull your pants down (smack!), so much, how do you (wham!) like having your pants down, now?”
As I type this, I find it so ironic that after the many attempts made by Cara to get me in trouble, it ended up being Veronica who succeeded in taking me down, all on her own. Ronnie, the cool one.
But as usual, I couldn’t stay mad at her. That was an impossibility. And I guess I should be grateful to her for selling me out because, in hindsight, I really shouldn’t have been showing my stuff to little boys. So, even though I couldn’t trust her to keep my secret, maybe it was a secret I never should’ve had.
Good looking out, sis.
So as I sit here and reflect on my belovedly treacherous sister’s exit from this earthly realm, I thought it only fitting to dedicate my first blog to her memory. To the “fly girl” who taught me some of life’s greatest lessons, whether through her words of experience, by example, or with her loving and selfless actions. Who knew that, one day, my greatest Judas would become one of my greatest and most trusted friends?
And as I sign off, I leave you with one last item I learned about trust and family in those tender, impressionable years: never take a piece of chocolate from your father when everyone else in the room is snickering behind your back. Because, yes, it is a laxative.
Trust…it truly is all relative.
Pun intended.
* Names have been changed to protect the kinda, sorta, not-so-innocent
“You can trust me.”
Famous last words…to the person dumb enough to listen to them. It was a harsh lesson I was forced to learn at an early age, ranking right up there with:
1. Shampoo is not for drinking;
2. Never stick your pinkie in a pencil sharpener and turn the blade just to see what’ll happen; and
3. If your mother is ironing and leaves the room for a second, don’t trot up to the iron and stick your hand on it (and I’ve got the permanent scar on three fingers of my left hand to prove it).
No, I wasn’t stupid—just an extremely curious child, always looking to crack the next “cause and effect” theory. And it didn’t help that, being the youngest in my family, my parents were so worn down from running behind my older sisters that they pretty much left me alone. As long as I didn’t burn the house down, kill myself, or permanently maim the neighbors’ kids, it was all good. I had free rein.
I knew it. My sisters knew it. And I guess they didn’t much like it.
In my childhood haze of naïveté, sprinkled with a healthy dose of memory shortage, it took me a long time to realize they had it out for me. Sure, I might’ve suspected it on a few occasions, but the concepts of “vendetta”, “nursing a grudge”, and “take her down, at all costs” are kinda foreign to a preschooler. I mean, I was Daddy’s Little Princess, which meant my sisters should also adore me for the perfect, precious gift from above that I was, right?
Yeah. Naïve.
There were times, though, when I’d kind of catch a clue about my oldest sister, Cara*—something in the way she threw me over chairs or how she’d gleefully sit on me to stop me from watching my Saturday morning Smurf marathon was a bit telling. Or it could even have been how hard she worked to convince me I was adopted. But at least I can say that she was pretty upfront with the hate. It’s not her fault I was too wrapped up in my princess world to recognize it.
But my middle sister…ooohhh, my middle sister was a sly one. Veronica. The one who laid back in the cut in order to keep her hands from getting dirty. I always thought she was on my side, even though looking back on it, I’m not sure why. Word to the wise: your perception of the past does get clearer with age—right around the time your memory starts failing.
Veronica just came across as so…so trustworthy. Even though she was the self-appointed Bonnie to Cara’s Clyde, I could never seem to hold anything against her. She was just too cool, too funny, too down-to-earth. In my eyes, nothing was ever her fault. She could do no wrong.
Until I turned six.
It was a bright summer day. I remember flowers and bees. And dandelions. Definitely dandelions.
I’d been playing over at a friend’s house. We were in the backyard with a bunch of other kids: girls and boys. And somewhere between hopscotch and jumping rope, we decided it would be cool to slide in an impromptu round of “show and tell.” Okay, more like “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” And it was my turn to show mine.
Now, let me interrupt to say, we were only showing underwear. Yeah, even back then, I hung with a tame crowd.
I had on a pair of purple OshKosh B’gosh knickerbockers. And with a snap of a button and a quick yank on my zipper, those knickerbockers fell to my knees as I flashed my flowery undies to the world. The crowd cheered; my blossoming ego was satisfied. I zipped up, went home, and started picking dandelions.
I was on my second handful when Veronica walked up with my friend’s older sister—the friend whose house had just been the site of my first exhibitionist showing. “Hey, can I ask you something?” she said.
I paused from my amateur gardening. Eyes narrowed, I looked back and forth between her and the friend. They stared back, harmless. I nodded.
“Did you show your panties to a bunch of kids?” Veronica asked.
I opened my mouth, about to answer truthfully, but something in her eyes stopped me. They looked a little too shifty. “No,” I said.
She didn’t blink. “Okay.” With nothing more to be said, she walked away, her friend trailing behind her.
Misgivings forgotten, I lay in the grass, blowing the dandelion heads into the air. Mesmerized by their fluffy trails drifting in the wind, I barely noticed Veronica’s return.
“Hey,” she said.
I frowned at her. “What?”
“Are you sure you didn’t show your panties to your friends?” She smiled. “You can tell me, if you did. I won’t tell anyone.”
I bit off the response that came to my lips.
Veronica walked away from her friend to stand over me. Her voice softened. “You can trust me.”
At the sound of those magic words, all suspicions dissolved. I grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I did.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes glittering. And then she was gone.
Five minutes, later, she was back. Alone.
“Hey,” she said, “Momma wants to see you.”
It only took a few cautious steps inside the house before my mother had the belt whipped out and proceeded to teach me another harsh lesson of life: never show your goodies to little boys.
And yes, it was a bare bottom whooping. She had to make sure I felt the full, painful effects of that particular life lesson. Or, as she so eloquently put it, “Since you (whack!) like to pull your pants down (smack!), so much, how do you (wham!) like having your pants down, now?”
As I type this, I find it so ironic that after the many attempts made by Cara to get me in trouble, it ended up being Veronica who succeeded in taking me down, all on her own. Ronnie, the cool one.
But as usual, I couldn’t stay mad at her. That was an impossibility. And I guess I should be grateful to her for selling me out because, in hindsight, I really shouldn’t have been showing my stuff to little boys. So, even though I couldn’t trust her to keep my secret, maybe it was a secret I never should’ve had.
Good looking out, sis.
So as I sit here and reflect on my belovedly treacherous sister’s exit from this earthly realm, I thought it only fitting to dedicate my first blog to her memory. To the “fly girl” who taught me some of life’s greatest lessons, whether through her words of experience, by example, or with her loving and selfless actions. Who knew that, one day, my greatest Judas would become one of my greatest and most trusted friends?
And as I sign off, I leave you with one last item I learned about trust and family in those tender, impressionable years: never take a piece of chocolate from your father when everyone else in the room is snickering behind your back. Because, yes, it is a laxative.
Trust…it truly is all relative.
Pun intended.
* Names have been changed to protect the kinda, sorta, not-so-innocent
