A Family of Seven

It was 1960, a time of simplicity, country roads, and families. My family lived in a big house on a dirt road; from the outside, it looked like a typical house. It was painted white with a deck on the front. There was a shed for housing tractors and whatever junk my dad threw in it.

It wasn’t until you closely examined the family inside that you’d think perhaps not everything is as appears on the surface.

There were seven of us-not a small family. Two boys and five girls, a stay-at-home mother and a father who was gone for weeks at a time, driving a semi.

Mother

 My memories from my childhood are vague. I’m sure that is a good thing. My mother stayed home during my growing up. I do not recall any hugs, kisses, or encouragement as a child. Mother was there in body but not in spirit. We didn’t play games around the table; if we did, my mother wasn’t a part of it. She was not one to hand out advice or take us to the doctor if one of us was sick. Whether it was strep throat or a common cold, there were no trips to the doctor. A urinary tract infection hit me as a teenager; I told my mother, “It burns when I pee.” There was no reaction from her at all. I may as well not have spoken. Luckily it went away on its own.

She often disappeared upstairs for hours at a time. Not one of us knew what she did during that time. We didn’t ask, she didn’t tell.

I remember my youngest sister Tammy being born. My sisters and I raised her, holding her, feeding her, and changing her diaper. I believe we all raised one another.

Looking back, I remember my mother saying, “Do you know why your dad drives truck? Because he cannot stand being around all you kids.” Again, my mother had no filter for her mouth, spewing out hateful words that crushed and broke open hearts. She cared about herself but none of us. It was a sad realization. But one that was apparent early on in my childhood.

So, the walls build up around my heart and enclose it so it will no longer ache. My mother is who she is; I couldn’t change that.

Father

The section here won’t be a long one. The man known as my father is a mystery to me. He wasn’t around long enough for any of us to get to know him. He didn’t offer hugs or kisses, but he did provide spankings and harsh words. Along with slaps across the face, we didn't talk back to our father. Evenings found our father watching the news. Mother would tell us to be quiet, so we didn't disturb him. Seven little church mice, silent as can be. We were all afraid of the father who rarely made an appearance in our home. Not one of us said a word.

We enjoyed popcorn when we were kids.

Memoires pop up of us all sitting around a roaster filled with popcorn. My sister liked to pick out the buttered ones. A fight was unavoidable as we all enjoyed the buttery pieces, but none so much as my brother Brian. He and my sister Sherri started arguing; suddenly, my father stood over Brian with a two-by-four. He brought the board down on Brian’s head. I remember Brian crying, but there was no drive to the hospital to see if he had a concussion. I know he survived the night because I saw him at breakfast the following morning. There was no mention of what happened ever again-my father, the man, the myth, but not the legend.

Duane

Duane was the oldest; I remember him as a trapper. He would go out in the morning and bring back beaver or whatever other harmless animal he caught in his traps. It’s my most vivid memory of him, maybe because I am an animal lover. I also recall him and my brother Brian throwing a cat over a highline wire-to see if it would land on its feet. Thank God it did. Duane wasn’t one to skip school or get into trouble. I did enough of that for him. It seems he drifted through his childhood, graduated, and left us behind. Maybe that was his way of coping.

Louanne

Louanne, with no middle name is my older sister. She was the one who would stay out all night long, not returning home until the following day. She drank, smoked, and partied all hours. After all, who was there to tell her differently? No one. It wasn’t long before I joined her. To say I was a pain in her backside is an understatement. I’m sure there were plenty of nights she wanted to strangle me. At the young age of 13, I was into cigarettes, wine, and boys. Memories of a party pop into my head as I write this. My sister and I, and a friend of mine attended a party at this cabin in the woods. The guys there stoked the fire until it was ungodly hot. Soon, girls were removing their clothes, and a full-blown orgy ensued. My friend and I had front row seats. We were not part of the orgy, but we got an education that night.

Wendy

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Since I am writing this sad tale, I’ll leave myself out. I was a lonely child, starved for affection, growing up in a house that was cold, sterile, and undeniably problematic. You will find spots in my sibling’s sections where I’ve inserted a story or two about my young self.

Brian

Brian is my youngest brother. The one born right after me. You’d think we would have been close growing up, but I do not recall that. I remember him sticking his butt through a window in an upstairs bedroom shattering the glass. There is also a section referencing him when I’m writing about my father, Brian getting the board slammed over his head. I’m sure Brian was in more trouble than Duane as a child, but my memory eludes me. He was growing up alongside the rest of us in a house where the sun didn’t shine.

Judy

Judy is my younger sister. The middle child, the forgotten one. Forever standing in the shadows waiting to be noticed. She followed in my footsteps as I did Louanne’s. Drinking and smoking at such a young tender age. Judy soon joined me on the party circuit. My memories bring back a night spent at a bar in a neighboring town. It was back in the sixties and seventies we got into bars. Driving home, I’m sure under the influence of alcohol, and I side-swiped a car. I was driving in his lane; it was my fault; thankfully, we all came out on the other side safely. Judy and I and a friend of hers enjoyed a ride to the police station, where our parents picked us up. I remember a grounding for a short period of time. But, at this point, I was 16 years old, too old to save myself, too old to listen to parental advice. Besides, I don’t remember any offered. Just my father constantly complaining I ruined his vehicle. I’m sure Judy continued down the same path as I did. After all, who was there to tell her differently? No one. A by-now familiar story.

Sherri

We called her babe. I’m not sure if it’s because she was constantly crying or just the fact, she was a baby. She was the sixth born out of seven. My memories of Sherri are vague. I remember her crying when our mother was in the hospital. I also remember wondering why she was upset; how can you miss someone who was there but not present? One sunny day Sherri was eating a bologna sandwich; cheap meat we ate a lot of it. For some odd reason she threw it in the ditch. A lot of teasing ensued from all siblings. I’m not sure why that memory sticks in my mind, but it does. Sherri wasn’t one to get into trouble, so I’m sure her version of our childhood differs from mine. For some reason family was very important to her. By the time she was of age I’d grown up and moved out.

Tammy

My youngest sister, the beautiful one, she always reminded me of Valerie Bertinelli, the actress. She grew up with our mother and father without me there. One night she called me saying, “mom is drunk and passed out under the table.” I drove to the house and sure enough mother was laying under the table. Tammy and I talked briefly; I told her to leave her there and then left to go home. I’ve heard different stories from Tammy about her younger years, living with a mother who had her own agenda and an absent father. I’m sure she has her own horror stories. We all do.

Lastly

Again, as I’ve said before, these are my memories. My brothers and sister’s memories may differ from mine.  We all grew up in a house where the sun didn’t shine, and we all survived. Our past molded us all into the people we are today. Memories, we’d all like to forget them sometimes, but they lurk silently deep down inside us.

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Sidenote: I spoke with my sister Louanne before posting this. She told me the bologna story was Tammy’s not Sherri’s. Too many memories mixed confuse my weary brain. I was sure I remembered Sherri with the bologna, but after a quick text to Tammy I was proven wrong. She told me, “I own that one.”

I stand corrected!

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