Lucky Charms & Chicken Gizzards

It’s funny to me the things that we tuck away in our millions of memory file cabinets in contrast to the things that we choose to put in the trash bin of life experiences. I’m guessing only the memories that leave a mark are the ones that remain with us to inspect later in life. Perhaps we attempt to find the value in either the joy or the pain of it all. Or we try to figure out why we are like we are…maybe we try to find out where we went right or where we went wrong.

I was a small-town girl raised in a poor family. The youngest of three kids, and the only girl, very few vivid memories flit through my mind. Those that remain are like movies that often replay tortuous sibling antics. I was taught that nothing compares to this show of love and affection. Looking back, and as a parent myself, I can say, that those statements are a complete nonsense delivered by an exhausted parent to a crying child.

Those of us raised with siblings understand that we learn to navigate the world of human relationships based upon our childhood patterning and family dynamics. There are many variables to the connection between brothers and sisters and I can now see that many of these were projections of anger, pain, or fear.

When I was born, my Dad was recovering from a major illness and was physically healing while my mother was emotionally healing from this traumatic time. She was raising small children, had an ill husband, and a pregnant belly. Being content alone was a requirement.

My oldest brother was 10 years my superior and it seemed that by the time I was born that the gap between us left little room for a relationship until far later in life. This oldest brother of mine was notorious for his delight with farts and wedgies. Acting out fart noises like a musical instrument or onto a family member, coupled with his perfection of wedgie delivery, brought him immense joy. He also had a love of gardening and engaged (and does this still to this day) the meditative act of manure shoveling. He was also noted for his loud temper when someone seemingly stepped out of the line of acceptable behavior.

One of my earliest, and only, recollections of my oldest brother was the weekend when my parents had gone away and both brothers were responsible for their 8-year-old sister (aka, me). In an attempt to entertain me, he dropped his drawers and mooned me. I didn’t find it funny at the time and I ended up tattling on him. This just gained an extra layer of space between he and I.

On that same weekend, my middle brother delivered another turn of humor and smeared shaving cream all over his head and face and spiked his hair like a modified stegosaurus. I think I still have the pictures lol.

In general, my middle brother seemed to take the surrogate role of father figure in my life and had a greater acknowledgment and tolerance for me. Sort of.

Although my dad and mom were married, my dad was often away and luckily (or not) my middle brother seemingly stepped in to help with me. Or rather, torture me.

This same loving, middle brother was the incessant teaser. Teasing me to the point of tears was the name of his game and this went on well into my teens. Once brought to tears, he would coach me into a more intense sob session by yelling the instruction to “bawl” in my face. I would assume that I was a hypersensitive child and cried easily and since comforting was likely difficult his methodology was to try the opposing strategy. I think this turned into a game.

When we were young, these were the days when toys were precious because we didn’t get them often and when we did, it wasn’t big or a lot. But they were so appreciated. So they were truly treasured gifts.

Over the years, I was able to collect many baby dolls, Barbies, and a Barbie van. By the time I had gotten the Barbie van I’m guessing I was around 10 years old and my brother would have been around 16. Lord only knows what prompted him into a game of King Kong with the Barbie Van. He shook it and shook it upside down until most the insides fell out.

Another Barbie destruction escapade was when he used fireworks to blow up my Barbie dolls. Interestingly we got to see the inside of a Ken Doll and from what I remember the doll actually had internal leg muscles? Actually, it turned out to be quite a fascinating little experiment. Who knew?

My dad, at one point, was actually able to build me a small playhouse that I loved and that I felt very privileged to have. One day I ran through the yard to my awesome Little playhouse to have a tea party with my dolls in the house. When I walked through the door I found one of my favorite and oldest baby dolls hanging from the ceiling with a rope around its neck. This was preceded by an execution-style shooting with a shotgun. Of course, I did what any little girl would do, I cried and tattled, and delivered a proper burial for my doll.

Other baby doll torture consisted of my middle brother taking my baby dolls and rubbing their faces against the block wall of our basement.

Over 40 years into this life and I just found out that he stole money from my piggy bank. I am a little pissed about that.

On occasion, I would get included with brother’s friends. In fact, when I was 14 I was lucky to be afforded the inclusion into a horror movie marathon. Through the watching of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Return of the Living Dead, I attempted to be cool, but this kind of entertainment has never worked well for me. I was more of a pony and rainbow sort of girl. So I sat with my pillow in front of my face and tried to hide. My brother would not allow this, of course. He would pull the pillow down so that I couldn’t hide. I tried to be strong and I chose not to leave the room. From this exercise, he decided it would be a good experiment to not-so-gently squeeze my head as Jason did in Friday the 13th. I also ended up sleeping under my bed for the entire year to follow (at least). I guess that I figured I would beat the monsters to their hiding place and I would know that there was nothing in the darkness except for me.

I remember the day that he accused me of drinking all of the milk on purpose and because I rebutted, it was a physical altercation of slamming me against the refrigerator with his forearm against my chest. As usual, I left crying and demanding to be left alone. If I had been able to learn to take-no-shit out of all the torture, I would have been more pleased with myself. However, I think it worked the opposite for me.

I can remember the end result of the plate of chicken gizzards that he served to me. I have no idea what he told me they were in order to get me to taste them, nor why I trusted his direction at this point. All I remember was me tasting them, commenting on how they tasted pretty good followed by him delivering an admission of what he had fed me. I gagged and gagged and spit them out onto the plate.

Probably the worst thing that I remember is the day the marshmallows went missing. My mom had bought us Lucky Charms (because, of course, they are magically delicious, why else?) I had learned that I would have to hide any special treats from them or they would devoured everything. One morning I went to the cupboard for our special breakfast candy of Lucky Charms and grabbed the milk and a bowl. I sat down, opened the box, and of course, the prize in the cereal box was already taken, but I moved thru that part. I poured the lightly-sugared cereal pieces into the bowl, as I sure that my excited heart almost exploded with anticipation. The best part of it all was the marshmallows! I began to pour. And pour. And pour. Not a single marshmallow came out. What in the world was happening? We got jipped! “Mom!!!!!” Did someone steal the marshmallows? Imagine the disappointment in this little girl. After some intense sleuthing, I had found out what had actually happened was that the boys had decided to steal the joy from my unsuspecting heart. Jerks! They went through the arduous task of emptying the entire box and eating every last marshmallow before I could get to them. Of course, they got the usual reprimand which did absolutely nothing to change behavior that I can recall. And we wonder why I have trust issues.

Yea, that middle brother of mine sure was something. I remember his stretch monster, his space toys, his beer can collection, and his dimples when he smiled. A lot has happened since those young and formidable years of life and ironically, I miss my brother and the jerk that he was. Even though the escapades were ridiculous torture, I survived it all somehow, with limited mental scarring (debatable) and the comfort and care had to have outweighed the abuse.