Kiss and Tell (3 page)

In the summertime we picked blueberries and raspberries all over our property and swam in the pond. We never wanted our feet to touch the bottom, because the muck was so deep. There were fish in the muck, and eels, so we’d tread as fast as we could in the water to keep our feet from sinking in. We’d follow the water down to the railroad tracks and find the beavers’ dam, and then—typical kids—we’d break it just to see what would happen. We kept an eye on the moose on the other side of the pond that used to emerge to drink and eat the bog, sometimes with a family in tow. We’d spot them some early mornings while hooking our fishing lines with fat, juicy earthworms. I always wondered how they could keep their heads up under the weight of those majestic antlers. Early evenings were spent catching frogs and tadpoles.

OUR BACKYARD - THE POND - LANCE WORKING ON BUILDING A WHARF.

One hot summer day we noticed that Curly was standing in the water munching and had not moved for quite some time. His legs seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. Finally one of us called, “Dad, I think Curly’s stuck in the bog!” Everyone descended on the pond—my parents, all the kids, and the ranch hands—with the dogs behind us barking frantically. Curly was stuck fast, past his knees, with ducks and geese calmly swimming around him. Even with grown men pulling—and then using a tractor—Curly could not be rescued. After hours of struggling, my dad eventually had to shoo all the kids away and shoot him. It was more humane than leaving Curly to slowly drown, but it was surely one of the saddest things I had ever seen.

SHANNON, KIM, LANCE AND MOM IN OUR FRONT YARD.

Curly’s death was a tragic event in my carefree childhood. We were a playful, happy family; someone was always screaming or laughing. Ours was a noisy household with no privacy whatsoever. My older brother, Lance, teased and tickled me until I peed in my pants, and I passed on the favor to my younger brothers, Tarry and Jeff.

My sister Sara was closest in age to me and we played all the traditional games—hide and seek, hopscotch, and skip rope. We went everywhere together. There was a little store called Brown’s a couple of miles away from our house where I was occasionally sent to get supplies. On the way to the store I played a game with Sara. She would walk in front of me, and I would put my arms over her shoulders and march behind her, singing a silly little song that went, “Don’t be afraid, Lovey, I won’t hurt you, Lovey.” Periodically I’d whack her on the head. That was the whole game! Eventually we’d make it to the store, where Lance worked pumping gas once he turned 16. The lady who owned the store would let us have one of the empty brown cardboard ice cream tubs that had been scooped out. We’d scrape sweet remnants out of the tub and play the Lovey game, me whacking Sara’s head the whole way home. Sara was a sweet little girl, and I don’t know why she put up with it. I’m sure I tortured her more than she did me.

I was truly a geeky little girl with pale freckled skin and reddish hair. I was either glow-in-the-dark white or sunburned bright red. Boys never noticed me, and I didn’t notice them. You wouldn’t have called me “pretty,” though of course my parents thought I was. I had a couple of girlfriends who really were pretty, and I envied their flawless, tanned skin and shiny brown hair. In addition to their looks, my girlfriends had in their favor sandwiches made with store-bought bread in their lunch boxes every day. I longed for white bread that looked fancy, with meat from the store sandwiched between the slices. What I got was homemade bread spread with margarine, then topped with peanut butter and jam. Every day the jam dripped through the bread and turned into a gloppy mess, falling out of its wax paper wrapping. My thermos leaked and dripped milk all over the contents of my tin lunch box, turning everything rusty by lunchtime. It was disgusting. I never ate my lunch—never. I just threw it away and instead ate whatever candy I could afford to buy or bum from friends. Looking back, I feel horrible about throwing away the food. Now I crave homemade bread, warm and covered with butter and sugar.

SNOW DAY WITH FRIENDS OUTSIDE THE MINK SHEDS. IT NEVER GOT AS COLD AS IT LOOKS.

I also sometimes envied the kids we picked up on the bus on our way to school, because they lived close together in groups of houses. I wondered what it would be like to simply run over to the house next door and play. How it would feel to have close neighbors and go in and out of each other’s house whenever you wanted. I felt far away from all the action and worried that my girlfriends were growing closer without including me.

My elementary school was in Whitbourne, a community that was far from diverse. All the people I saw growing up were mostly of Irish, English, or Scottish descent. The only difference between neighbors was religion—and believe me, I didn’t know the meaning of the word. After school my friends and I used to throw rocks at the Catholic kids, and they at us. We didn’t even know why we didn’t like them. I don’t think I even knew what
Catholic
meant, but someone told me they were “different.” How many wars have been fought for that same reason? My parents were not pleased when they heard about my rock throwing, and it stopped shortly afterward. I got spanked once or twice as a kid—I don’t remember what for—but this could surely have been one of those instances. I think we were lectured about it in Sunday school, too.

My own family didn’t follow any religion in particular. We attended the Salvation Army school, and I went to Sunday school, but not for long. I didn’t like going to church because I had to give them my money when the tray came around. We sang songs, and to this day I know every word to “Jesus Loves Me.” Apart from the singing, church didn’t make much of an impression: I’m not religious at all today. To me as a child, church was somewhere to go that wasn’t the ranch, and it was exciting to go anywhere and socialize with the families of kids from school. On Sundays I got to see inside other people’s homes, which was always fascinating. Outdoors, while the boys hung around skipping rocks and trying to look cool, the girls got together and played.

I STILL HATE MY EARS. – GOT TEETH?

Like most little girls, for a short time I really loved Barbie dolls. Since I usually received hula hoops and skipping ropes as gifts, it was a very big treat to get a Barbie doll. I made little clothes for her with my mom’s sewing scraps. I loved to dip into the trimmings and button jar my mom kept in the sewing room, next to the kitchen, that was going to be the dining room once the house was finished.

We were supposed to budget our allowance of 25 cents a week so we would have five cents to spend each school day. For a nickel you could buy a pencil or three-for-a-penny candies, gum, and jawbreakers at a little store near the school. I had the odd habit of eating chewed-up gum. If I saw a wad discarded anywhere that looked like it had a little flavor left, I would just pop it in my mouth and chomp away. Right off the ground, I’d pick the dirt out of it and eat it. I cannot imagine why I did this, but I did. I think that’s why I have such a strong immune system to this day. What an embarrassing memory. School days of old gum, new pencils, and the Catholics. Rock fights, snowball wars, galoshes over our shoes, soggy sandwiches. Then the weekends came.

I used to sit in trees all the time, particularly on the weekends when I had hours of freedom. My dad made us a swing by hanging an old tire from a tree branch. I liked to escape my brothers and sisters sometimes and have some time alone, so I would climb a tree and just sit there for hours. A few times I climbed too high and my mom had to send my older brother to help me down. (To this day I still enjoy that feeling. I’d like to build a little tree house here at my house in L.A., but I have to say no one is very excited about it but me. “Don’t you guys want your very own tree house?” I try to tempt my kids. They can take it or leave it. I would have been so excited to have a tree house as a child, but then again, I don’t think my kids are trying to escape anything. Their privacy and their “things” are not forcibly shared or stolen like mine were.)

When I was a kid we all shared everything: clothing, bedrooms— even bathwater. I remember before our house was completed we bathed in shifts in the rinse buckets of the old wringer washer, not changing the water but adding a little more hot after each kid got out and made way for the next. So for me it was nice to find a quiet place to be alone, and when I was by myself, I liked to sing, belting out show tunes and songs I’d heard on the radio in the woods.

If my mom was looking for me, she always found me in a tree or in the woods. As I got older, I used to steal my dad’s cigarettes and go out into the woods to smoke—the start of another bad habit. Everyone smoked in the sixties. My dad’s brand was Rothman’s. They were strong, and smoking them made me so dizzy I felt like I was going to barf. My mother smoked Cameo Menthols, and I liked those better. Sometimes Lance joined me in the woods for a smoke; he picked up the habit, too. Smoking certainly didn’t stunt my growth, but to this day, I wish I’d never started.