Still Growing: An Autobiography (3 page)

My Aunt Joanne (Mom’s sister) was married to David Cameron (Dad’s brother). I loved going over to their house because they were less strict than my parents and had a yard designed for kids. They had built a winding cement sidewalk perfect for bikes, trikes and roller skates. They had a wading pool, a trampoline, a zip line and chickens. Who needed amusement parks?

Aunt Joanne and Uncle David were hippie-like. They kept a compost pile, which I thought was cool. They grew their own grapes that they crushed by stomping on them in five-gallon drums—tubes traversed from one drum to the other, and the sludge eventually became wine. (It’s still gross to think about my Uncle David’s feet on those grapes.) They ate really healthy stuff—we’d have sprout sandwiches, tahini on whole wheat bread with sprouts and avocado. I always liked it . . . but then again, I was a health-conscious weirdo.

I was also fascinated with the scientific world, so Aunt Joanne took me on hikes where we cast animal prints in plaster of Paris. We made tin foil toy boats using kebob skewers for masts and bubblegum to hold it all together. We played “how many kids can we pile on a tandem bike and still ride it?” in the cul-de-sac. Always creative, Aunt Joanne and Uncle David took us to a local park, strapped our skates on, pinned a bed-sheet corner to a knee of our Toughskin jeans while we held another corner. Off we’d fly as the wind blew us down the sidewalk.

Our families went camping in Yosemite together, where we floated down the river on inner tubes, laughing and teasing all the way down. I couldn’t get enough of Aunt Joanne.

Beach Sundays were foundational to the history of the Cameron family. Nothing topped those days. We woke up jazzed, running around shouting, “We’re going to the beach! We’re going to the beach!” Dad had breakfast ready at 6:30.

Then he designated teams—me and Bridgette, Melissa and Candace, me and Candace, whatever. Team One was the prep team and had the job of making lunches (tuna sandwiches, Wheat Thins, apricots, Oreos, water) and packing the van. (Aunt Joanne’s girls liked our food better because we “brought the good stuff.”) The Igloo, folding chairs, umbrella, Frisbees, beach towels and boogie boards were carted to the Volkswagen van.

Team Two had the worst job. After a day at the beach, they—tired, sticky, with sand in every crevasse—had to empty the van and clean it. It took much longer to perform these dreaded tasks, the sun having sapped all our energy and motivation for living.

There were two ways to get to the beach: the canyon or the freeway. We hated the freeway because it seemed so much longer; we preferred driving through Malibu Canyon and Topanga Canyon. I don’t know why—as anyone who has ever followed a Volkswagen van can attest, those engines have no power. We poked and sputtered along the steep, winding roads, willing the van to make it over the hill just one more time. It might have been faster to cut holes in the bottom for our legs,
Flintstones
-style.

Dad barely got the van stopped at Sorrento Beach when four tow-headed kids fell out all over each other, eager to get the day going. We waited impatiently for him to hand over the items for us to carry over the endless hot sand. (It was probably only a quarter-mile wide, but our legs were short and stubby.) We ran as fast as we could until it felt like our feet would blister, threw a towel on the sand and stood on it until our feet cooled, then picked up and took off until we hit water.

Aunt Joanne was there first, with a million towels to stake out our massive territory. There were always hugs and kisses all around, even if we’d just seen each other the day before.

I knew I was lucky to have both sets of grandparents there every week—Frank and Jeanne, and George and Helen. Grandma Helen wore pants, a shirt and long gloves that covered her hands and sat under an umbrella so she wouldn’t get burned.

I don’t remember Mom ever wearing a bathing suit, though she must have. She felt self-conscious, always thinking she was fat.

I had my own issues. I was self-conscious about taking my shirt off. I was born with my sternum concave in the middle of my chest. People would make fun of me: “What happened to you? You got a hole in your chest!” They nicknamed me “Indent.” I wanted to hide this embarrassing deformity, so I chose to lie face down on the towel. (This would come up later when a magazine editor wanted this “teen hunk” to take a cheesy picture with an unzipped leather coat and no shirt underneath. So embarrassing.)

Dad was a really good body surfer, and so was his father. For years I watched them go way out into the water, then catch waves and ride them all the way in.

“Dad,” I asked one day, “will you teach me to body surf?”

“You bet, Baby Buck. Come over here. This is what you do.”

He showed me how to hold my head up, paste my arms against my sides and point my toes. He helped me figure out where on the crest of the wave I’d get the best ride. He took me out so deep, I had to tread water until the right one came.

“This one!” he’d shout. “Okay. Wait. Wait.
Go!
”

And off I shot toward the shore. I hated when I caught it wrong and the wave tumbled me over and over until I was so disoriented that I had no idea which way was up. Just as I thought my lungs would burst I’d pop out of the water, usually dumped on the sand by the retreating wave.

One summer, with Grandpa George’s instruction, we decided to make our own skim boards. We beveled the bottoms and found a beach-y image to polyurethane on the top. We mixed a catalyst with a resin to cover the whole thing, making it really slick.

I took my 20-pound board and threw it on the sand just as a wave began to retreat, leaving a thin layer of water. As the board began to skim across the water, I jumped on and slid across the sand. If I dared to ride to the wave, it would toss me in the air like a rag doll. But if I did it just right, I could do flips and other tricks.

Uncle Frankie loved to create “professional” fights between me and Bridgette. He drew a little fighting ring in the sand while Bridgette did a little pre-fight dance in her corner and I did one in mine.

Frankie held Bridgette’s hand high in the air and shouted in perfect announcer-voice, “In
this
corner we have Bridgette Cameron weighing in at 45 pounds. She’s the leanest, meanest, scrappiest fighter you’ve ever seen!” Then he grabbed my wrist: “And in
this
corner we have Kirk Cameron, weighing in at 55 pounds . . . the heavyweight champion of the world!”

At
Ding! Ding!
we started wrestling. For me it was just goofy fun, but for Bridgette this was serious stuff—a chance to get back at me for all the pranks I pulled on her. Inevitably, someone would throw sand in somebody else’s face, and Bridgette would get so mad that she abandoned the rules and started swingin’. The intense look on her face sapped my killer boxing skills as I buckled in laughter. I laughed so hard I couldn’t defend myself. She knew the secret of my strength and used it to pummel the life out of me.

On exceptionally good Sundays, Dad stopped at Foster’s Freeze on the way home. The best treat in the world was a soft-serve vanilla cone dipped in chocolate at the end of a perfect day at the beach.

I really didn’t like being the center of attention—strange for a kid who became the center of attention everywhere he went, eh? I often wanted to melt into the floor so people wouldn’t see me.

One day I was at Aunt Joanne’s. She had dyed a mop-head blue and parted it down the middle so it looked like a blue wig. She also had a pair of big goofy glasses.

“Hey, Kirk,” she said as she got down on my level. “Want to do something fun?”

I looked at her, not wanting to commit just yet.

She brought the wig out from behind her back. “Why don’t we put this mop and glasses on? I’d love to take your picture.”

I shook my head, terrified someone would see me in that ridiculous get-up. I knew it would certainly bring unwanted attention.

She kept talking: “Kirk, this is so funny, it’s just you and me. No one else will ever see this picture.”

I inwardly wanted to do it, but I didn’t want anyone to point and say, “Look! How cute!” or whatever dumb things adults might say. And what if the kids laughed at me?

Aunt Joanne reassured me. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Kirk. I only want to take this picture. It will be fun.”

“Okay,” I agreed, hesitantly.

Aunt Joanne put the glasses on my face combed down the blue bangs.

“Hurry,” I pushed.

She backed up and readied the camera.

I stood there stiff, like a soldier. I thought,
Take the stinkin’ picture so I can get out of this!

Once the flash went off, I started pulling on the wig. “Okay. We’ve done it. I’m done.” (About 12 years later I donned a friend’s underwear on my head like a helmet—the leg holes for my eyes—and marched into a restaurant, where all eyes turned on me. Even at that age, I claimed
to dislike undo attention unless it was on
my terms
. Unfortunately, celebrity brought attention on everyone else’s terms—like the time a guy approached me at the urinal, mid-stream, and asked for my autograph.)

I only wanted affection on my terms as well, and my grandparents knew it. One day I was at Grandma Jeanne’s house, tormenting my sisters. Three times the girls ran inside to tattle on me. Grandma called me in each time and told me to leave them alone “or else.” Of course, I had to test her to see what “or else” meant. To my dismay, Grandma inflicted the ultimate punishment on me—a massive kissing attack that left my face wet and smelling like honeysuckle, her perfume. I don’t think I bothered the girls after that. (At least not for the rest of that day.)

The other side of the family found Grandma Helen, giver of quirky gifts. Since she and Grandpa George were both schoolteachers, we could count on getting something educational. Once I got a book about ancient Egyptian artifacts, and another time a book called
The History of Ships
. Then there was the tantalizing life account of Fernando Ortega the Explorer—
without illustrations
.

I really wanted to say, “Grandma, you missed a perfectly good opportunity to give me something great.” Instead, I exchanged a knowing look with my sisters. At least we were in it together. I’d turn and attempt to be genuine. “I love it, Grandma!” I’d say, in one of my finest acting performances. (Where was the Emmy-nominating committee then?) Grandma Jeanne always gave a card with money in it. Now
that
was a gift I could take to the bank.

Grandma Helen kept a very proper house. We had nametags at our places for holiday meals above the fancy china. Ketchup was forbidden at the table because it “destroyed” her perfectly good food. You couldn’t have a glass of water until you were halfway through dinner because if you filled up on water, you couldn’t eat the food.

Who fills up on water?

We much preferred the more casual dining experiences at my other grandparents’. But boy, did Grandma Helen make the most amazing
four-layer Ghirardelli chocolate cake. We’d rather she made us that cake than get another book on
Thomas Edison: The Teen Years
.

Grandpa George was a gymnast and had a set of great big rings on two long ropes hanging over the trampoline buried in the yard. (The top of it was at ground level.) He also tied a thick rope with knots in it. We’d grab that rope and climb to the top of the jungle gym to swing down like Tarzan on a vine. And he had a special talent: He could make delicious, rich fudge from scratch.

My mom’s parents were lots of fun. Grandma Jeanne helped me conspire against the girls and made great dinners where ketchup was welcomed. Grandpa Frank was the quintessential grandfather. He sat us on his knee and told stories. He had a big belly—possibly full of jelly—that made him perfect to dress as Santa at Christmas time.

Uncle Frankie was the best big brother I never had. He was my hero. My mom’s baby brother was only seven years older than me, so we got into a lot of trouble together and loved every minute of it.

He didn’t mind hanging out with a little guy. He let me run as fast as I could through my grandparents’ hallways and slam into him, holding couch pillows to cushion the blows. We spent hours making 10-foot-long gum wrapper chains for no reason. For our Hot Wheels, we made our own tracks with paper, folding up the edges, creating curves and supports for bridges. One time we went on a hike in the woods, and when we were three hours late coming home, my parents panicked and called the cops to come find us.

The thing we both liked to do best was to go lizard hunting. He’d take me to the dry creek bed in Fillmore where lizards basked in the sun on the small rocks. We snuck up on them, throwing our shirts on top of them. They responded by skittering under the rock. We’d wrap the shirt around both the lizard and rock and scoop them from their hiding place.