Then we cleared the piles of horse poop from the front lawn and stretched out the big blue industrial tarp, turned on the spiggot, and voila!

The birth of poor-kid Slip-n-Slide!

Pathetic Pastime #2

Speaking of Hefty bags…had I asked my parents for a kite I’m sure they would have obliged. But I was a crafty kid. I tied some bailing twine to a Hefty bag (secured with duct tape) and let it fly! While it really picks up with a good gust, it quickly spirals to the ground within moments. Sadly, it still kept me entertained well into the evening.

Pathetic Pastime #3

We had a great big 6×6x6 wooden box out back, with no bottom, just dirt. That is where we threw our aluminum cans for recycling. When the box got full, Amee and I would grab our tools and head out for can crushin’ time!

If you were really strong you could stand them on end and crush them into neat little discs. Very fancy! I would sometimes sneak little rocks into the cans so they’d weigh more at the recycling plant. Don’t do that though, its dishonest. If our Dad knew that I did that he would’ve been so mad! But hey, anything for a buck!

Okay, back to crushing…Amee always took it a step further. From her tool arsenal she pulled two 2×6 boards. She would put one board down, line it up with cans, lay the next board on top, and using one of her fancy cheerleading jumps she would jump on the board and crush them all. Into neat little discs. I always envied that talent, I would practice when she wasn’t watching.

But now the fun part! All the cans are crushed, neatly put into garbage cans and, what else, Hefty bags! All the bags and cans were settled neatly into the bed of the truck.

The bottom of the dirt-bottomed can box was peppered with slugs…and so out came the salt.

Now those were good times!!

Being entrepreneurs, we decided to make our own little store front and perch it next to the mailbox. It consisted of a giant cardboard box with a handwritten sign (in pencil, mind you) on the front: “Seashells for Sale”. As the cars rolled by we would dance around and yell, trying desperately to lure customers to what was to be a potentially unbelievable sale. Of seashells. We were going to be rich!

After several hours of marketing ploys, the only thing we managed to do was get tired and dirty, and not get hit by a car. Not a single shell sold. We went home (34 feet) discouraged, but not defeated.

There was always next summer.

I was about, oh, thirteen, and I decided one day I was going to get in shape. It was raining that day, but I was going to go for a jog. So I put on my sweat suit, including tight hoody like Rocky Balboa, and went outside.

Now, I have always been an introvert and somewhat terrified of people and I thought that venturing outside of our 1-acre chain linked plot and jogging on the road (like normal people) was way too dangerous. So I did the next best thing.

I did laps around the trailer house.

There is really nothing more to say. It is sad and pathetic, and I’m sure drivers by felt very sorry for the poor mentally stifled girl running circles around the trailer.

“Okay, close your eyes and stick out your tongue!”

Don’t underestimate the hours of enjoyment that Name that Spice can bring. Try it at your next family get-together! Remember, cayenne pepper is off limits, but alum or cream of tartar can bring just as much fun and laughter when added to the mix.

My mind is usually plagued with my childhood stories to tell you, but for some reason I’m running low. And I think I know why. It’s because what seemed like a “white trash” thing to do to other people, seemed and STILL seems perfectly normal to me.

For example, I was brainstorming in the car for new material. I asked Luke if he could think of any good stuff. He was hesitant, but he said something about having a “burn barrel.” What? I think that’s perfectly acceptable! As a matter of fact, we’re building a new house and I was truly expecting to have a burn barrel in the back yard. I told him that and he laughed at me–he said it was fine for a farm, but not for suburbia. Who knew?! Then I read my sister’s comments on “You MAY have been white trash if…” and SHE even mentioned a burn barrel.

So, wait a minute! Am I more white-trashy than I think I am?

I suppose it depends on who’s doing the judging, because I wouldn’t change a thing. In retrospect I realize that everything we did or didn’t do, and everything we had or didn’t have molded me into who I am. And I like me. And almost as important as liking me, I get to tell awesomely funny stories about growing up!

You didn’t have to grow up in a trailer to understand what I’m saying. You just have to love yourself right now. Pay your respects to the hard times, because they made you strong, and lay them to rest. Then you celebrate and cultivate the good memories, because those are the thoughts that you want to carry you through life.

So due to my recent “burn barrel epiphany,” I now get to reexamine my past and laugh at even more memories.

And I’m really looking forward to that!

I think everything traumatic happened to me when I was about nine years old. Why is that? Well, for THIS particular story it’s likely because my sister AMEE was just entering her hellatious (word?) teen years….and she hated me.

We were at John’s Pet Shop here in Spokane (now Trade-a-Game) and they had a caged monkey in the back. I think it was a chimpanzee, probably the size of a 2-year old kid. It had toys. It HAD toys. But my loving sister, Amee, TOOK the chimp’s toy from him. Okay…no big deal. Yeah, right, tell that to the monkey!

The monkey freaked out…I mean really! He couldn’t get to his toy (as Amee is laughing) and so he reached out with his long, gangly arms and grabbed me by the hair. Of course there are bars separating us, and he’s trying to jerk me into the cage, but the bars are stopping me…slam after slam. Klunk. Klunk. Klunk. Nope, my little screaming head will not fit through the bars. The whole time my Mom is trying to pry the monkey’s fingers off of my hair…EVENTUALLY with some success. The pet store owner, of course, is in a frenzy…probably thinking “lawsuit, lawsuit.” Finally, Mom yells at Amee to give the monkey his toy back. And all is well.

My scalp was so sore that day. So, so sore.

Yep, I had forgotten that I had “stuffed”, and, in horror, told her that I had JUST put them there to “see what it looked like.”

Sad, sad girl.