As I began to delve into my childhood with my last post about being homeless in my own home as the last born and living on the couch, it dawned on me that life with three older brothers was rarely ever a picnic.
Being the youngest offers no advantages save one: If everything else is equal, I will eventually have the last laugh, being the last one alive. I live for that day.
It’s my payback for all the times they would make my life miserable.
I remember back to when I was perhaps 7 years old. I was the first one to wake up one morning. And as usual, I headed to the kitchen to get something to eat. As I walked blurry eyed through the playroom, I saw something hanging from the chandelier. Not too unusual, as we were always using it for one purpose or another.
Then I saw what it was. It was my Gumby. He had a noose around his neck and blood dripping from his slit throat. He had a little sign attached to him about why he had to die. I burst into tears, of course. Gumby had been executed and my 7 year old world would never be the same.
There was always something being done to me. One time my brother told my to blow in our dog’s face. He said that he liked it. So I did. And Jocko promptly sunk his K-9s right into the side of my cheek – four lovely puncture marks left an indelible mark.
They also told me once that they had seen Santa. He had been stuck in the chimney and my parents had forgotten to douse the fire in the fireplace. They described with glee what a roasted Santa smelled like. More tears.
I lost my two front teeth because of my brother Brian. We were playing Boogeyman in Jeff’s room. If you haven’t played this game, don’t start now. Basically, it’s played in an entirely dark room and the goal is to find each other. My brother found me all right – with a foot to my face. One tooth popped out on the floor and I spent the next week searching my poop to find the other one. I wasn’t about to be denied a visit by the tooth fairy.
I didn’t know until much later that it was no accident. My brother knew exactly where I was in the room. Thank God I had an extra set of front teeth to grow into the spot. Otherwise, I’d still be missing them.
By the time I was 12, my oldest brother was 22. My next oldest 19, and Brian was 16. I thought by then, things would calm down some since even Brian managed to discover girls. So much so that he ended up becoming a father the next year and had to leave school. Not sure why he left school. Back then only the teenage mother had to. But I digress.
I got a new puppy when I was 12. Barney was a Beagle-Lab mix. And odd looking combination. I can only assume that the daddy, the Lab, was just walking along minding his own business when he ran into the back of the Beagle. Otherwise, a small step ladder had to be involved. But I digress again.
Anyway, I brought the dog home. My aunt Lu had picked him up in front of a grocery store. He cost 10 cents. She gave them 50 cents because she felt bad for the kids.
There I was, in front of the house with Barney. I loved that dog. My oldest brother, Jon, walked up. He said, “How many tricks can your dog do?” I searched for the number. “Three,” I said. Jon looked forlorn. “I’m sorry, but a dog has to be able to do 10 tricks. We’ll have to put the dog down.”
I ran into the house, tears streaming down my cheeks. My mom assured me that Barney would be fine and not to listen to my brother.
But I did listen. They were my siblings. And I looked up to them. Well, at least Jeff and Jon. Brian was too close to my age and he was a bit odd.
You see, he was the only blonde in the house. We three other boys had dark hair. So Brian would always get teased. It evened the playing field for me a bit. Jon and Jeff would occasionally try to convince Brian that he was adopted. I would join in on the chorus, of course. Eventually Brian would burst into tears and go running off to mom.
Those moments were few and far between, however. It was a trickle down system of trickery and hazing and I was low man on the totem pole. I’m just glad I wasn’t Rebecca Marie.
That would have been my name if I had been a girl. It would have been all our names, but my mother never had a daughter. Just boys.
She told me once about how when she was pregnant with me one of the boys came up to her and told her, and I am not making this up, “Mom, we’re hoping you don’t have a baby girl, because we’ll have to kill her.” I think the might have.
Now you know the environment I grew up in. I prayed every night that I would live to see another day. Thankfully, I did.
I never did replace Gumby. Pokey just had to go riderless. There just could never be another Gumby in my life. Ex-wives, yes. But Gumby? Never!
Out on the Treasure Coast, 3,000 glorious miles away from my brothers,
– Robb