Stay

My youngest daughter's breath is warm against my neck as she snuggles closer to me, nuzzling her head beneath my chin as she lays alongside me on the couch. She is big, but then not so big, and she fits as perfectly against me as when she was an infant.

Well, almost.

The compact softness of babyhood has been replaced with a tangle of bony adolescent limbs that poke uncomfortably into my side. The wild disarray of her hair tickles my cheek and I brush it away. Nevertheless, the contentment I feel is pure deliciousness.

She shakes briefly with a coughing spell, and I glance down at her. She's wearing the pained scowl she always wears when she's sick.

"Are you uncomfortable, Sara?" I murmur, wondering if she'd prefer the couch to herself. I'd move in a heartbeat if it would take that sad look off her face. I feel her nod against my chest. I lift my head and prepare to rise, but her small hand reaches out to grasp my arm.

"Stay," she says. Her voice is high-pitched and raspy, a demand and a plea at the same time, and I happily settle back to accommodate her.

I had a dream a few nights ago. I was awakened by the sound of my bedroom door opening, and when my vision cleared, I saw my daughter standing in the doorway. In the moonlight I couldn't even tell which daughter it was, only that she was tiny enough to be dragging a stuffed animal with her. She paused just inside the door, one small hand still clinging to the doorknob.  I could feel her staring at me in the darkness, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

"You want to sleep in here?" I mumbled sleepily.

Her nod was so eager that it was hard to imagine that she was still bothered by the childhood upset that brought her into my room in the first place, but I didn't mind.

Then I woke, and realized that my girls were sound asleep in their own beds, having long outgrown nighttime comfort-seeking excursions to their parents' room. My heart clutched with a longing that only a parent could understand.

It's a feeling that comes to mind again as I brush Sara's hair away from her face with my fingers. I can still remember a time when my own mother comforted me in this way and I wonder if she remembers it, too. Somehow, I think she does.

I know that time and experience will gently but inevitably draw this beautiful child from my arms and into an unknowable future as an adult. It is the way of things; the way it's supposed to be, yet it is no less bittersweet.

It may be a blessing that my Sara is small for her age; a sort of divine kindness that has allowed me to cling to her childhood a little longer than necessary. But those days are going away, sadly but surely. She'll set her sights toward her own horizon, a breath beyond my grasp, just as her sisters did before her.

Her head feels heavy against my chest and my arm is going tingly where she's draped it around her shoulders, but that's fine with me. I kiss the top of head, and I wonder if she can feel my heart beating. I wonder if she can sense its silent, wistful plea.

Stay.







(Dedicated to my darling daughter Sara, on the blessed event of her confirmation. I love you.)

Bedtime on North 21st Street

It was the nightly, parental command that we all dreaded as young children:

"Get a drink and go pot!"

Mom uttered this directive at the same time every night without fail. She rarely even glanced up from her knitting. It was like an inner alarm went off in her harried mother's brain. And each of her children immediately stopped their activities to groan aloud, whether they were swinging from light fixtures, coloring on the walls, or beating the daylights out of each other. I don't know why she referred to the toilet as pot, unless that was some fancy Wisconsin word for it. Or maybe there was some other reason. I've long suspected things about that Carole.

Sometimes we'd try to fool her by sitting quietly and watching our fuzzy black and white television. Perhaps she'd forget we were in the room and somehow forget to order us to bed and we could stay up all night! This tactic never, ever worked. Ever. We were pretty dumb kids.

The six of us shared a room - note that Barbara wasn't yet around to screw up the even number of kids. I always shared a double bed with my blanket hog sister, Mary. (Actually, I don't even remember if she hogged the blankets. I just like talking smack about her.) The boys jumped onto their bunk beds and always managed to slug each other before turning in. That's part of twin DNA. Joe and Jeff, I suppose were still wearing diapers. It would be some six years before they learned how to use the pot.

It's funny how contemplating little episodes like this allow for other precious memories to float to the surface. As the oldest of so many kids, I never got a lot of one-on-one time with my parents--none of us did--unless we were in trouble. That's neither good nor bad. It's life with a big family. And for that reason, I especially treasure a soft memory with my mother...I guess I couldn't have been much more than a toddler.

She'd sit beside me, and she taught me how to pray. Even now, the words flow as easily and as reassuringly as they did so many years ago:

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mommy and Daddy, my brothers and sisters, Grandma and Grandpa Haislip, Grandma and Grandpa Meier, Grandma and Grandpa Wade, Grandpa Morgan, all my aunts and uncles, all my little cousins, and all my little friends. Amen."

Even today, I find myself whispering those words in the dark of night when I'm sad or can't sleep, and the prayer's childlike cadence soothes now as it did then.

I like to hope that my own daughters will carry little funny and heartfelt gems like this in their memories as they brave the new world of adulthood. It may be years before they appreciate it, just like it was for me.

Meanwhile, it's bedtime for now. I won't forget to say my prayers.

Russell's Food Shop

I wonder if my kids feel sorry for me sometimes. It must be awful hard for them to imagine what life must have been like without an internet or iPods or cell phones or video games. At least they don't seem to mind the long ride in the SUV to my parents' home on Commonwealth in South St. Louis. There are few sounds from the back seat, only the click or electronic chirp as my daughters sit absorbed in a Nintendo game or texting their friends about how lame it is to hang out with parents. And oh great...Mom's taking us through that old neighborhood where she grew up. Here she goes with those dumb stories again...

In the early 70s, the Haislip kids were paid a weekly allowance of ten cents. In time, that allowance was increased to fifteen cents, and then eventually to twenty-five. We weren't particularly bright kids, and never possessed the smarts to save up our money, mind you. Usually within moments of those shiny coins hitting our dirty little palms, the whole pack of us was en route to Russell's Food Shop to spend them.

I'm sure Russell's sold items other than candy, chips, ice cream, and ice cold soda, but if they did, I never noticed. I can still remember walking through the banging screen door with the bell on top. Slightly forward and to the right was the shelf with small bags of chips - barbecued Fritos, Funyuns, Doritos, and my personal favorite, Munchos, which was part processed potato and part something else - I think styrofoam. I don't think they sell them anymore. They also sold canned Chef Boyardee ravioli there, too, and Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. My weird brothers liked to eat it right out of the can. One of my favorite purchases was RC cola, which was 24 cents - a full quarter with tax. The sixteen-ounce bottle was a better bargain than the smaller Coca-Cola, though I secretly coveted the look of the Coke bottles better. (Don't tell the RC folks I said that. I have a feeling they don't have a lot of fans left.)

Next to the chip rack was the gumball machine which had silver balls scattered among the colorful gumballs. If you were lucky enough to score a silver ball with your penny, you won a rabbit's foot. (There was a tiny sign reminding kids to turn in the silver ball for a prize, lest some dumb kid try to chew it.) I think I must have tried for that silver ball a hundred times over the years, and won it exactly once. I was mortified, however, to learn that the lavender rabbit's foot I selected from Mrs. Russell's shoe box was an actual, honest-to-God rabbit's foot - with nails, bone, and all, and I never tried for that silver ball again.

The centerpiece of Russells, as any kid would agree, was the beautiful wooden and glass candy case. Mrs. Russell must have shined up that glass a dozen times a day; it had to be constantly smeared with the finger and nose prints from children salivating over the dozens of treats on the other side of the glass. There were two shelves. The bottom shelf held the more expensive candy bars, and the more popular top shelf was mostly penny candy - what would be called vintage today - Mary Janes, candy buttons, Sixlets, Pixy Sticks, wax lips, Super Bubble, candy cigarettes, etc. Mrs. Russell would always wait quietly with a small brown bag at the ready as we bit our lips and pointed out our selections. I never got the impression that she liked kids all that much, but she was always polite and patient with us.

Mrs. Russell was petite, wore glasses, and had mousy brown hair that sometimes had rollers in it. She always, always seemed old to me. As far as I could remember, she was the only one who ever served the customers - at least, the little kid customers - though Mr. Russell sometimes opened my soda bottles. Mr. Russell never seemed to say much, as if he didn't quite know what to make of kids, and always seemed to be busy stocking shelves or something. It was only recently that I discovered that the couple even had first names - Jack and Evelyn.

Of course, Russell's is long closed now, and all those kids who loved the place have grown up and moved on, but the little building is still there, though it looks different from the way I remember it.

But I can close my eyes, and in an instant, I'm there again, making my way to Russell's Food Shop, with coins jingling in my pocket on a warm afternoon as the sun peeks through century-old maple trees along the curb; my skin is golden brown in those days before anyone knew about SPF30, and maybe there's an empty soda bottle clutched tight in my fist as a bonus, and the only things on my mind are the treasures that await behind that glass case and avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk on Tennyson Square. As I round the corner onto Esplanade and those familiar concrete steps come into view, I start to skip...

No, kids...you don't have to feel sorry for me. Not at all.

speeCH

Her name was Miss Always. I don't think that was how her name was spelled or even if that was how it was actually pronounced, but she never corrected me. Lord knows she had enough worries when it came to the Haislip kids' speech patterns.

She arrived at Wilkinson School when I was in fourth grade, and she promptly tested the students by requiring them to read or recite sentences and letter sounds, and watching and listening closely as they did so, and the kids that flunked the test were required to have private speech therapy sessions with her several days a week. (As an aside, I think it smacks of impropriety that the person doing the testing is the same one providing the therapy - a fairly easy way to ensure job security if you were ask cynical me. But no one does.)

Apparently, all four Haislip kids of school age flunked the test and landed in speech twice a week. Okay, now I can see this with my brother Jimmy, who often thought the letter S was totally optional - as in "Dad, I want to be a cub 'cout! 'teve is a cub 'cout! I wanna be cub 'cout!"

Little Mary, as I recall, had some issues with softening her R sounds, which as well all know is a huge no-no. Lots of serial killers do this. As for Timmy, I'm not sure what specifically he was screwing up with his speech patterns. Funny how your mind blanks things out like that. I'll have to ask him sometime. Sorry, Timmy.

My primary sin was a pair of lazy lips (so I was told), that refused to purse properly with my SH, and even worse, my CH sounds. Up until fourth grade, I had no clue that my lips were so freakin' lazy, and I cursed my parents at the time for not even noticing this flaw and gently breaking the news to me.

At first, going to Speech twice a week was a bit of an adventure - especially if I got to skip arithmetic in Mrs. Rell's class. As far as I knew, I was only one of three or four kids who ever got dismissed for Speech, and I could always feel the envious stares of my classmates as I left them puzzling over fractions or long division while I headed down to Speech to tame those damned lazy lips.

Miss Always led me through the rudimentaries of CH words, and I carefully paused to purse my lips with each one, reciting sentences that no one who wasn't retarded would use in real life: "CHarlie sat on a CHair and CHewed CHerry CHewing gum."

Ms. Always would always smile approvingly and then say, "Now make it sound natural."

That's the part where my lips would start getting lazy again, and would stop pursing. But the point is, even with lazy lips, chewing Charlie didn't sound all that different to me...maybe a tiny bit softer and less punctuated, but Charlie was still definitely chewing, alright.

That's when I started to see through the ruse of Speech.

It was only confirmed a few days later when I watched a television commercial for a beauty product - I think it was Ponds Cold Cream. The pretty blonde spokesmodel with the lovely skin smiled at the end of the commercial and said, "For your beautiful complexion!"

What the hey? She had an SH sound and didn't even purse her lips for it? I mean, in her defense, the script probably didn't read "For your beautiful complekshun!" so she might not have realized she was supposed to be pursing her lips for that part, but then again it's obvious the director didn't correct her and order a new take with properly pursed lips. And believe it or not, I was not inspired to find a pen and fire off an angry letter to the manufacturers of Ponds Cold Cream and report I was never buying their product because I couldn't freakin' understand their spokesmodel because she had clearly never been to Speech before.

I stood before the bathroom mirror that night and practicing my CH sounds - CHeese. CHerry. CHew. CHarlie. I tried them with pursed lips and without. They sounded like CH sounds to me either way. In any case, I felt it was time to clarify a few points with Miss Always.

It might have been the first time in my life that I ever questioned an adult's authority. I asked Miss Always point-blank why it was necessary to keep trying to train lazy lips when the lazy lips CH sounded almost exactly like the disciplined, pursed-lips CH. Why pull me out of class twice a week for this?

Miss Always blinked, and her eyes grew wide. I wish she would have told me the truth, which was probably something like "Because I have to fill a quota of you snot-nosed little runts to justify my job in this God-forsaken dump until I can get into a better district."

But she didn't say that.

She pursed her lips and replied with a completely straight face, "Becauth, Litha, you want to talk like thith? Thith ith what happenth to kidth who don't have proper thpeech, Litha. You will thart to talk like thith!"

I was horrified. Apparently, lazy lips was just the first step on the fast road to speaking like a hayseed Mortimer Snerd, and I had no idea. I remember hoping that someone would warn the Ponds model before it was too late for her.

In any case, I wasn't called back to Speech the following year. I think Miss Always gave up on me as a lost cause. Luckily, her few short months of teaching was just enough to save me from the Snerd effect.

I'm not too sure if it saved Jimmy though....

Two Special Girls

Okay, so technically I'm writing about my years as a Minzer here. Sue me. I was still Haislip, too. And definitely still growing up, right? 'Nuff said.

Way back in October, 1997, things were buzzing in the Minzer household, no doubt about it. I had given birth to my youngest daughter, Sara, barely two months earlier, and was trying my hardest to squeeze into a bridesmaid dress for my sister-in-law's upcoming wedding while dealing with losing pregnancy weight. Perhaps if I could just hold my breath while walking up the aisle. Yeah, that might work. I could walk real fast. Tim was groomsman - I could talk him into it.

My oldest daughter, Becky, 10, was a junior bridesmaid, and six-year-old Allie was the flower girl. Add to this typical wedding confusion and overall upheaval, the general chaos of having a new baby in the house, and it can lead to some frayed nerves.

Quietly witnessing the goings-on, however, was four-year-old Christie. Those who didn't know my third daughter might have thought the tiny girl with the big brown eyes was shy, but in truth, she was just very particular about those with whom she chose to associate. She was most often seen sucking her left thumb - never the right - and she removed it only to eat or drink; she had become quite adept over the years talking, laughing, crying, and sleeping around her beloved thumb. If she went to the trouble of removing the thumb to say something, most of us knew to listen close, because she was about to make a very important point.

Because she was so quiet, we had no clue that Christie was very bothered about being left out of the wedding party. She even dug out my scissors one afternoon and cut her bangs herself, perhaps as a cry for attention, but even then we didn't realize. It was only until about a week before the wedding that she finally pulled out her thumb and announced that she wanted to be in the wedding, too. She cried when we told her, regretfully, that it was too late. There was no place for her in the wedding party. We figured she'd get over it, and moved on. She was four; she was a kid. Kids have to learn that you can't have your way all the time. That's just the way it is. We'd distract her with a Barbie or something.

But nevertheless, my darling sister-in-law found out about that sad little brown-eyed girl.

As busy as my household was, I'm sure it was a million times more chaotic for the bride. Yet Teresa did something very kind for her little niece on the day of her wedding, by giving her the most crucial job of the entire day. Christie was given the all-important responsibility of escorting the grandmothers to their designated seats in church. Wearing her own specially-made corsage, she carefully clutched each grandmother's hand, and with a very proud smile, she walked each grandmother down the aisle--not once sucking her thumb. In addition, Christie posed for her very own portrait with the bride.

Teresa's sweet little gesture of kindness on that October day is one of the most touching gifts I've ever witnessed, and I am so, so grateful to her on behalf of my family, and on behalf of a sad little girl who only wanted to be included. Thanks for that, little sis.

So, why do I tell you this story now?

It's because the two special girls pictured here are having landmark birthdays within a month of each other. Christina is turning 18 in April and Teresa is turning...well, slightly older than 18. I recently received Christie's senior picture proofs in the mail, and as you can see, she's grown into a lovely young woman.

Oh, and she no longer sucks her thumb.

Happy Birthday, Girls. Love always.

Picking up Paw-Paws

Pickin' up paw-paws, put 'em in your pocket,
Pickin' up paw-paws, put 'em in your pocket,
Pickin' up paw-paws, put 'em in your pocket,
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch!

No one ever told us what paw-paws were when we were kids, but according to one of our favorite childhood songs (frequently performed during the Jim Haislip-and-kids sing-a-longs), we were supposed to be picking them up and putting them into our pockets--that is after we all gaily headed down yonder to the patch to fetch the things to begin with, and apparently this was such a fun-filled, happy activity that individuals generally sang the whole live-long time they were doing it. Sorta like picking cotton.

Or perhaps this was intended as one of those sneaky "instructional" songs for dolts who keep forgetting what to do with the freakin' paw-paws once they pick them up. You know the type. They dutifully pick up the paw-paw, just like they're supposed to, but then they just stand there looking like a dumb heifer, and you have to hiss for, like, the hundredth time, "Put it in your pocket, you moron!" So perhaps one kind soul, whose name has long been forgotten, placed those instructions into a snappy little tune, so even stupid people can remember what to do when they pick up those gosh-darned paw-paws.

Where, oh where is dear little Susie?
Where, oh where is dear little Susie?
Where, oh where is dear little Susie?
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch!

Come on, boys, let's go find her,
Come on, boys, let's go find her,
Come on, boys, let's go find her,
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch!

Okay, now here's what I don't get. Who's Susie? Okay, I can understand if she's a mischievous little toddler, taken to wandering off when the rest of the family is off picking the paw-paws and shoving them left and right into their pockets (and singing), but why the hell does it take an entire posse of males to find her? Or, as is the case with males in general, are they just trying to get out of work, and leave the women to the paw-paw pickin' while the boys make some excuse about finding Susie but are really heading back to the house to watch the basketball game? (And all the while, dear little Susie is probably ten feet away, sitting in a paw-paw bush somewhere eating dirt or something.)

Of course, Susie may be one of them there...um...trampy girls...and uses the paw-paw patch to entice the men-folk for her nightly trysts. No wonder the males all seem so gung-ho about finding her all the time.

I did a little research on paw-paws and found out that they're really fruit about the size of large pears, and supposedly quite tasty, from what I've read. So, why aren't we seeing paw-paws at the local grocery story alongside oranges and bananas and apples?

Well, duh...it's pretty clear. With pockets as the preferred collection receptacles over bushels, wheelbarrows, or pickup trucks, paw-paw farmers probably ain't exactly scoring much of a return on the harvest. I mean, think about it..."Hey look...here comes Bubba. I think he's got three this time. Boy's gonna go far."

So I guess paw-paw farmers don't exactly get rich at their trade. But at least they got themselves a happy little song to sing so they don't feel so bad about it....

Picture Day

I was only four years old when I began attending kindergarten at Blair School in the late 1960s. I don't know if it went against some policy of the St. Louis School District to allow someone so young to attend school, but it could be that some kindly registrar took pity on my poor mother, who was already quite burdened with four children and would be birthing two more by month's end. 

I walked to school by myself each day. It was just a short trip straight across the park from our two-family flat. I'm told that on the first day of school, we were allowed outside to play at recess, and I interpreted this as a sign of dismissal, and so I went home. (I don't remember this at all, and truthfully, I think my parents may be fibbing about it.)

Memory has a funny, selective quality about it, especially when it comes to memories of childhood. I don't remember a single thing about kindergarten. Nothing. Not my classroom, not my classmates, not my teacher. No memories of me painstakingly gripping a fat pencil and writing my name, nor learning the rudimentary skills of reading or arithmetic. No memories of show and tell or coloring pictures or milk and cookies or anything else one might normally associate with those very first days of school during that period of time. Just...nothing.

But I do remember very clearly one fall morning, as breakfast dishes sat on the kitchen table waiting to be cleared, and two noisy infants fussed in their crib nearby, past due for diaper changes, a harried young mother took a moment to neatly tie a yellow ribbon in her little girl's hair so that she would look extra pretty for picture day at school. That little girl never did let her mom know how much she appreciated that.

But I like to think it showed in her smile.

"Quick, where's the camera?"

Okay, I'm not quite sure what inspired Mom to haul out her Kodak and snap this one. Maybe she was trying to use up a roll of film so she could get some pictures developed. Or maybe she was inspired by the one moment in the whole livelong day when those damn kids weren't fighting. By the way, I'm the short-haired girl on the far right.

I swiped this picture from my sister Mary's website, but I'm not sure what meal we're chowing down here. Mary seems to think it's breakfast, but I'm more inclined to think this is a lunch of soup. I'm pretty sure that's a bowl of chips sitting in the middle of the table. And I'm almost positive we never had koolaid for breakfast, but then you never know with our family. Mom probably would have served anything to keep those Haislip kids quiet.

There never were enough chairs in that small kitchen on 21st Street, so usually some of us were standing, and the table was too small for Mom and Dad to join us, so they always ate after we did. Or maybe that was just an excuse they used. It could be that their appetites were affected by the questionable table manners of their sons. I seem to remember Timmy used to turn his eyelids inside out at mealtimes. He was exceptionally talented at this; too bad there were no careers that depended upon such a skill. I'm not sure if he still does it...hopefully not, or he'd likely be thrown out of restaurants.

Once we moved to the house on Commonwealth, Dad fashioned a kitchen table out of an old door, built a couple of benches, and there was plenty of room to eat together as a family, so we were compelled to mind our manners after that. Don't recall if Mom took any meal time pictures of us then, though....

Seeing Signs

Looking back, it was almost a wonder that it took nine years before anyone noticed.

I don't remember specifically what caused my parents to make an appointment for me to see the optometrist. I know it was a notification from school of some sort. Perhaps Mrs. Rell caught me squinting at the blackboard. Perhaps all the fourth graders had been subjected to a routine vision screening in the middle of their annual lice checks.

Whatever it was, I knew my mother was irritated the day of my appointment. I wasn't quite sure where I was going, but I was sure pleased as punch that I was missing school. But as Mom combed the snarls out of my hair that morning, all she did was grumble about the incredibly high cost of eyeglasses, and I started to feel a little guilty, thinking I had done something to make her mad. I quickly scanned my brain for my recent list of misdeeds, wondering what I had done. Coming up with nothing (since I was mostly perfect anyway), I tried to keep quiet, at least until she finished getting out the tangles. Never, ever agitate someone with a comb in your hair. It hurts more.

Dr. Marc Sapien was a kind, grandfatherly type (to me, anyway - he was probably in his late 30s then), and he introduced me to his big eye-checking machine - the "monster" - as he affectionately called it. (How this is supposed to comfort little kids is beyond me...maybe Dr. Sapien had a mean streak.) He completed the routine exam (which looks clearer, this or this?), and determined that I was wildly nearsighted at 20/200. (It was obviously only due to my stupendous intelligence that I had done so well in school to this point...thank goodness I'm so humble or I'd go on and on about how smart I am.)

We selected some frames - or my mom selected some for me. (This has always bewildered me - how do you let nearly blind people select frames, anyway? Isn't that some kind of demented joke?) It would be a couple weeks or so before I could pick up my new glasses. (This was back in the olden days before Lenscrafters and family discounts with Jeff.)

But oh, happy day, when I first put on those glasses. Those with perfect vision (like all of my siblings) may never understand a moment like this. We left the office and I paused outside of the optometrist's door and looked up and down the street. I stared in wonder at every car that passed and could clearly see the drivers' faces through the windshields and read every license plate. I could see inside every store window - the mannequin displays down at Newberrys and the shoe racks in Hills Brothers. And the signs - gosh, so many signs, all with words, and I could read every single one of them, never knowing they even existed before. Before eyeglasses, they were nothing to me but white squares with darker blurs smeared across them.

Oh sure, I guess I saw the blackboard in school after that with no problem....I don't remember, to tell the truth. I suppose I did even better in school as a result. Don't remember that either.

But I clearly remember that afternoon on Manchester Avenue. The sun was shining. And I could see it.

Happy Birthday, Sis

It was a hot summer morning back in the old place on North 21st Street in north St. Louis. I know this because Barbara was still a baby, probably about six months old, and we were taking turns pushing her in the stroller on the sidewalk out in front of the duplex we were living in at the time.

I remember we were all sitting on the front steps, probably because it was too hot indoors. I'm sure Mom was fanning herself and holding up a sign that said Kids. Free to Good Home. Desperate. Really, Really Desperate. (You think that's a joke, don't you? But that's how we got rid of Waldo, Mortimer, Joyce, and Billy.)

Anyway, the sidewalk in front of our front porch steps was wide, and slanted downwards toward the curb. As I remember, it was Timmy's turn to push little Barbara in her stroller, and as was my brother's way, he decided to do it the hard way. Instead of going back and forth on the sidewalk, Timmy was pushing the stroller down toward the curb, and then back up toward the steps, up and down, up and down. Perhaps he had some notion in his head that my mom would snap at him that he wasn't doing it right and pass the boring job onto someone else.

As it happened, that's about the time I decided to rid myself of an empty glass soda bottle I had in my possession, and called out, "Who wants this?" (For you young whippersnappers reading this, glass soda bottles would fetch a whole nickel at the store - a great sum indeed for poor kids like us.) I set the bottle to the pavement, and it started rolling toward the curb.

Sadly, Timmy wanted that bottle more than he cared for his little baby sister's safety. As he let the stroller go to grab that empty soda bottle for himself, the stroller continued on its rapid downward journey toward the curb, and all six of us watched in rapt interest as it bumped off the curb and turned over into the street with poor little Barbara still inside. I don't remember a single one of us running after the stroller to stop it, but I'm sure it was a neat thing to see nevertheless.

As far as we know, Barbara survived that ordeal, and I'm not sure if Timmy ever got in trouble for it. But if you ever wonder if Barbara is strange or does weird things sometimes, you now know who to blame. Timmy.

Oh, by the way, Happy Birthday, sis.

"She's got it wrong again, Carole."

I can just imagine the conversation that takes place at my parents' kitchen table the day after one of my posts is published.

"She's got it wrong again, Carole," my dad announces, pointing to something on the page my mom has so kindly printed out for him. (My dad wouldn't sit in front of a computer screen even if there was a parade of naked ladies prancing across it. Okay, maybe he would then, but most of the time he wouldn't.)

Turns out that the naked lady pen was gifted to my father for his 35th birthday, not his 30th. Ooops. My bad. Also turns out that the gifter was none other than my great-grandfather, known affectionately to us kids as Pappaw. Gosh, the things you learn about some people. As for the Playboy puzzle, Dad claims no memory of this gift at all. I think Dad might have been drinking some that day, but I don't remember. He might not remember either, come to think of it.

Funny thing about childhood memories. Some are as clear and colorful as if they happened only yesterday, and others are too cloudy to see. But sometimes what can't be seen can be felt. My earliest and most vivid memories are the ones I shared with my brothers and sisters... it is these that well up so brightly within me and flow into the words you read here...the noise, the chaos, all those times we laughed and fought and cried and did those funny, silly things that seemed so perfectly normal to us, but so absolutely weird to the rest of the world.

So, I'll keep writing 'em as I remember 'em, and I'll have Mom and Dad to do the proofreading and the follow-up phone calls, setting me straight on the real facts. That's okay. When they get old and senile, I promise I'll return the favor.

The Playboy Puzzle and the Nekkid Lady Pen

When my dad celebrated his 30th birthday in 1971, he had seven children. I'm not sure if he was embarrassed by or proud of this accomplishment; someday I'll have to ask him. Regardless, my mom certainly had him beat. She had seven children by 28.

Anyway, when his 30th birthday rolled around, it was celebrated in typical Haislip fashion, with a big party in the back yard and loads of food and drink. I don't remember much of that party, but I remember in particular a couple of the gifts he received that day, likely from clueless friends who didn't know that small children were going to be present. Or maybe they did know and thought it would all the funnier. Dad had some weird friends.

One gift was a ballpoint pen that had a lady wearing a black swimsuit - and magically, the swimsuit disappeared when the pen was turned upright, leaving the lady completely nude. This astonishing conundrum of physics was one of the most fascinating things we had ever seen - Tim and Jim especially were puzzled by this enigma and insisted on making that swimsuit disappear so freakin' much I thought the pen was going to break.

The other gift was a 150-piece puzzle of a topless Playboy bunny. Thinking back, it was probably one of the dumbest ideas anyone in the Playboy organization ever came up with. What normal American male wants to take the time to put together a puzzle in order to catch a glimpse of a naked lady? Isn't that what the magazines are for? Anyway, my dad glanced at the box, shrugged, and tossed it to his kids to put together for him.

Long after the guests had gone home, six Haislip kids were bent over that puzzle, happy as clams to have a puzzle that had all the pieces intact, whether there were boobs on it or not. We would have had it put together even quicker if not for the intermittent wrestling matches between Tim and Jim as they fought over the naked lady pen. I don't recall my mom ever protesting that her kids were playing with essentially R-rated adult toys, except that perhaps she thought we were already beyond hope. At least sweet little Barbara was still in diapers, and Mom possibly had some vague notion that the youngest Haislip would end up relatively normal. Who knew what would become of the other six rugrats. It was probably that day that she decided she sure as hell wasn't birthing any more of them....

Jeffy loves Shirley

Okay, for those of you who think that Jeff is a nerd now - wow, you should have seen him in the mid-seventies.

One of the most popular Christmas gifts for Haislip kids around this time was a cassette recorder. Odd, though...I don't think I ever got one. Santa decided that I was more of an artistic type and frequently gifted me with Bic Banana markers  or paint-by-number sets.

Anyway, on Saturdays, channel 11 used to show Shirley Temple movies, and I can still picture Jeff with his tape recorder at the ready, his finger in position on the record button - all ready to go when Shirley broke into song and dance. Frequently the first few bars would be missed, but no matter. We all got to enjoy the songs over and over, long after Mom came in and made us turn off the television. Jeff would rewind and press play, and we'd hear Shirley singing all about animal crackers and lollipops and then we'd hear extended banging and tapping as she performed her dance sequences as the creepy men's or women's chorus sang in the background. It was way cool.

Come to think of it, I guess we were all nerds. Jeff must have been contagious.

Learning Curve

The year I turned eight was an important year for me...a new house, a new school, new friends...a lot for a little kid to take in all at one time, but I stumbled through and managed on my own, as I always did. It was pretty much something I had been doing since my twin brothers Tim and Jim showed up when I was barely ten months old. Just par for the course as the oldest sibling.

But something else happened that year that changed my perspective forever.

Any kid who went to Wilkinson School in the early seventies remembers the meanest teacher there, Mrs. K. I won't spell out her name, but she must surely have been in the running for the most terrifying school teacher in the entire district. I think they gave out an award shaped like a little golden witch hat.

Mrs. K wasn't my teacher that year, thank goodness. Apparently a group of defenseless first graders drew the short straw that year.

But Mrs. K was the lunch monitor one unlucky day that I happened to finish eating early and headed innocently out to the schoolyard for recess, along with two other girls. Shortly after that, and unbeknownst to us, a fight broke out in the corridor outside the lunchroom, and students spilled from the lunchroom to watch the spectacle and egg it on. Mrs. K apparently broke up the fight and sent the combatants on to the principal's office, and then had herself a little screaming match in that corridor, roundly berating the remaining students for encouraging such despicable behavior. She also started taking names, and someone piped up that there were some students missing (like me), and so Mrs. K got it into her head that I and the other two girls had managed to escape her wrath by running out into the schoolyard.

We were rounded up within minutes, and marched up to Mrs. K's empty schoolroom, and she commenced with a vicious scolding the likes of which I had never before been subjected to. The three of us stood silently in front of her desk, frightened and bewildered, not sure why we were in trouble. When we attempted to proclaim our innocence, we were labeled as liars. "Admit it!" she screeched. "Just admit that you ran out cause you didn't want to get in trouble!" But even at eight I felt a stubborn need to cling to my integrity, as well as a naive belief that telling the truth was always the best thing to do. My so-called cohorts in crime must have felt the same way; none of us would admit to something we didn't do.

As punishment, Mrs. K forced the three of us to stand several feet apart with our noses to her blackboard, and she waited patiently as her first graders filed back into the classroom. I noticed the younger siblings of several of my friends glance at us curiously as they took their seats, and I was immediately grateful that none of my own siblings was in that grade. I could only imagine my parents' reaction as word of this mortifying experience spread.

Mrs. K paced the floor in front of her classroom, dramatically waving her wooden pointer about as she loudly described to her wide-eyed six-year-old students the fate that awaited liars and troublemakers, as seen by the three examples standing in front of them.

We were eventually returned to our classroom without incident, but to this day it remains one of the most humiliating things I've ever gone through. In the space of an hour, I did a lot of growing up. I learned that trying your best isn't always enough. I learned that being honest doesn't always help. And I learned that grown-ups sometimes let you down.

Oddly, a few years later, Mrs. K became my own teacher, and I never had another single problem with her. Either she had mellowed after a few years, or fate itself decided to give me a break after that nasty little episode. Life has a way of balancing things.

Peanut Butter and Mayonnaise Sandwiches

No, the peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich was not invented by the Haislip clan - as seen by the pictoral image above I pulled off the internet. (What, you think I take photographs of my sandwiches after I take a bite of them? How sick do you think I am?)

In fact, many individuals have bravely indulged in this culinary masterpiece - in fact, several have even accessorized these sandwiches with bacon, lettuce, or even bananas. Even Jeff Smith, the famous Frugal Gourmet was known to snack on peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. (Oh, wait. Didn't he die in prison? Scratch that. Bad example.)

Not that I eat them now. As a kid I didn't have the luxury to contemplate the relative grossness of foods that were available to me. It's precisely the reason I no longer eat ham hocks.

It makes me wonder, however, who in the world put these two condiments together in the first place and decided they would be tasty between two slices of bread. Was there some type of analysis - the creamy, slightly pungent taste of the mayonnaise coupled with the firmer, saltier texture of the peanut butter? Or was it some crazy accident - similar to the famed Reeses incident? Did a mayonnaise lover and peanut butter lover crash into each other while roller skating and then the rest was history? Sadly, I suppose only heaven knows how the creation came to be.

Perhaps another day we'll explore the delicious combination of peanut butter and syrup served up with saltines....now that's a culinary masterpiece....

"Can I use your phone?"

I was just short of my eighth birthday when we moved to the big house on Commonwealth in summer of 1971. Okay, I know...I'm aging myself here. For those of you trying to do math in your heads, that makes me 29.

We didn't have a phone when we moved in, and I know my kids would be scandalized hearing that (OMG! You didn't have a phone? How did you live?). Yep, things were a lot different back in the olden days, girls.

Anyway, we didn't particularly miss having a phone as kids, since we had never had one in the old place we lived either. But one day after school I decided that I really, really needed to use a phone. I'm not sure if I had ever even dialed a phone before.

Maybe I had gotten a hold of a phone book somewhere. Maybe we had learned about Alexander Graham Bell in school that day. The reason escapes me now, but no matter. All I know is that as soon as I got home from school, I walked down the block a piece, crossed the street, and knocked on the door.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked the bemused woman who answered.

She peered over my shoulder, obviously curious as to what extreme emergency would drive a scrawny eight-year-old to her home begging to use her phone. Maybe she recognized me as a member of the family that had just moved in down the street that had about a dozen or so little kids running around. I suppose I didn't appear threatening, so she let me in and showed me where her phone was.

I could tell she was hovering nearby, but I didn't mind. I was just so darned excited that I had access to this magic communication device, the whole world could have listened in for all I cared.

I plucked up the receiver and casually dialed the number as nonchalantly as if I had been doing it my whole life, impressing myself with my poise. Whom did I call? Why, the only person in the entire world that I knew had a phone - my Aunt Jean. I don't even remember now how I got her number.

I don't recall the conversation, but I'm sure my aunt must have been a little bewildered by the call, as she was probably aware that we didn't have a phone at the time. The conversation was short and polite; I filled her in on school and family goings-on and asked how my little cousin Paul was, and then I hung up after promising to call her again soon. I wonder what the neighbor lady thought of that particular statement.

I thanked the woman, and took my leave. To her credit, she didn't berate me or remind me that it was rude to use a complete stranger's phone unless it was for an important reason.

Luckily, we got our own phone a few months later, so I never had to use another stranger's phone after that. Other neighbors might not have been so patient.

Someday I'll have to ask my aunt if she remembers that call.

"Hey, Slip!"

"Hey, Slip!" Albert yelled. "Listen, everybody! I'm calling my friend, Slip! 'Hey, Slip!'"

We were walking home from PSR one night, and our friend Albert thought this was the funniest, most clever butchering of the name Haislip anyone in the known universe had ever come up with, so he repeated it quite loudly about five times so everybody on the block could hear him and laughingly agree with him.

No one laughed, least of all the Haislip kids. Not that we were offended, mind you. We'd just heard it all before.

It had always mystified me growing up how no one could seem to get the name right. It was Haislip...just HAY-slip. Not HAS-lip, like almost every teacher would haltingly enunciate upon reading roll call on the first day of school. I never understood why it was so difficult to pronounce - it wasn't like it was one of those 37-letter Polish names or written in hieroglyphics or anything. No matter. We all got used to it by second grade or so.

The name supposedly has British roots from way back in the olden days, though I'm pretty sure we're not descended from royalty. We've been told that all Haislips are supposedly related to each other. I don't know exactly what that means. Maybe no one else wants to claim being kin to anyone with a name so outrageously difficult to pronounce.

But if anyone wants to know...it's HAY-slip.

Matching Dresses

There you go...the three prettiest Haislips. Disregard the decidedly unpretty one peeking out the window. I can't tell for sure because it's awful fuzzy, but I think that's Jeff back there.

I'm not sure how old I am in this photo - probably about ten. I think that's the year when I was sporting the shag hairdo. Not sure that was the best look for me, now that I look back on it.

Mom sewed a lot of our clothes, back in the days when it was more economical to do so. Often the three Haislip daughters sported matching dresses for holidays and the like, usually with fabric straight off the clearance rack. Hey, you gotta save a buck when you can, especially with four sons eating you out of house and home.

Gotta love the nautical-themed smock dresses here, eye-catching in that the sailboats appear to be sailing straight up on my dress and Mary's dress. That's actually an improvement over little Barbara's dress, where the boats are actually upside down. No wonder she was hiding behind us.

Usually Mom made herself a dress to match ours every year, but that wasn't the case this time around. Hmmm. Makes you wonder if she was playing some practical joke on us that Easter.

"Five pounds of bologna?"

The meat cutter at Tomboys market clearly thought I was insane. But I nodded, absolutely certain that that's what my mom had instructed me to buy. After all, five pounds didn't sound like that much. Especially when there were seven kids to feed.

He shrugged and pulled out the red bologna loaf from behind the glass case. No skin off his nose, after all. I think he snickered at his assistant. Probably something about them damn Haislips are about to have some big bologna-themed party or something.

I need to back up here. There was a reason I was at Tomboys in the first place. Mom rarely had us buying food there, even as close to the house as it was. The only reason we ever went there was to cash in glass soda bottles or fetch a pack of cigarettes for my dad. Apparently it was criminally overpriced - loafs of bread went for 25 cents, for crying out loud.

But for some reason, Mom had it in her head to buy something from a kid selling something door to door...I think it was one of the Kump kids, thinking back. He must have been a hell of a salesman, or he was selling something that Mom wanted real bad, cause she never, ever bought from kids. With seven offspring of her own, she frequently had to refuse her own kids trying to peddle candy bars, cookies, or decorative candles.

Of course, she always bought from the Fuller Brush man, but who could blame her? What housewife alive can resist the seductive allure of those white plastic, half round brushes with the black bristles? I think Mom bought one for every room of the house.

Anyhoo, the Kump kid showed up trying to sell God-knows-what, and Mom just had to buy one, and I guess all she had was a large bill, and the poor kid didn't have change, so the obvious solution was to send one of the kids to Tomboys, have them buy something - in this case, bologna - and with the change, she could purchase the desired item and live happily ever after. As the most responsible Haislip child, I was dispatched to complete this task.

The meat cutter turned on his loud monster of a slicer, and got to work slicing five pounds of bologna. One pound. Two pounds. Each pound was laid in a stack on the scale on the counter so I could see what a stupidly enormous amount of bologna I was requesting, and he tossed me a questioning look with each pound, as if giving me the chance to back out - "Oh, maybe she meant one pound!" - but there was no way I was going to admit I was wrong at that point. Three pounds. Four. Finally, there were five pounds of bologna, in a stack almost as tall as my forearm. He wrapped it carefully, and I paid for it at the counter. I'm not sure if he laughed as I left, but I think he might have.

I don't quite remember my mother's reaction when I got home. I do remember that the Kump kid was still waiting patiently. Nice kid, that Kump boy. He probably laughed too, dang him. I think I got yelled at, because I remember peeking through the rungs of the stairs as my mother apologized to him and sent him on his way. I'm pretty sure she never did get that highly desired item he was selling. I'm thinking now that it was a booklet on how to deal with really stupid kids.

Good thing we all liked bologna.

Why I've Started a Blog...

You mean, other than I must have way too much time on my hands?

Well, there's always the fond hope that some filthy-rich publisher on the lookout for mediocre talent and subject matter that interests absolutely nobody will happen upon my posts and insist on awarding me a multi-million dollar contract and force me to quit my uber-rewarding job as a phone-nurse to write all the live-long day.

Of course, if that particular dream doesn't work out...

I'll just admit right here that I love to write, and I think I've got a wealth of interesting experiences to fill my pages. And if someone out there in cyberland likes it or commiserates or even laughs once in a while, then it's all the better. I'm still wading through the technology, so bear with me as I navigate it...believe it or not, there are some things I ain't talented at.