Memories of a white trash childhood

So, you know my sister Noelle? I was talking to her on the phone and one of the things we discussed was my brother’s very recent discovery that we were those little white trash kids. She was all, “How did he NOT know?” but to his credit, we did have a pretty fun childhood so he probably just didn’t notice our white picket fences had peeled and turned gray and were full of missing slats or the packs of neighborhood dogs that chased us through our yard because they wanted to eat us (thankfully, we were always able to save ourselves by climbing into a broken washing machine or defending ourselves using staves from the pile of discarded wood full of rusty nails) The thing that clued him in was his daughter’s family tree project. The two of them came over to my house to look at old pictures and apparently, when he saw the haircuts we received under a bowl in the kitchen and the third-time hand-me-downs that didn’t actually fit in addition to our ever-dirty, ever-snotty little hands and faces, it became glaringly obvious, our history of classlessness.

From there, Noelle and I turned the conversation to all the crap we did as children and how I was pretty much the meanest big sister in the world. Oh, the delightfully awful things I did…or didn’t keep others from doing…to my siblings; those memories warm the evil black cockles of my heart. I let Chris pour Tabasco sauce in Noelle’s eye because I didn’t want to put down my book so instead I just yelled at the top of my lungs for them to stop it. Also, I made them smell my feet. And I got Chris into trouble when I blamed him for de-nuding the prize-winning rose bushes when it had really been all my doing. And Noelle always had to be the evil witch in whatever game we played while I always got to be the hero. And I got Bear in trouble because I found a glass of cereal and even though it was gross cereal, I didn’t want anyone else to have it so I hid it behind the curtains and when Mom found it, she blamed Bedot and Bedot blamed her stuffed bear…which actually worked out well because it made Mom do the Stupid Laugh (you know, when your kid does something bad but hilarious and you know you’re supposed to chastise said kid so you’re trying to maintain Angry Face but it’s not working because you’re suppressing the laughter? Yeah, we always knew we were in the clear when that happened) and no one got in trouble.

My favorite part of these conversations is when we really get going and are cackling full-on, Noelle says, “You should blog about that!” and she’s right. I should. These are great stories! They’re hilarious. But they’re only hilarious because we’re telling them together and cracking ourselves up which is what makes everyone else laugh.
And that’s when I realized: I think Noelle is going to become a contributor. I don’t know if she’ll do full posts or if we’ll tag-team it like Gabe and I did for our Christmas story, but I really think we need to share our cacklery with everyone. It will make the world a better place because we will be making people feel better about themselves by comparison.

Also, when we’re old and senile and can’t remember a damn thing, this will be our family legacy and generation upon generation can come to this blog and read about our antics and wish they’d have been alive to share in our white trash childhood.

You’re welcome great-great-great-great grandchildren and nieces and nephews and cousins. Now go clean up our gravesites, you little monsters.

Oh, by the way? Today is Chris’ birthday. Happy Birthday, favorite brother! Without you, I’d have 1/4 fewer hilarious stories.


Filed under For my short story collection, My Dearly Beloveds, White trash childhood

2 responses to “Memories of a white trash childhood

  1. Bedot

    All these years, evil big sister! I knew I never hid any damn Booberries behind the curtain!! Poor Bear’s feelings are still hurt for being a 5 year olds scapegoat.

    • They were Frankenberries. Not Booberries. Mom wouldn’t get us the Booberries for some unknown reason. Well, they may not have been invented yet, actually.
      When I told mom that I was the one who hid the glass of cereal, she just laughed. And it wasn’t even the Stupid Laugh. I thought it would be more of a big reveal, but she wasn’t really surprised.
      What I want to know, though, is why the cereal was in the glass in the first place. That was just weird.

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