My First Playmate

He was my brother, who was only one year older but was so much smarter than me, so he always said. Competition and admiration coexisted on my part. He taught me to play chess, various board games, cards and how to ice skate. He also took apart my dolls to see how they worked.

Because of the long cold Canadian winters, we had a finished basement, as did everyone else. Ours was divided into three segments. There was a laundry area, a cold storage room and a rec room. The most commonly used room for we three kids was the rec room where we would play board games, read comic books or play cards. Mum would manage well enough with just our four year old baby brother in tow but all three of us was too much so downstairs we older two went.

We usually played well together except for one (well remembered but never spoken of for years) blustery winter afternoon when my brother was eight and I was seven. My brother and I had played the battleship board game for a few hours but I had consistently won each game, which frustrated him no end and goaded him into another type of competition. Game on, kid. The cold storage room held the winter eatables, which included a giant pinwheel of cheese, a number of hanging cold meats and a barrel of home made wine that was aging over the winter. My brother opined that he could drink more wine than I could. I, of course, disagreed. We spent the next hour exchanging sips of wine until mum let us know that dinner was ready. 

Dad was seated and talking with our baby brother. Mom placed a plate of spaghetti in front of me. I quietly stared at it, noticing how the noodles seemed to be moving. Actually eating the stuff was another matter. I picked up the fork but tended to miss the plate, alternately I picked up the noodles but would miss my mouth. Dad finally looked at us and asked mum “what the heck’s wrong with these kids”. My brother chose that moment to jump up and loudly proclaim “I drank more wine than she did”. Undaunted, I too stood up and said “he did not”. Unfortunately, the “not” corresponded with the moment that I tossed my cookies onto my dinner plate and a few other nearby utensils. Not to be outdone, my brother unceremoniously did the same thing. Mum jumped up, bug eyed, open mouthed and utterly horrified, while dad looked absolutely furious, although he couldn’t exactly decide in which direction to focus his anger. Bedlam ensued. Mum moved to quickly remove us to the bathroom while dad demanded to know how the hell we had managed to find our way into the storage room. Our baby brother, in the meantime, sat quietly, observing the chaos with a look on his face that clearly said “I want another family”. 

We were cleaned up and put to bed. The next morning dad had a very stern sermon for us (I blamed it all on my brother) while mum was still so agitated and embarrassed, demanding that this episode never be spoken of again lest the church excommunicate the entire family. 

And it was never spoken of again, at least until we were adults. Looking back on it, my brother and I both thought it was very funny and it had the added value of putting us off alcohol long after our school friends were imbibing. And likewise, we conceded that if something like that had happened today, probably child protective services would have removed all three of us from our family home and placed our parents in jail, but that was then and this was now. 

Renovations

When I think of the word ‘renovation’ I remember an old Norman Rockwell painting of a young girl with pigtails sitting in front of a mirror with a propped up magazine picture of an impossibly elegant movie star, undoubtedly wishing that she too could transform herself into the elegant lady in the photo. 

That little girl could have been me. When I was in the third grade I was skipped up to the fifth grade, which made me the youngest kid in the class. I managed to keep up with the school work so when mom asked how I was doing, I said school was fine, and it was — until junior high. 

I found myself the sole eleven year old in the entire junior high school. Boys were a different species altogether which meant that I completely ignored them, but none of the other girls in my classes had time for me either. And it wasn’t that any of them were ever mean or rude to me, it was just that they were all so much more grown up. I was still wearing a tee shirt under my blouse while they wore bras. My buster brown hair cut, which was so great during the summer suddenly was out of place. The girls in my class had lots of puffy ‘teased’ hair. Most wore stockings while I wore socks and loafers. And some of them even wore lipstick. 

Life was horrible. If anyone needed a renovation, it was me. I was lonely during those two years and often spent my weekends at the library. Mom would listen to my tales of woe, of course, but all she could do was say to be patient; that I would grow soon too, just as my brothers had spurted up almost overnight. Then mom would commend that it was more important to be nice and polite than it was to be pretty. I knew that was a lie. I would hear the girls in the school bathroom talking about slumber parties and junior tea dances. When they saw me, they would look through me. I didn’t even exist to these girls unless it was to borrow my homework. 

And one horrendous weekend Mom thought it would help if she took me to an elegant department store and bought me a training bra. I was horrified. What was there to train. It was a new low. I was almost 12 and had just had my first period. I couldn’t imagine how life could get worse.

The next two dismal years came and went and while I had grown taller I was still as skinny as a rail. My brothers were now much taller than me, which was no consolation whatsoever. I did not want to be very tall and very skinny. Olive Oyl was not my role model. That was a whole other nightmare. I wanted to look like a coca-cola bottle. 

High school was coming up in the fall and I was not looking forward to it. Occasionally, though, I did notice that my blouses were tighter and my waist bands were loose. Finally, my mother suggested that her little girl was disappearing. It appeared that my personal renovation had begun.