Intro:
In order to properly understand this piece of writing, you should understand where it is coming from. Each of these stories are a little tidbit from my childhood that will either provide you, as the reader, with either some reflection or amusement. They are written in a reflective nature, with really no concrete organization. You will read them as they appear to me, in random order, the way I recollect them. I am a high school senior entering college with a sense of nostalgia, remembering all the good that has happened to me, until my life turns in a new direction. Enjoy.















Dough Ball Escapade
There is one story pertaining to my family that I don’t think anyone will forget. It’s not one of those stories you have to dig out of the recess of your memory, peeking behind file cabinets and loose papers. It’s one of those stories that sits on your bulletin board that you glance at every time you walk by and smile a little. There’s not much I can say that will really preface what happened, except that my family does things a little differently than most.
The day before Thanksgiving desert baking festivities have been an annual tradition in my family for as long as I can remember, which isn’t really saying much. My mother grew up with two sisters, one of which lives right down the road from us, and the other lives across the state. The day before Thanksgiving, my closest Aunt and cousin come over, and the preparation and baking commences for Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s the following day. Given that all of us kids are in public schools, and the moms work as teachers in a public school, we dip out of school with a county-wide early dismissal, and come home loaded with baking groceries. It takes a little bit of time, but usually after the first couple hours or so, things get feisty. There’s one year in particular, or rather one specific scene of the day that I will always carry in my nightmares. I mean my memory.
Usually us kids worked on a desert of our own to share with the family the following day, but we were helping the Moms before. First, we were starting the pie crusts for apple and pumpkin pie. It was a classic family shot, the sisters side by side at the counter rolling dough, my cousin my brother and I sitting at the table rolling our own dough. I don’t remember how it started, whether my Aunt flipped a piece of leftover crust at me, or what, but the next thing I knew, excess dough was flying. I ducked under the table and when I popped back up there was flour being slapped on my shoulder. My Aunt began forming a dough ball to chuck at me, and I knew that for my own safety I needed to get out. Giggling I streaked towards the door, seeing her hot on my heels. I had a fleeting image as I turned around stepping out of my front door, of her grinning with a dough ball in each hand. Where had the second one come from?! I hit the porch running and stopped at the end of the driveway, sensing that she hadn’t followed me outside. It was then that I saw the image that lingers in my terrorized memory. My aunt stood; her medium sized frame in the front door, a dough ball in each hand, raised at shoulder height. But it was the eyes, man, they got me. Evil, but laughing at the same time. Gave me chills. Never get in a food fight with my Aunt-I promise you will lose. I thought I would be clever and run to the back door, but she saw me leaving, and turned and took off. We raced to the back door, and I arrived out of breath in time to watch her slide the lock over the door, and laugh. She smirked at me, and I raced back to the front. I finally wrangled my way inside, getting covered in flour and sugar in the process. The day ended with all of us covered in flour and sugar and any other baking substance possible, and trooping, still covered, to Thanksgiving church service. Just another day in my family.









Puddle Girl

My mother and my Aunt have a very close relationship, as most sisters do. They share all of the embarrassing stories my cousin, my brother and I endure, and they laugh at our expense in a way only mothers can.

When I was in middle school, everyone’s gym class had the dreaded experience of the pool unit. Changing in front of each other, swimming with boys, and swimming in the gross bacteria filled pool area was just a huge bundle of EWWW’s. I detested and dreaded it every time. My gym teacher must have LOVED that unit, because in seventh grade I swear we went more than any other class that year. By the time I was dismissed from the pool, I was rushing to find a spot to change. I never actually swam; I mostly just wandered around the shallow end until I could finally leave. So I scrambled out of the pool, and rushed in, knowing I had just a few moments to transform myself from a dreary sopping wet chlorine smelling mess to an Aeropostale skinny jean wearing typical middle schooler (aka fabulous in my mind). I was rushing to change, and as I pulled my bag off of the shelf, the worst thing that could possibly happen to me occurred. I saw the blue cloth in slow motion falling out of my bag. Silently, it hit the biggest puddle possible on the floor, and I gaped as the water soaked the material. My underwear. Coming to my senses, I snatched it up, ducking my head to make sure that nobody else had seen it. They hadn’t. I breathed a little. My mind raced as I desperately tried to dry it, and finally giving up, I went to class without it. On the way I frantically ducked into my mother’s classroom. This was one small perk of having your mom teach at your school. I explained what had happened, nearly in tears, and she just laughed. She hung it up in her closet to dry before the students arrived, and promised to make sure the closet didn’t get opened. I raced off to class, quite uncomfortable I might add, and couldn’t wait until the day was over.

By the time the day ended, I was still mortified. As it always is, my Aunt heard the story later and gave me the nickname Puddle Girl. Oh I was never as mortified as I was in the moment I gained that nickname. In later years, all it took was a quick “Okay Puddle Girl” and a sly glance to shut me up anytime.



















Halloween

When I was growing up there was a lot of embarrassing moments. But, there were also a lot of fun things my family did together, especially for us kids. Halloween was a special time of year for the people that live in my court, and there are multiple stories that go with this.
First, you have to understand just what Halloween LOOKED like around my house. Spanning three front lawns, which by now has grown to the entire court, there is an intricate setup that started with a few plywood built monsters. Over the years, it has evolved into a full-blown terrifying set-up. There are coffins, handmade 6 foot wooden monsters draped in clothing from the thrift shop, and plastic hands and masks. There are wooden fences spray painted to look old and falling apart, hung with gravestones and old weeds. Picture an old abandoned house with a spooky edge, and that’s my court. There are strobe lights and fog machines, and every little kid is both excited and terrified to venture into Marsh Court every Halloween. We grew up knowing scary.
Now, despite everything that we knew went into the set-up and how fake we knew it to be, it never stopped us kids from being scared. When the neighbor’s oldest kid jumped out at me from his motionless black draped stance under a tree, my knowledge that he was there didn’t stop me from nearly peeing my pants. I think one of my favorite Halloween stories was the year my then best friend and neighbor Becca and I dressed up as princesses. We dragged everyone along as usual throughout the neighborhood to collect our candy. We reached the end of one driveway and went skipping to the door in our little gel heels. We knocked and there was no answer. The lights were on however, so we were not about to give up candy potential. We stood there for a second when all of a sudden, the supposed straw man on the porch on the bench with a Pumpkin head began moving and cackling. Nearly in tears, Becca and I tripped out way down the driveway to cower behind our fathers who merely laughed at us. We had to be nine years old. A man stepped out of the front door and tried to lure us back up to give us candy, but we refused, and our dads had to be sent for us. To this day, our families still tease us.
There was another special thing about our Halloween. Most kids believe in the Tooth fairy, or Santa Claus, or even the Easter Bunny. But in my family, there was also something special for Halloween. (If you are a kid, stop reading here). My brother, our neighbors and I would drag our Dads down the street with us to trick-or-treat. At the end of the night, after us kids had been all scared out, we would sit together, and exchange candy. I would get rid of my Milky Way’s, and Becca would collect as many Reese’s as possible. We knew who liked what, and we would argue tooth and nail over any Sour Patch kids we could come across. The parents would eventually send us to our respective homes and beds, where Drew (my brother, younger by three years) and I would have one more task to complete. That was sorting our candy, and deciding what we could stand to give away. We would pick the least desirables with some of our favorites, just some, and put them on the back deck. This was for the Halloween Witch to collect. In return, she would leave us toys and gifts, which we would race to collect in the morning. Our own little version of Christmas. I didn’t realize how special this was, until I realized nobody else really had this happen for them. I later found out that the candy went into my dad’s office to share or my mom’s school building, or they just ate it. In a way I miss the naivety that came with my childhood.




Kicked Out

This is perhaps one of my favorite stories to tell, because it is a story I only have memory of through the retelling in my family. In all reality, I remember nothing. Please forgive me if I lose some minute details. I want you to know that I really was not a bad kid. Just a little…obnoxious is all.
I was enrolled in a daycare in a home of a mother who also had her son in the daycare. My mom would drop me off in the mornings, pick me up later, it was a pretty standard daycare routine. I was three. This kind lady decided that she wanted to do more fun things with us kids than just leaving us at home to nap and play. So she took us on mini field trips. That was her first bad idea. It was on three of these field trips that I struck out of luck.
The first was a trip to the library for story time. Picture this: dozens of little children, sitting crisscross-applesauce with their hands folded in their lap. They listen quietly as the nice shaky little librarian lady, with her square glasses perched on her nose, reads them a story. The carpet is colorful, the shelves are neat, and only whispers fill the air. But wait-where is that noise coming from? You see a mess of curly hair and a dark blur shoot by accompanied by a terrible screeching. There always is that one little terror child isn’t there? Yes, in case you were wondering, that was me. We didn’t get invited back to story time anymore. That was strike one.
Strike two happened at the mall. I for one, would never take three year olds to the mall. Terrible idea, really. But apparently, we were in a store, and I managed to slip unbeknownst into a clothes rack. I can just picture that poor woman turning around to do a head count and realizing one was missing. I imagine her full scale panic as she searches rapidly, eyes darting between racks for me. I can imagine her lips parting in horror as she calls “Shelby?” hoping that I will pop out. I am sure when my little head finally popped out all giggles she had to contain her anger, and stick to relief. That was strike two.
I think that third and final strike hit a more personal level. You see, the daycare lady’s son and I has a bit of a dispute. If there was one thing you knew about my three year old self, it was that I had a Barney obsession. I mean who didn’t? What’s not to love about a huge purple and green dinosaur thing with big teeth that sings songs? Well I had a Barney plush toy, and I was very possessive. You did not touch my Barney doll. Well the daycare lady’s son did, and so I whacked him. Apparently I kind of made a habit of it. That was strike three.
The poor woman had had enough of me, and she told my mom she could no longer handle me in her daycare and that was that. I struck out. It was unfortunate for my mom, but definitely a fun story to tell later.












The Obama Prank

I’m not sure exactly why, but despite being the oldest of five cousins, I am the most gullible, and therefore the one that all the pranks get played on. It happened the Christmas before I turned twelve.

First, you should have a little context. I was all set to travel with People to people Student Ambassador’s to see President Obama get inaugurated for the first time in 2009, and therefore be on the Mall in D.C. when one of America’s most historic moments occurred: the inauguration of our first African American President. I don’t know why, but I was infatuated with Obama. Eleven year olds do odd things. In just a couple weeks I would be off to spend the week in D.C. with other kids my age preparing for the same experience, and what would be the trip of a lifetime.

So there we sat on Christmas Eve, my Aunt, parents, brother, and cousin. Normally, we gather to exchange presents before the chaos of the next day when the rest of the family pour in from every crevice of the state bringing their boxes and ribbons and dogs with them. I was excitedly perched on the couch, when my parents and Aunt exchanged a look, and handed me a card.

The enveloped was a teal blue, and on the front the name “Shelby” was inscribed in a loopy scrawl. I asked “Who’s this from?” and they shrugged discretely. I gave them a puzzled look as I tore the envelope open. Inside the card, I opened a generic hallmark card, and found a personal note in the same scrawled handwriting. I read aloud to the family, and the note was something to the extent of “I am so glad you’ll be attending my inauguration in a couple weeks, I can’t wait to see you at the mall, I hope you have a great trip blah blah blah…”

I was ecstatic! A note from the president elect?! Life couldn’t be better. I was freaking out, yelling “Oh my gosh Mom read this!! It’s from Obama he can’t wait to see me!” I started asking questions, “How do you think he got my address, how do you think he knew me, did everyone going on the trip got this?”

After a couple minutes of ecstasy, they started laughing. Not just giggling a little, but like hyena screeching. It was really that funny, apparently. I sat on the couch, and my mouth feel open as I realized what had happened. “This isn’t from Obama is it?” I asked. My mom couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Sweetheart we didn’t think you really would fall for it that hard!” By that point, I was on the brink of tears, and I stormed off to my room. After a little bit, my mom had to venture upstairs to pry me out.

When I finally slunk back downstairs in humiliation, upon seeing me, they all burst into laughter again. My brother and cousin, in third grade at the time had already disappeared downstairs, oblivious to what had happened.

“We’re so sorry sweetie, but you should have seen your face!” I spent the rest of the night trying to pout, pretty successfully I might say. But I didn’t hold on to it for very long. After that incident, I bounced back from any insults or pranks my family threw at me, because hey, somebody’s gotta do it.






Come at Me Sideways Kid

In my family, on my mom’s side, there are five of us cousins. I am the oldest with Ryan a mere four months behind me, Ryan’s sister Brooke is two years younger than us, and my little brother and other cousin Nicole are three years younger than Ryan and I. Three years ago on Christmas, Ryan and I were sophomores in high school. On Christmas, everyone ventures to our house, and chaos follows. Us kids pretty much stick together. When we were much younger, we used to sync games on our DS’s, but at this time we all liked to play basketball. In all reality it was Ryan against the rest of us, as he was a starting center for his Varsity football squad, who are now three years in a row undefeated state champions. Needless to say, when I tried to steal the ball from him, he could pretty much pick me up one handed and move me out of his way. We often played boys against girls since we outnumbered them.

That particular year, the presents had been opened and we were waiting for dinner so we started up a game. Grandparents and parents wandered in and out of the house, talking on the porch watching us, or inside drinking coffee. There was 17 of us present that year.

Outside on the driveway, it was chilly enough that I could feel the redness of my cheeks, but not chilly enough for excessive layers. The game was going fine, we were harassing one another and calling ridiculous fouls as usual. We were also getting creamed by Ryan, and bless my brother for trying but he was really just along for the ride and quick passes. After one shot, we set back up at the top, and I started playing the ball. After a dribble, I pulled up the ball and pivoted to pass. Drew started to defend me, and he was all in my face. After one too many hands waving in my face, I threw the ball on the ground and squared up to him. The words that came out of my mouth next have become a running joke that I have yet to escape. I yelled in his face “Come at me sideways kid!” Instantly, he feel back clutching his stomach, doubling over in laughter. The other three pretty much followed suit, holding one another, or in Nicole’s case writhing on the driveway in a fit of laughter. “Ryan started walking away laughing, saying “What did she just SAY!” I couldn’t help but laugh as any of the remaining short burst of anger I had dissipated.

It was totally ridiculous, and to this day, one of them will say “remember that time you told Drew…” and everyone will fill in “Come at me sideways!” and laugh. Even though we are physically apart from one another, the little memories are strands that hold us together.
















The Squeegee Bottle Incident
If you have ever had a pet especially a dog, you know what kind of emotional attachment comes with that. The first pet I was ever introduced to was a dog my parents had before my brother and I were born, a dappled short haired dachshund named Ziggy.

For whatever reason, I suppose because I was the first born, Ziggy had an overbearing love for me. In all of my baby and little kid pictures, there’s a little nose or eyeballs in the corner, reminding you of his presence. He was very protective of me, and I used to sit with him and read to him, or play with him and feed him treats. I also used to eat his dog food, which is totally gross, and I probably shouldn’t have revealed that. Anyways. My parents never understood why he put up with by childish behavior, tugging on his ears, or being too rough with him, because had next to no toleration for my brother when he arrived three years later.

Ziggy was also very temperamental. He was a strong independent dog, and he did what he wanted. He and my Dad often had little dog-owner arguments because of this. One in particular that terrified me at the time, and now makes me laugh.

My brother Drew and I were watching TV together, when my Dad tried to discipline Ziggy, and failed. We heard the snarling and shouting from the other room, and so we retreated towards the steps. I was in my cotton white nightgown as it was early in the morning, and it had little red ruffles on the sleeves and bottom, with a big Barbie imprinted on the front. It matched one of my dolls. As Drew and I sat on the steps, we watched my dad tear after Ziggy through the house, chasing him with a squeegee bottle of water in his hand. At the time, we were scared. I remember how my dad had said “kids, you might wanna leave for this” and how nervous I had become. Now, the whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. Here is a grown man, chasing this little tiny wiener dog around the house squirting him with water, and he’s telling us kids to retreat because “things are gonna get ugly”. It feels like some script to a random TV show.

We remained on the stairs, until we heard them settle into the family room, where we had been originally. We snuck down the steps to see an image I will always remember. In one corner of the room there is an assortment of plants in a conglomerate display. In the middle of all of them is Ziggy, crouched and cornered, barring his teeth, and flinching as water rains down on him. My dad is standing above him, red-faced, little veins popping out of his skin yelling “BAD!” with every little squirt of water he sent the dog’s way. I was so scared of all that anger in one corner of the house, but if I think about it, if that happened today, I would double over laughing.

This little standoff continued for a couple minutes until my dad finally got his hands on the dogs collar and lifted him off to his cage, squirting him a couple more times for good measure. This was neither the first or last dog to man showdown in our house, but none of them have ever contained that much personality.