I grew up in a "traditional" four person family. There was Mom, Dad and my younger brother. I had extra grandparents, because both sets of my grandparents had been divorced and then some of them married, or moved in with, new people.
I had four people that I considered my Aunts and Uncles on my Mom's side of the family, and four on my Dad's side of the family. I also had three cousins from Moms side, and three cousins from Dad's side.
We lived in the same house since I was about four. We went to the same schools the whole time we were growing up, and we went to the same church. We grew up knowing the same friends, and my Dad said hello to the same people at Bi-Mart on every Lucky Number Tuesday. I thought for many years that my family was the most boring, most predictable family ever.
Knowing that my Grandfathers had lived separately from my Grandmothers as my parents were growing up and having children of their own, gave my mind a place to wander. It also felt a bit scandalous to think about it, or even talk about it. It was also a bit difficult for me choke down how I could have an Aunt that moved in with her boyfriend. It was nothing compared to what it felt like when I found out that I had extra Aunts, Uncles and cousins that I knew nothing about. My Mom told me, at some point in my formidable years, that her Dad had fathered a set of twins that were older than her. These twins, a man and a woman, each had their own families, and someday we would know each other.
Having a skeleton crawl out of your closet is an uncomfortable feeling at that age, because you begin to doubt your own reality. For me, this wasn't the worst of it though. I was in High School when I learned that the picture of the nice young man on my Dad's dresser was indeed, his own son. I don't even remember what I was thinking or how I reacted when I was given the news, but I do recall a moment the day afterwards, of wandering down the hallway in school, and realizing that I was no longer my Father's first born child. I also came to the understanding that my brother was no longer his only son. It gave me the creeps. I wished that my family was more normal.
Keeping the secret of having a brother was difficult for me. I don't think anyone ever told me to keep it a secret, but somehow it felt shameful, and knowing that my Dad was now an upstanding citizen in our community, and a leader in our church, I didn't feel it was my place to make him look bad at this point. Somewhere along the line I had learned that people change, and that they aren't always who they used to be.
Dad had been working at the lumber mill while I was in elementary school, and after one too many layoffs, he went back to college. My Mom, who had been a stay at home mother until that point, went back to college too. My childhood wasn't always the most comfortable as far as material possessions goes, but I don't remember being starved or not ever having anything to wear. I always had a bed to sleep in, and something to play with. On the other hand, I do recall the taste of Government cheese, bologna, and that nasty powdered milk. I recall what food stamps used to look like in their little booklets of various denominations. I remember when the first microwave showed up in our home because it was a grand occasion. Then the first CD player, and the computer that ran through the TV, and the other one that use to get backed up onto cassette tapes. I remember watching Perry Mason in black and white, and how coming home from school meant that we could watch Little House on the Prairie.
My brother and I played outside a lot. We made mud pies, we played with bugs, we made Matchbox Car towns in the dirt (where some of the cars are still buried, I'm sure) and we climbed trees. Climbing trees wasn't one of my best skills, I guess, because falling out of them was usually the end result. I broke my right arm when I was five, then the other when I was seven doing just that.
Growing up in a small town kept us somewhat sheltered from the evils of the world. My Mom never worried about us getting snatched up on our way home from school, but she did worry about how my brother rode his bike. He would get in trouble for jumping the curbs if she caught him, and he got in more trouble when someone else in town caught him and told her about it. She always knew where we were, and who we were with. We couldn't get away with much.
I liked it when my brother got in trouble, because it took me out of the spotlight. I taught him to say the F word once when he was little, knowing full well he would get an earful. I was right. Sometimes I got in trouble too though. Like the time my Mom found cigarettes in my room when I was in Middle School. She never really said anything, but she left a message behind that made me fully aware that she knew about it. I never really smoked, but at that time, the kids destined for nothing good would hide out behind the gymnasium before school and attempt to look cool. I went along with it for about a week, but like Bill Clinton, I never inhaled. It was at that time that I brought someone's cigarettes home and stashed them in my drawer. When my Mom found them, I realized it was pretty stupid to look cool, but get in trouble for it, so I didn't go to school early again. Besides, who wants to go to school that early anyway? Turns out, the first day I didn't go back to hang out with those kids, was the day they all got busted by the administrators.
My family toughed it out through some rough things over the years. My parents are still married, my brother is still sometimes a brat, and I really enjoy my aunts, uncles and cousins. I met my Mom's surprise siblings quite a few years back, and I really am grateful to know them. I waited a lot longer to "meet" my half-brother though. It wasn't until 2010 that I made the decision to contact him online. We had quite a few lengthy facebook conversations, and I'm so very glad to know who he is, and what he's made of. I always felt like something was missing until I made it a point to get past my worries, and get on with it.
I moved away for the first time from my parent's house at the age of 19, and then I moved away for the last time when I was 25, but that's another story for another page.
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