Isn't That a River?

The closest park to our childhood home in Durham had river running through it (At least I always thought it was a river).  We would race sticks and leaves down it occasionally, but one summer day a new and very significant idea burst upon us.

First of all, let us confirm the party involved. I believe that it was Truly, Whitney( Basically another sibling judging by the time spent with our family), Me, Dusty, and Zach. Somehow, we all decided to play marco polo in the stream. It was hot and we needed to cool down. Home was too far of a walk, and we needed something new and fun to do. No one could stop us. This was a park! Isn't everything in a park something to play with?

Well, after playing for a good while in our new favorite part of our neighborhood park, our dad drove up. He ran out of his truck, apparently very disturbed by our wetness. The reason for his anger was soon discovered. "That is NOT a stream! It is SEWER water!" Dad took ONLY Zach home in the truck (because we stunk!) and demanded that the rest of us walk home immediately. Walk we did, in shame and growing self-awareness of the terrible odor emanating from our bodies.

When we arrived home, Zach was already starting his bath, being freed from the shameful scent of our terrible decision. We thought we would be next, but no. We were all sprayed mercilessly with the hose by Breklyn, forced to give a preliminary blow to the sludge that was sinking into our pores and destroying our clothing. I felt like the time we spent outside, dripping, crying, and waiting for our turn to be cleaned properly was endless. Somehow, playing with water had lost its charm, at least for that day.

The Worst Easter Egg Hunt Ever

Mom Rose loved Easter. She loved the dresses and the food, and she especially loved Easter egg hunts. Every year, after church, we would make our way to the Rose's house to eat lunch and partake in one of these festive events. I always loved how particular her placement of eggs was. There would be one in the bird bath, one near the frog sculpture, one balancing in the iron designs of patio. This year, however, was different.

Jesse and Jackie (at this point about 15 or 16) were give the honor of hiding the eggs. They must have started with good intentions, placing some eggs in the typical, cutesy places. When the children were released, though, what we found was a mess. There were eggs in the road, some in the woods across the street, and far too many in the ivy patch in the back yard. It seems that after hiding a few dozen eggs carefully (Some to the point where no human being would lay eyes on these eggs for years), the boys decided that lobbing the eggs in any direction they fancied was a more efficient method.

Mom Rose saw all of this, and she was disappointed. Maybe more than the punch bowl, the songs, the under or over cooked asparagus, Mom Rose's disappointment was the hallmark of her parties. Seeing all of her lovely eggs with candy pouring out of them due to the lack of care was a shock. I don't remember what happened to the boys that day; I was too busy trying to win a chocolate bunny by gathering eggs. I do know that Jesse was never put in charge of the Egg Hunt again.

Skateboards and the best driveway ever

When you're poor, bored and you have all lost tv for one reason or another, you get creative with ways to have fun. We did have a couple of skateboards and a sloped driveway, however, and that was really all we needed. The driveway was surrounded by short, stone walls and ended with our unattached garage. It's a miracle that none of us actually went through the garage doors at some point. But to the right side of the driveway was a small wooden fence with a narrow gate.

The point of the "game?" was pretty much to sit on the skateboard (If we had been standing, one of  us would surely have died. It's just a fact), and race down the sloped driveway. If you were good enough to make a sharp turn, you could make it into the backyard through the gate and go the length of the patio.

We had 2 skateboards. I am sure they were both yard sale scores. One was blue and the other green. If you got to choose first you always chose the green one. The blue one was harder to turn, and I ended up crashing into the garage or fence more often than not. If I remember correctly, it wasn't just me. One of the Gardner's broke their arm trying to make it through the gate..... She lost. 

Haircuts

   Think about the worst haircut you have ever seen. Chances are that one of the Roses had it beat. To her credit, our mother tried her best. Home haircuts were free, and being as poor as we were, that was all the incentive that she needed to try her hand at cutting hair. It didn't help that her mother was obsessed with curly hair, and at every possible chance one of us succumbed to her home perms.
It was a messy combination.

   However, all of that was not what really clenched the "Worst of the worst haircut" award for us. The true culprit was the defiance found in any of the youngest Rose girls. We had a knack for taking what little bit of hair we had left between perms and home haircuts and ruining it with our own safety scissor creations.
I even recall Anna taking a pair or grass clippers to Dusty's poor head at one point.
The worst was when I tried to cut my own hair. They really should have just shaved my head and let me start from scratch. My kind and curly hair obsessed grandma was there with some moral support and an old lady wig (someone had probably donated to her church's clothing closet) to lift my spirits.

   This is all what probably led to my high school hair and the attitude that "it's just hair" it will eventually grow back. However, I constantly forgot how long it took to grow back. I almost always had a short pixie, which (along with a boyish physique) ultimately got me the worst nickname of all time- Trevor. 

Anna's Teapot

Most kids look forward to their birthdays. They're all about getting gifts, spending quality time with their relatives or friends, and basically just getting to choose where to go, what to eat, etc. I hate birthdays, and probably always will. It doesn't help being one of six kids, where birthdays seem to come every other day, or being homeschooled when all of your friends are related to you by blood, or being a bit on the poor side (unless you're Zach and don't understand money) and your cake usually tastes like wet cardboard. (Yes, mom, I can tell the difference between the name brand cake. And why did we even have waffle cone blueberry frozen yogurt? Who even made that crap?) 

On one of my more *memorable* birthdays grandma was taking me shopping(?!?) to get NEW pants. This does not sound like a big deal, but this is the first memory I have of going to a store and picking something out that hadn't been 'pre-loved.' Which was a big deal to my nine-year-old self. I had also just started going to school outside of the home, which meant I had realized that there were social standards, and levels to society that I had never comprehended before. Cool kids were a thing, and I was increasingly aware of how different I was from them all. So, getting new pants was kind of like getting to taste the good life, the cool kids life, all that bull crap. 

So grandma, Anna (who was basically my other half for the first nine fifteen twenty years of my life), and I were going to the MALL (again, big effing deal) to buy pants that I got to pick out. Well, sort of. First grandma asks me what I want, and I say 'Khakis.' Because all of the cool guys (yes, I was a tom-boy, and was asked multiple times whether I was a girl or a boy.. by strangers... in public..)wore these zip-off khakis and I wanted some zip-off pants but couldn't bring myself to ask for something so extravagant, so I just said khakis. Simple, plain, ordinary khakis. 

Grandma did not approve. She showed me dresses, which Anna loved (Yes, grandma also let Anna pick out some matching sunflower dresses for us because the ones I liked were 'whorish'... being black and white and literally identical to the ones Anna picked in every other way), some jeans that were cheaper than khakis, and finally she found me a couple pairs of khakis to try on. I remember being overwhelmed, grabbing one and just deciding on it probably within half a second before I got guilt-tripped into buying those dang jeans. I am fairly certain she sighed, probably also grunted, and agreed to pay for them, all the while commenting on how expensive they were for pants. They were probably about $10. Seriously.
I was ecstatic to have my first pair of cool, new pants. 

Until we got back to grandmas. 

Grandma told us to go into the kitchen because she had a surprise. Again, this was my birthday, I was still naive enough to think it might be a dessert or something to celebrate. She showed us a teapot. That she bought for herself. It had a matching cozy, which is basically an ugly hat to keep the teapot and the tea warm while you sip it for hours on end. Next to her ugly hat and teapot was second teapot complete with ugly hat. 

"Anna, I bought this teapot and cozy and thought you would like one for your tea parties that you throw! And it was $40.00 for just the teapot, but it is a really nice one."

Then we had a tea party...

For the record: I went back to grandma's when everyone was cleaning out her house, and I went to take her teapot and cozy, but it was old, rotten, and gross so I left it on the shelf.

The Hump

When we moved to NC our family owned a station wagon. One of those with the wood paneling, where you could sit in the back facing out the back and get really sick (if you were prone to that). This car was already pretty old when I we moved to NC, so it wasn't a real surprise when it died. However, that did mean that our family, with 4 kids at this point, needed a way to get around. Since there were already too many of us to fit in  any old 4 door car we needed something bigger.
My mom, always a woman of prayer, had us all gather and list what we would like to have in a car. We all had various wishes and we prayed that God would meet our need. Soon after, God did meet that need an we had "The Grey Van". This van was an answer to all of our prayers, especially my mom's. She specifically wanted windows that opened 'all the way', and this van had them!
Our new van served us well and fit us all comfortably with 1 seat to spare! But soon, Dusty and then Zach came along and we no longer had enough seats. But....this was just another chance for mom to come up with a great new idea. You see, this van had a 'hump' between the 2 front seats and the back area. This hump was actually where the motor for the car lived - but mom saw it as a perfect seat for the extra kid. So, whoever was 'lucky' or 'unlucky' (depending on your point of view) ended up sitting on 'The Hump'.
If you were lucky, you would also get to pick the Odessey tape that we listened to during the trip!

On the road from Nagshead

The drives to and from the Outer Banks each summer were always memorable. We would look for turtles in the creeks along the road, open up the windows to smell the ocean air, and most importantly, thank God that we didn't ride with Mom Rose and stop for two hours at Cracker Barrel for lunch. The most memorable trip on Highway 64 for me was in 2005, on the way home, with Zach.

We were all consumed by the Harry Potter series at the time, and I had recruited Zach to read one of the books out loud to me while I drove. He angrily consented, but soon began to excitedly read, even using a British accent and doing voices for all of the characters. Gradually, I began to lose faith in the trueness of Zach's words to the lines of the novel. He was tired of reading, and interspersing his own ideas with the book's. The moment that I became sure of these suspicions was when Zach pronounced the line, " and then Ron reached over and touched Hermiones left breast." 

This was the just one of the many times I was thankful to have Zach as a brother, even if he thinks spilling juice is an emergency. (more on that later)

Yard Sales

It is not possible to completely explain the importance of yard sales in the Rose family history. Besides being the source of most of our possessions, they are also an enduring tradition and shared passion. I think the best way to begin to explain how deeply Yard Sales delve into our shared identity is to give a quick description of our yard sale game. 

I believe it was started by Mom. She would have a yard sale upstairs, close to Christmas, giving us a chance to buy eachother and our parents presents for just a few cents. We apparently became enthralled with this idea, because one day some older sibling went around announcing that they would be having a yard sale at the door of their bedroom later that day. This caught on quickly, and soon our bedroom hallway was a veritable, thriving market. The most popular items were pogs (the slammers were especially valuable), Chapstick (Dr. Pepper flavored), and trinkets and Gideon Bibles left over from Mom Bedzyk's Christmas boxes. 

Probably the most disastrous yard sale I ever had was in Elmira. Dusty and I, along with Matt and Mitch found a bag of oranges and decided to juice all of them and sell the juice on the street, along with some snacks from the church basement (this was the main source of funding for our secret club). We were having a rather successful morning, when grandma came running out of the house, furious. Apparently, the oranges we juiced were bought in Florida during grandma's recent trip to the Brownsville revival. They were not meant for juicing, and we were in  trouble. I remember that we had to sit at the table and drink all of the juice, attempting to give the oranges the dignity they deserved. 

I am sort of glad that yard sales are popular now, but I still sometimes miss the days when we 

were considered strange for this passion. Obviously, we are also set apart from all others by our extreme intelligence and good looks (at least Zach and I), but there is something very Rose-ish about our love for looking through musty garages that seems cheapened by the trendy yard-salers, walking around our turf with their store-bought clothing.

I never peed my pants...

Setting the record straight, I just want to clarify what actually happened during the 100 to 150 times that we brawled while the parents were out of the house.

The fight would usually start as an unorganized mess. Breklyn would tell me to do something in an overextension of her babysitting powers and when I objected it would become an argument. The arguments tended to take place in the location where the punishment would occur. She generally tried to punish me by sending me to my room, which was a punishment when the parents were gone and we could essentially do whatever we wanted (including indoor hockey tournaments, tennis in the hallway, obstacle course on the patio and tying up the youngins to the slide). After I refused to go to my room, Breklyn would generally attempt to physically force me into the room, at which point a brawl ensued. While I tried (usually unsuccessfully) to recruit my only brother, Zach, to help me fend off the four sisters I generally ended up fighting them all alone.

The fights usually took place on the queen sized bed in Breklyn's room where she recruited the sisters to gang up on me. Even with all four sisters ruthlessly clawing, biting, pinching and hitting I could generally win the fight. I was a scrawny brawler and with one foot for each young  one and an arm for each of the older two I could keep two out of four of the sisters in a constant state of tears while I worked on the other two with a steady stream of kicks, punches and headlocks. Whenever I felt like it was going too far and they might pin me down I would just push one off the bed and endure the possibility that they had a bruise that could be proven when the parents returned. The fights went on like this for minutes or hours, I could never tell.

I had only one weakness: the tickling. When it became clear that my awesome scrawny powers would never be beaten by the four sisters, they would resort to the most ruthless, underhanded and disgusting trick in the book. They would tickle me ceaselessly while taunting me that I would pee my pants. Nothing could be worse for an 8-14 year old boy than the possibility that I would pee my pants and someone would find out. They knew that if they tickled for long enough, my scrawny powers would be overcome and my bladder would get the best of me. I had only one power that could beat them: my incredible intelligence.

Each time they brought me to the verge of losing control I would ensure that they were too scared to go over the edge through a series of pleas and then false claims that I had in fact peed in my pants. With the tickling sister in a position that they would get pee on them if I had, I would make the claim and watch as they scurried away, fearful of the possibility of getting urine on them. While they retreated I would look for an escape to the bathroom where I could safely lock them out and simultaneously relieve my over-exerted bladder. Each time they claimed victory under the false belief that I had soiled my pants and each time they were wrong. To this day they still believe my convincing lies told under duress, but I know the truth. Deep down, I know that they also know that they never really won those fights. Even though they took advantage of my weakness they never truly beat me.

Whenever I come up against adversity to this day, I always keep the claim of urination as a last resort. Thankfully, no judge or attorney has ever pushed me to the limit the way that the four sisters did and I hope they never do.

"The Poopy Face Culprit"

I'm going to begin this story by admitting that I am, and always was the "poopy face culprit". I want you to understand that the term "poopy face" isn't as necessarily arbitrary as one might assume. My sister, Truly and I had a specific history with the subject of poop.  A history that will haunt me for an eternity to come.  It all began when I was just a lad at the mere age of 11.  I had just begun to come to grips with the reoccurring issue of bowel movements.

The night we will begin with felt cold and to an extent morose from my recollection.  I lived with three of four of my older sisters and my mother.  The house was of such a small proportion that it had attributed the nickname of "cracker box house."  Due to the disproportionate number of people to rooms in the house, it was only natural that the siblings were all subject to being roommates.  Divided into groups of two, Truly and I were paired together, while the other pair consisted of the closer two in age (Anna and Dusty).  Truly and I shared a bunk bed.  I was given the bottom bed and it is in some ways part of the blame for the fiasco that would occur.

The winds blew so frightfully; it was as if God himself had challenged the invisible giant to a contest of strength.  Alas, it was not this battle that awoke me that night.  It was the everlasting battle between myself and the monster within my stomach.  I don't know why Truly made the decision to sleep in my bed, but it was a decision she would soon regret. I awoke all of a sudden in an instant. The deed had been done even before I had even risen.  I thought to speak out against the foul demon that had been lain, but was too fearful of the rage that would be unleashed by my sister.  I crept away from my shame and headed down the hall, which seemed longer than usual, to my mother's bedroom.

  "Mom," I whispered and she awoke.  "What's wrong?" She spoke as if she knew what riddled my mind before my tribulation could be evoked.  It was out my control and yet I grieved for what I had done. I explained as best I could to my mother, leaving out one  very important detail, Truly.  I washed as best I could in my humiliation.  My mother stood in the doorway, almost tauntingly, when all of a sudden I heard it.  The footsteps that would most definitely result in my own extinction.  I paused my actions, as out of the darkness came the figure of my sister.  She was rubbing her eyes unaware of my fault.  She spoke, "There's something on my leg" in almost a yawn.  There it was, my disease, my anguish, my poop.  It sat on her leg like a dead bug caught in the path of a vehicle's windshield. My mother spotted it and from then on my destiny was sealed.

 I tell you this story so that you may see the reasoning behind the term "poopy face."  You see for the next 3-4 years I would be the center of every joke, the loser of every verbal battle, I had become a laughing stock. My age would often be exaggerated, "you were 13" they'd tell me as they stripped me of my pride and opinion all at once.  "You pooped the bed" or "you pooped on your sister's leg" would always be dwindling comments made at any moment they found to be appropriate.  I despised them for this, but nothing could be done.

  Moving forward in time, we find Truly to be the age of roughly 19 and me a young 14.  I cannot explain what the reason was that I chose to do this action.  In all honesty I remember it being an accident.  My sisters were inside and I believe I had just been yelled at for something, but there's no way of telling what had happened.  I grabbed a rock up from the drive way and ever so lightly etched the words "poopy face" on the top of my sisters trunk.  The vehicle was in no way particularly nice, but it was my sister's car.  I saw what I had done and laughed to myself.  What a funny guy I was.  I dabbed a little spit on my finger and proceeded to wipe away the words, when all at once I realized, they weren't going away. I scrambled around trying to figure out how best to handle my mistake. After all possible solutions had been thwarted I convinced myself that it was way too thin of writing for anyone to ever notice and that I would never hear anything about it.  Needless to say in the coming days (possibly even that day) Truly discovered my art work.  She burst through the kitchen door in a fuss demanding the one responsible to come forward.  I stood motionless and scared not saying a word.

The events that followed are vague in my memory, but I can only assume that Anna and Truly had already been in some form of an argument that day, which lead to Truly automatically blaming her for what had been done.  Amid Anna and Truly's battle of words, the unthinkable happened.  Anna (in her fury) looked at Truly and said "I didn't do it you poopy face!"  That was it.  She had sealed her own fate.  Half laughing, Anna realized her mistake and quickly tried to explain that her use of the term was in no way indicative that she had done the mischief.  She stood her ground, but was ultimately given credit for the misconduct.  I'm not sure how long it was before I finally admitted to it, but it ended up costing me a bottle of turtle wax and 30 minutes of hard labor that I exerted to no avail.  The car was branded and would be forever, and I would have but a taste of revenge for the suffering that I, to this day, must endure.

Lego City

Most children play with Legos at some point. They open a box, follow the directions, and get a submarine or plane or castle. We, however, had a chest full of Legos of all shapes and sizes. This chest was the result of many years of yard sale purchases by mom, who knew we couldn't afford to buy Lego sets. There were no plans and no directions with our Legos, but there were rules.

We had a train table, a chest full of Legos and six children. We needed a game that everyone could play. This is how the game of Lego city arose. In our Lego city, there were many stores. We could buy a car, a new outfit, the ever-popular new hairstyle. We could even buy bricks of your preferred color at the Lego store. What did we buy these things with? Lego money of course ( see below) All Lego tiles were given values based on their color and length, and I remember spending what seemed like endless hours digging in our Lego chest for enough money or rare hairstyles to buy some trinket at the store of a sibling.

Lego city was also a game of relationships. We each had characters, and the game ran much like house or Barbies (another Rose favorite). We had fights, romances, and families. We took trips, and renovated our businesses with the wealth that we a accumulated from the bottom of the chest.

There were inevitably days of rampage when the city was destroyed by a vengeful Rose, probably me, or a visiting friend who did not understand the sanctity of our city. Our city was always rebuilt, and usually improved by these setbacks.

One day, long after the last game of Lego city was over, I was helping dad clean our Jesse's room. He was away at college, and we were taking over his room so dad could start a project (more on dads projects later). As I was throwing away old math notebooks and boxing up his baseball cards, I came across a Lego box, tightly sealed. Prying open the lid, I found the largest hoard of Lego money I had ever seen. I wonder what Jesse was saving up for. 

The Tickle Fight That Went Too Far

Typically, it is brothers that bully sisters. This was sometimes the case for the Rose children. It was not rare for Jesse to tie up a random sister and lock her in the dark laundry room, with the "hoppers" (more on that later). It was not even surprising when Truly ended up tied to the slide in the rain, but with four sisters, all this abuse was building up.

The break. Tickle fights are fun, especially when everyone in your family is extremely ticklish. There is a limit though; there is thin line between fun and torture when you are being tickled. The Rose girls set out this day to test that line and pass it if they must.

We don't remember how this fight started, exactly, but when two of us got Jesse pinned on the ground, we let go of all inhibitions. He screamed, threatened, called for mom, begged for mercy, pretended to cry, and even said that he had peed his pants, but we found no evidence of this claim and continued our attack.

The breaking of the dam. The point of no return was passed, and Jesse's pants were wet. At this point we scattered to avoid retribution, not knowing that his shame would be our best protection against all forms punishment for this crime.

To this day, Jesse vehemently proclaims that he never peed his pants, claiming that he just acted like he did to get away. I am willing to let him tell his side of the story, if he dares. 

Pimento Cheese

In general, we were good eaters. Living on next-to-nothing led us to be happy when our stomachs were full. There were, however, exceptions. The notable "onion soup episode" may be recounted later, but today is about the cheese. This cheese was not from some hip, retro restaurant; it was on the clearance rack at our Kroger deli. It must have been almost free for our family to pick up any ready- made item at the store. Little did our mother know what she was getting herself in to.

Lunch time. We all filtered in to the kitchen at our mother's call and sat down, expecting something normal. On our plates were sandwiches, filled with something alien. It was orange, chunky, and dotted with red jewels of mystery. The smell was not helping.

We all came to the decision that this was not our lunch. Mom must have something else for us to eat. When we explained this to her, she was not amused and said that despite our perceptions this was, indeed, what we were to have for lunch. We were not wise at this point, and decided that a sit-in was in order. Our portions were reduced, but a quarter of a sandwich remained on each of our plates, and we would sit in our seats until it was gone.

Breklyn and Jesse force-fed themselves their tiny lunches and gleefully ran off to play with everyone else's toys while we suffered. Zach tasted the sandwich and immediately made himself throw up, as was his practice in those days. Mom decided he was not her battle ground for the day and sent him off to run around naked in the back yard, as was another of his practices in those days.

Two hours later, Truly, Dusty, and Anna remained. At this point the stakes had been raised. The options were spanking or the sandwich. Truly took her spanking, as she was more used to this than any of us. Dusty and I chose to eat the sandwiches in the end. I don't remember what it tasted like or if it was even that bad, but I still remember the taste of that wasted afternoon.

A Typical Party at Mom Rose's

The Christmas season of approximately the year 2006 was a memorable one for the Roses. A few years before, our aunt Rachael had begun the tradition of printing out holiday carols and forcing all of us to sing several at some unexpected moment of the night. Let's keep in mind that the Rose children involved here are a rowdy team of 6, who had had their fill of Rose family traditions by this time. The youngest member of the clan, Zach, had decided that singing "Joy to the World" at the dinner table, acapella, before we could eat our dessert was the last straw.

The song began unenthusiastically, as usual, but it was soon transformed into something quite entertaining by the surprising "ho's",  and "yoohoo's" in Zach's splendid falsetto voice that broke in at every pause of the song. Grandma Rose was not entertained. She started with a sneer, then a glare, then a pointed "Who is doing that?" towards the end of the table. We all knew that voice well, and shuddered to think what would happen next. Finally, she could take no more and paused the song. S

She demanded that Zach, in penance for his behavior, sing the entire song alone. He refused and ran into the tv room, screaming some combination of "I hate this family" and "you can't make me." No one was really upset by this... except of course Mom Rose. This was HER party.

I don't exactly remember how this party ended, but I do know that after that, somehow, the holiday carol lyrics always disappeared before it was time to sing. A few months ago, we were cleaning out part of Mom Rose's house. Deep in the drawers of a large buffet, in the dining room, we found the mother load of holiday carols left unsung.