"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.