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You Can't Pick Your Relatives

 

Sometimes I'd rather pick my nose.

Actually, I have a great family. Those I see.

A Dad, Joe, 100% pure (cough cough) red blooded Canadian Indian from the Ojibwa tribe.

A Mom, Kathy, I know there's 1/2 Irish in there, I think the other half is Scottish, but then again, I may be wrong.

Two older sisters. Karen and Kibbie (like "Dave", it's a nickname that has stuck) Older. Got that? Older.

An older brother I haven't seen nor heard from in over 10 years. Tim. A younger brother. Dan. A family of seven.

We're spread throughout the province, though at one time different countries were involved. Without the internet.

This is one weird and wonderful group of individuals. With alot of quirks that have made a history of "Dave moments" long before we knew they were Dave moments.

Like when my two older sisters were kids, upstairs with a pack of matches. The oldest egging the younger on... "Go on... light it... I won't tell!" Of course Kibbie lit it, promptly dropped it in the wastebasket starting a small garbage fire, and Karen running down the stairs screaming "Kibbie is burning down the house!" Gotta love nasty big sisters *evil grin*.

Or Tim, as a child, walking with his hands stuffed down the legs of his pajamas... losing his balance and unable to get his hands out to stop the fall, crashing face first into the floor and ripping open his chin.

Or Dan, riding on the back of Karen's bike when he was 5, getting his moccasin stuck in the spokes and breaking his leg.

Kibbie playing with Dad's razor and getting a slit in her finger in the bathroom, with Mom standing outside the door yelling "Are you touching something you shouldn't??" Kibbie shaking her hand, blood splattering everywhere yelling "Nooooo!!!!"

Karen, a small toddler, kept coming to the door over and over, finally forcing my mother to say "Look... quit opening and closing the door, don't come in unless you're bleeding!" Of course she didn't mean it. However two minutes later, she again knocks on the door. Mom angrily stomps to the door, ready to say "I thought I told you......" only to see a pouting Karen, standing there bleeding after falling off her bike. Talk about making you feel guilty.

All us kids had chores. Imagine, mean parents making their kids do chores. Dishes, cleaning our rooms ( I can't believe they made us do that, the nerve....) and the like. We would argue when it was our night for dishes over who would do which part. We would argue as soon as Dad came home about who would get the cartoon section of the newspaper first. We would argue over who got to sit where in the station wagon on family outings.....

It was very normal, at any given time of the day.. to hear shouts of..

"Plates and glasses, cartoons first!"
"Front seat by the window!!"
"You idjit!"

A lie "Mommmmmmmm Kibbie hit me!" so you could get a running start for the car before SHE stole your seat.

Mom had .44 calibre knitting needles, so if you got remotely close during one of your mouthing off, rolling of the eyes, bitching moods, you had to be wary of her cobra quick reflexes.

Dad worked three jobs to support his family, I don't think he knew any of us till we were over the age of 10.

Mom would put us to bed, "I don't want to hear a PEEP out of you!" To which she would be rewarded with a chorus of "peep peep" every 5 minutes from different offspring.

I used to share a room with my two older sisters. However early on I was moved into my very own room. I was the only one to have my own room. The reason? They were damaging my 5 year old psyche. If I had remained a room-mate, I may be have damaged forever. God only knows I probably would have ended up writing humour columns about dysfunctional fam.... never mind.

Growing up we had the pet of all pets. A killer, the most menacing of menaces, a threat to all that threatened the family. A larger Norwegian Elkhound, named Igor.

Ohhhh he was a vile, terrifying creature. If *anyone* came near him, he'd look you in the eye, ears raised, curly tail still and then he would pounce. Sometimes knocking you to the ground.

From then on, the terror ends.

This dog would lick you to death before even thinking of wounding, maiming or otherwise sparking fear.

He thought he was a people.

This is a dog that came in the house and sat on your lap during thunderstorms. He would lie on the floor while our budgie would sit on his head. He would let you put hats and scarves on him. He would lie still and quiet while I cried when my parents went away on their first long trip without us. This dog could smile. For 17 years he smiled, especially the day that he went for his final boink with the dog up the street. He was so "spent" he couldn't move. My parents had to carry him home, with the biggest doggie smile spread across his furry face in history.

One of my fondest memories of my young life, was a certain meal we would get, creamed beef on toast. I know, to you it might not sound like anything extraordinary, however just the smell of it reminded me of being young, carefree, no bills, the only worries being who got hold of the pogo-stick first.

I hadn't had it since I was under the age of 10 I think. I'm 34 now and basically forgot all about it. I've been on this big diet the past 6 months and lost 55lbs, transforming myself into the Goddess I know I am (another cough cough).

Mom and Dad invited me over for lunch to celebrate. Said I had to eat what she made. No problem, the woman cooks like NOBODY'S business.

On the table she placed creamed beef and toast. The smell alone literally brought tears to my eyes and I was morphed back to childhood.

During that lunch, we talked about all the "Dave Moments" our family endured. But the greatest part of all...
I didn't have to sit at the "kids table". I got to sit with the grownups!

 T O P

M O R E from D A V E

 

Unless otherwise specified, all material Copyright 2000 by Dave

     

 

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