Wild, yet not so, Wonderful West Virginia

We moved again when I was nine. I was excited by the “adventure,” but – not surprisingly - I wasn’t prepared for the “adventure.”

The movers in the yellow truck, with a giant green boat on the side, arrived, and I imagined we were sailing away on the Mayflower to our new country. To be fair, the side of the truck said Mayflower Moving, but I was alight with the thought of a grand journey. The Mayflower connection created crazy ideas that rolled around my unfinished brain like the waves I imagined in the expansive sea that stretched to the foreign land of West Virginia.

Would I wear a long dress with some kind of man boots?

Would I wear the hat with the buckle, or the “Handmaid’s Tale” styled white bonnet?

None of them were attractive options, but as a stalwart new citizen, I would do as they did on the Mayflower or the shores where we would land.

Who knew, but I wondered these things. These silly little nine-year-old things.

Our journey to “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” sounded promising because it was, after all, wild and wonderful. Would we be in the wild, wild west? Would we ride horses? I was leaving Texas, and we never had a single Laura Ingles Wilder moment. All we had to ride was our cute, tiny, red VW Beetle.

I cannot fathom now why my family of seven had a beetle. That little lady made the distinctive beetle bug sound which was akin to a herd of guinea pigs.

Welcome to the amusement park ride – no seatbelts required. This was 1969.

Waiting in the street in front of our castle, the jovial movers tolerated us kids. This “ship” or truck thing was the most enormous contraption I’d ever seen. We were encouraged by the highway pirates to creep up the metal ramp and board the ship to explore the cavernous, dark, and musty tank.

That trailer felt big enough to move the treasures of kings and queens.

Could a kingdom be relocated?

Could our small, white brick, mid-century, four bedrooms, two-bath home in Clear Lake City, Texas possibly need these excessive accommodations?

My brow was tight with concern about how our little red bug would make the trip. I wanted the sailors of that clipper to keep her safe. Then they did something brave and shocking. They drove our beetle up the ramp into the cavern. Their next move was otherworldly to me. Those four mates reached down with the ease of giants, picked up the car, and turned it sideways. Now, all the belongings from the small white brick castle had a sentinel. My brow relaxed because all was well.

The house we moved to was a monstrous castle on a hill. It was three stories including the basement with 4+ bedrooms. Mine was large and glamorous. I envisioned multiple seating areas. (Yes, at 9.). Immediately though, my parents swiped the corner under the eave for my sister’s crib.

This move blindsided me because my parents (Kathy and Ron) had a suite of rooms downstairs with one perfect for a nursery. I stood in stunned, silent defiance without recourse. Maybe it’d be fun to play mom…maybe not.

There were immediate lessons. Even though I was the oldest of five and had been forced into active service as a pseudo-parent, I couldn’t fathom the ensuing responsibilities.

Things that weren’t fun:

Putting a baby to bed and waking up with her when she cries.

Access to my room after 8 pm, only if I was silent.

I was more than a big sister.

How did I get rooked into being the pseudo co-captain of that ship? I wanted the king and queen of the red brick castle to do their damn jobs. I wanted to be relegated to princess again, not a lady in waiting, nor nurse, teacher, enforcer, or disciplinarian. The new role was rapidly swelling and getting out of hand.

Suddenly, Kathy decided it was an excellent idea for her and Ron to join the local theater group. Guess who was running things during rehearsals, performances, and cast parties?

Yes, yours truly.

On one such occasion, we were home alone during a violent thunderstorm.

-Baby, asleep – check.

-Others with me downstairs now because they were scared – check.

-No one missing – check. Two were crying, and one was clinging to me.

Then the best of all scenarios – the power went out. Unprepared, I had a lightbulb moment (no pun intended) - I lit the gas stove top. Well, that only helped if we were standing 6” from the flame. Pointless.

In the flashes of light, Karen (younger by 18 months) and I took slow steps to our parents’ room. Haltingly we advanced in the flashes of lightning. In the brightness of each flash, we rummaged through the top drawer of Ron’s dresser. Isn’t the dresser where one keeps a flashlight? Nope.

The two middle ones sat on the stairs with blankets over their heads, like a scene from The Sixth Sense.

Finally, I abandoned all attempts to fix that shit myself. Karen and I ran to the neighbor next door. I had the good sense of putting raincoats on both of us. We climbed the 17,000 steps to their house. That poor couple stared at us as if we were the lost children of Appalachia. Aghast, we were left “home alone” with a 10-year-old in charge; the husband came over to the house with a flashlight and an extra one. He was kind and patient. Just after we got there, the lights came back on. He ensured we were ok and left with an eye roll toward my parents.

My parents played in a little theater, and I parented the hoard.

On one of those weekend afternoons they were out play acting, I, agreed to letting the kids make a pie. I thought it was cute, and they were excited to surprise Kathy and Ron with this feat. However, making a pie was a bad idea. As it turns out, pouring all ingredients for the crust and filling in the same bowl doesn’t, in fact, work. They don’t separate to create the elements of a pie miraculously—and this enraged Kathy.

Her seething spit at me, “You should’ve known better. This is a mess.”

There was no mess. I had cleared away all the remnants of the science experiment. In retrospect, I know what the mess was, and it wasn’t a childhood attempt at pie making. It was their attempt at parenting and blaming.

For the long-suffering princess, the lessons learned were many.

They are these:

I loved snow.

I loved the forest and the creeks I explored (always with a sibling). I loved the freedom of those hours lost and then found again.

I loved plucking and tasting honeysuckle on the twisting and climbing trail, making our way to swim practice.

Squinting my eyes didn’t improve my vision; contacts did.

Heating Campbell’s consommé when Kathy and Ron weren’t home, and the kids were hungry was a mistake. How was I to know that word was French for broth?

I didn’t want to be a pre-adolescent parent.

I didn’t know how to make and keep everyone happy.

I didn’t know my dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t know what the DTs were, but they convinced my dad there was a band in his hospital room.

I didn’t like Mom taking me to pick Dad up from the hospital. She shit-talked him all the way there. Experiencing him vomiting out the window left me horrified.

My grandparents were home with the other kids, and that was where I wanted to be. They let me be a child.

I stopped being a child in that castle.

No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. A belief that still haunts me.

I wanted the highway pirates to come and take us back to the little white castle with the pool, the golf course, and the pond behind it.

There is only the living, and it must be done.