The Rotten Kid on a Road Trip

My mother affectionately called me The Rotten Kid because from time to time I'd pull small harmless stunts. Of course I blamed her because she's the one who taught me to be, at times, unpredictable and/or irreverent.

You can read about a few exploits HERE.

Almost as soon as we Denhams moved to the Virgin Islands in 1955 we began dreaming of the day when we'd take a cross country trip from Florida to California.

In the summer 1970 everything came together and the dream became a reality. Mom, Dad, my sister Erva, and I packed up, flew to Florida and bought a used station wagon. We drove up the East Coast as far as Virginia to visit family. Then we headed out West, crossing West Virginia, Kentucy, Illinoise, and on through the endless corn fields of Iowa and Nebraska. We went through Wyoming and saw Yellowstone. Drove through Montana and across the northern arm of Idaho, stopping in Coeur d'Alene where my father had gone to Navy bootcamp. Then it was on Washington.

Victoria. A beautiful place!

Dad had family in Victoria on Vancouver Island, so we decided to catch the ferry at Port Angeles and go visit.

It was very early in the morning when we went into a Denny's to eat breakfast before before making the crossing.

We settled into a booth and a waitress came over to take our drink orders and give us menus.

The Rotten Kid decided this was a good time to do something unexpected. I picked up the knife and fork and began studying them as if I'd never seen them before. I then looked the waitress in the eye and holding the utensils up I asked in a most intelligent and innocent manner, "What are these for?"

The waitress, obviously flustered, ignored the question and asked us what we wanted to drink. All the while my parents and sister were trying hard not to snort and giggle.

What would your response be? Do you or have you ever played tricks on people?

***

Anansi and I are out and about again. This week we'll be visiting Anne Gallagher at Piedmont Writer. Anansi is hoping for High Tea since Anne is not only a writer of Regency Romance but a chief as well. I've told him to be polite, but I'm not sure if I can keep him from pestering her for some scones with strawberry preserves!

Hope you'll come by and see what we're up to.

PLUS... today Jess and Stephanie over at The Secret Files of Fairday Morrow announce the winner of a free copy of Anansi and Company! It could be YOU!

Thanksgiving 1969 - Part Two

So it's right around Thanksgiving, we've had a big rain and Ethel is planning a big party.

Now the road into Lillie Maho was narrow, steep, rocky and required four wheel drive/low transfer, even on a good day. After most any kind rain it turned into a slick, muddy track that was near impossible to traverse. But we had to get out. We had a business to run, not to mention the fact that my sister, Erva, had to get to her job. So first thing in the morning Mom and Erva went over the hill and cleared the road of the big rocks the hillside has thrown up, and the tree limbs that have blown down. They also filled in, with rocks, the deep ruts the rain had made. Inotherwords, they made the road passable.

At that time there were no telephones out our way. But we did have two-way radio. Telephone calls could be patched in and we could talk to people anywhere in the world. The only draw-back is that anyone who had a radio could hear your conversation.

Thus is was that while Mom was working in the office she overheard a radio phone call between Ethel and a dinner guest who was concerned about getting to her place. After all there'd been a big rain and some roads were washed out. Was the road into Maho passable?

To which Ethel replied, "Well, those people down there got out."

That infuriated Mom. Those people indeed! Like we were lepers or something. Like we were nobodies or were of some inferior class of people whose name was never to be mentioned, untouchables. She stewed and fumed over it all day. By the time Erva got home from work Mom was ready, she had a plan. The Original Rotten Kid was in full swing.

"Come on, kids!" she said. Me, Erva and her best friend Gene, piled into the jeep. Mom wrestled with the steering wheel and we skidded and skated our way over the hill until we got to the "main" road though it too was just another dirt track.

Then we turned around and headed back over the hill into Maho. While Mom drove, Erva, Gene and I followed behind unfilling the ruts, and putting back every bolder and tree limb that had been removed. Inotherwords, we made the road impassible. It was a wonderfully muddy job.

It meant that Ethel's guests would be met with barriers and would have to decide if they wanted to clear the road and get muddy, park their jeep and walk slip/sliding over the hill and get muddy, or turn around and go home.

If I recall, the next day there were noises on the squawk box (that's what we called the radio/telephone) about how difficult it had been to get to the party and Ethel was furious not understanding how it could have happened because she was sure "those people" had gotten out.

Oh we were terrible and still laugh about it to this day!

Grammy, (Erva Hartwell Boulon Thorp) February, 1963 at the gates to Ethel McCully's house which Ethel called, "Island Fancy."

Grammy was a bit Art Deco in her tastes. She wore large jewelry and liked bright clothes as can easily been seen here. I don't know of too many women who could wear a solid red jumpsuit (and shoes) and pull it off, but it goes so well with her beautiful silver hair.

Thanksgiving 1969 - Part One

Directly up the hill from our guest house at Lillie Maho, lived a woman named Ethel McCully. She was a legend in her own mind, someone who acted as if she had been on the island longer than any other white person. This of course was hardly true. She built her home in the early '50s whereas my grandparents had been on St. John since the 1920s.  None the less, Ethel made herself out to be quite the character, which wasn't difficult since she'd been an ambulance driver during World War I and was the author of three mystery novels. She was a tiny little old woman, rather wrinkly and wizened, who clung too long to trying to look young. The hibiscus she wore in her wig was an idea she stole from my grandmother. (Grammy's hair was all her own.) Her bright red lipstick tended to bleed around the edges of her lips and her heavily rouged cheeks made her look somewhat clownish. 

Photo by Peter Ernst


These eccentricities were not annoying, but her peacocks were. She had anywhere from six to twelve of the birds. Large males, with magnificent tails, strutted around accompanied by an entourage of peahens. She let them wander in and out of her house where they left presents on her tiled floors. But worse, they often flew down the hill and landed our roofs where they pooped and were a general nuisance.  And one must remember we collected rainwater off our roofs for drinking, cooking and bathing. Equally, if not more, annoying was the noise they made. Often times in movies that have a tropical setting, or ladies in long dresses are strolling through an English garden, one can hear a peacock yelling in the distant background. I suppose someone thinks it's romantic, shades of India and Rudyard Kipling don't you know. But let me tell you, when they live right next to you, their yelling is anything but romantic. It is a loud, ugly noise that sounds like a woman screaming, "HELP!" 


When asked if I can imitate an animal, I say yes, I can scream just like a peacock! (It's true.)


We had a touchy relationship with Ethel. She came down quite often to have cocktails at our open bar and would insinuate herself among our guests, playing the hostess, acting like the queen bee, and generally stomping all over our territory. She was a nosy busybody we put up with and didn't particularly like.


Every Thanksgiving Ethel held a big dinner party to which she invited all the local color. We, of course were never invited. But that didn't bother us because we had guests for whom we put on a big lovely spread.  


Then, in 1969 a few days before the Big Day,  it rained, and it rained, and it rained some more and we had a flood. 


Come back tomorrow for part two!

Thing 1 and Thing 2

Happy Columbus Day! If you haven't signed up for my blogfest and gift give-away, click on the pumpkin above!

***

It was the summer we were eleven and twelve that my cousin JohnJohn and I were christened Thing 1 and Thing 2. It all started because my sister, Erva, and JohnJohn's sister, Frances, kept harassing us.

I'm sure you can easily get the picture. They were older, wiser girls. They knew everything. There wasn't a thing we could do that they couldn't do better. They whispered and giggled behind our backs and we were sure they were whispering and giggling about us. They ordered us around.

There came a point when we decided enough was enough. JohnJohn, being twelve, took the lead. 

One night Erva and Frances were getting all dressed up to go out. Their hair had been in curlers most of the day. Thick ruffled petticoats made of scratchy nylon net were shaken out. Two inch white pumps were checked for scuffs and polished. Modest amounts of make-up was being applied.

It was a big deal.

Step one was getting Erva's attention and luring her into JohnJohn's room. As she opened his door a paper cup full of water fell on her head. Oh, she was furious and near tears. Her hair was ruined! How could we!

We, of course, were laughing with delight, ecstatic that the plan had worked. We also raced out of the house to avoid being smacked on the rear by an irate 15-year-old. We danced around and kicked up our heels in the back yard.

Erva's coif wasn't completely ruined and my Aunt Ninina, after reprimanding me and JohnJohn, made what repairs she could. But her hair was not exactly what she had hoped it would be.

However the night was young. We still had to get back at Frances.

Back then in Puerto Rico there were plenty of huge bullfrogs, as large as my two hands. They were all over the back yard. After the girls left for the party JohnJohn and I gathered up at least a half dozen of the monsters and put them in a paper bag. We put the bag on Frances's bed.

We were sound asleep when screams echoed through the house. Everyone got up. Frances had gotten into bed only to discover a large wet area and, on my god! a frog had somehow gotten under the top sheet and she had touched it with her feet.

Frances hated frogs, particularly those great huge beasts. And these guys had peed their way out of the paper bag and were hopping all around her bedroom. We found them among the shoes, under the bed,  and trying to hide in various other places. The sheets had to be changed and the mattress turned....

And that's when JohnJohn and I won the title of Thing 1 and Thing 2. Thank you very much. It was the beginning of my journey into being The Rotten Kid.

Here we are a few years ago. Thing 1 and Thing 2. The Cat in the Hat remains my favorite Dr. Seuss book.

Where you ever given the name of a character from a book?

The Rotten Kid and Banned Book Week

Remember, this is Banned Book Week. Read a banned book.  I look over the ALA list of banned books every year and discover something new each time. This year I was surprised to learn that  The Call of the Wild by Jack London was banned in Italy and Yugoslavia in 1929 and burned in Nazi bonfires in1933. This book holds a special place in my heart as it is the first book that made me cry and taught me how powerful words can be. I wrote about it here.


(We now return to our regularly scheduled program.)

***

My mother affectionately called me The Rotten Kid. Of course I blamed her for setting a good example. You can read about a couple of her childhood exploits here.

When I was 17 or 18 a family came to stay at our guest house at Lillie Maho on St. John. There were five kids. Two girls and three boys. The girls slept with their parents in one of the units, while the boys slept in one of two "overflow" rooms we called the Bunk Rooms. I slept in the Bunk Room right next to the boys and could heard them talk.

One of two cabins at Lillie Maho. Each cabin had two independent units with bath and kitchenette.

Now these boys were not little kids. The oldest was at least my age, the youngest maybe 11 or 12. You'd think three boys together would be a recipe for adventure. But these guys were total wusses. They were afraid of sleeping by themselves. They were afraid of the night noises. They were afraid of the bugs. Despite having mosquito nets they were afraid they would get eaten alive and/or catch some terrible tropical disease.

I listened to them for several nights as they complained. They hated St. John and being at the guest house. No hot water, no TV, no phones, no radio. Nothing to do. Too much sand. Too much salt water. And all the bugs! Flying and creeping things all over the place.

Then one night one of them said something about "that girl" in the other room that ticked me off.  Something had to be done.

At one time there had been a door between the rooms that was boarded over with a sheet of plywood. There was a space of about six inches between the floor and the bottom of the plywood.

I decided to give those boys something to be really frightened of.

When the lights went out in both rooms I stuck my hand through the space at the bottom of the door. I felt around, knowing that one of the beds was up against the wall which divided our rooms. I knew the foot of the bed was close to the door. I felt around until I got a hold of a corner of a sheet and slowly...very slowly, I began to pull.

There was an uproar when the boy in that bed started to feel his covers being pulled off. 

"Something's pulling my sheet!"

Lights went on. Explorations were made around the bed. I had long since removed my hand and was sitting with my back to the wall trying to keep from laughing out loud.

Eventually the lights were turned off. They convinced each other it had only been the one kid's imagination. 

But they didn't know, I was The Rotten Kid. I waited. After they were all settle down and dosing back off to sleep, I did it again. I pulled on the sheet.

"It's happening again! Something's pulling on my sheet!"

There were sounds of near hysteria. There was a scramble for the light switch. there were more useless explorations and a discussion about what was pulling the sheet. A rat was the most logical explanation. Horrors! A rat!

Satisfied that I had thoroughly demoralized those three scaredy-cat teen-aged boys I went back to bed quite satisfied with myself.

I'm sure they slept an unquiet sleep...with the light on.

The next day extra cots were moved into the unit so the boys could sleep with their parents and sisters. I no longer had to hear their whiny complaints.

Score one (or maybe three) for The Rotten Kid.


Ever pulled any stunts, played any harmless tricks?

My Sister

My sister, Erva, and I have always been close. Well, except for that brief period of time (which seemed like an eternity to me) when she turned into the Alien Monster I didn’t know or recognize. (More on that later.)

Erva is four years older than me. She is my Rock of Gibraltar, my Amazon Warrior Princess, sword drawn, protecting my back. She is my faithful Samwise Gamgee. I have never called her “Sis,” though I do occasionally call her, “Erv.”

She is the third generation female to be named Erva, starting with Grammy, who was Erva Hartwell Boulon, then our mom, Erva Claire Denham, then her, Erva Augusta Denham. She was named Augusta after our Swiss step-granddad, August Braendlin. Pa was the only grandfather we ever had or knew.

Erva bears my mark. I accidentally sat down on her right foot and bent she little toe. To this day it sort of sits up on top of the toe next to it, not quite lying flat like it should. Of course, when it happened she howled in pain and was understandably upset.

She used to play horsy with me. She’d lie on her back, right leg crossed over left knee. I’d sit in the saddle made by her foot and ankle, her arms became my reins and she’d bounce me up and down.

Many were the nights, when we should have been sleeping, that we played 20 Questions. Sometimes we’d get the giggles so bad we couldn’t stop. Then Mom would appear out of the darkness and say something like, “Do you realize what time it is? You girls need to get to sleep. No more fooling around.”

We played a lot of board games; Parcheesi, Monopoly, Candyland, Snakes and Ladders (before it got renamed Shoots and Ladders. Why? Did snakes suddenly become too scary?)

We played a lot of card games; Gin Rummy, War, Go Fish, Old Maid, and our favorite, Canasta. I had this tendency to hold all my cards. Erva had this tendency to go out early. “Wait, wait!” I’d holler. “Let me lay down first…pulleeeeze?” Nine times out of ten she let me empty my hand as much as I could. I still lost most of the time. Gee, I wonder why?

We put a lot of jig-saw puzzles together. Many of them were done at night by kerosene lantern light. Colors aren’t true in the yellow light of a flame, one must rely more on shape. We got very good. To this day I love putting puzzles together.

We played stickball, marbles and jacks.

We went exploring together.

I don’t recall ever being bored. There was just too much to do.

This is the first picture taken of us. I am about six months old, Erva is four. She holding something in her hands, I don’t know what, it looks like a little basket. We are studying each other, eye to eye, getting acquainted and, so it looks to me, liking what we see.

This is my all time favorite picture of us. She is 12, I am eight. People thought I was around five because Erva was so tall. She was turning into the Alien Monster. She grew 6 inches in 6 months. Her bones and joints ached and she was tired all the time, she got clumsy and was anemic. This picture was taken in the early stages of her transformation. The day this picture was taken she wasn’t in a good mood, she wouldn’t smile for the camera. So there’s my left hand sneaking over to her ribs, tickling her. This is, perhaps, The Rotten Kid’s first appearance, captured on film. I love how I’m staring straight at the camera, there’s a mischievously innocent smile on my face. And Erva is frozen in time, in a spontaneous laugh.

Then…here we are a few months later. The transformation is complete. It is Erva’s 13th birthday. Note how small I am next to her even though I’m on the high side of the slope. She is the Alien Monster I don't know. I am looking down at the ground. My feet are crossed. Erva is staring somewhat gloomily at the camera. We are NOT happy campers.

Luckily for both of us, this phase in our lives didn’t last too long It left its impressions, sure, but no scars…just a few little dents which we can laugh about now.

No one dares to stand between us. Many is the time a fool has tried to take a side in an argument we two are having only to be turned on by both of us. We two, in the midst of our “discussion” will attack an interfering third party like a couple of lionesses. She and I can say what we want to each other, but no else can. No one else has earned that right. No one knows us quite in the way we know each other.

I am blessed and honored to share the same genetic material with her.

Happy Birthday, Erva. You have always been and will always be, the best sister in the world.

All my love,
Bish