This is actually a paper that I wrote my senior year in high-school. Let me explain that it is a little tongue-in-cheek; I was supposed to be writing an autobiography in the style of Mark Twain. I really do think my siblings are great people. Truly! Bear in mind that these are memories from when I was a very little girl--I mean, think about it, Paul and Melanie--who were six years and five years older than me--were still willing to play house with me. So the facts may not be entirely accurate. Anyway, it gives you a little look at the family I grew up in.
front row: I am the blondie, Dad, Mom with Denise in her lap, Melanie
My parents moved to Kearns, Utah in the mid-sixties to the house where I now live. They did not ask my permission because I was not yet born, and didn't really care. I know nothing of the population of Kearns, or of Salt Lake City, or even of Utah, but before I came along the population of my family was eight (this includes my parents, my five older brothers and my older sister). So when I was born, I increased the population of my family by twelve and one-half percent.
I remember, as a child, thinking my older siblings to be the most wonderful people on earth. I don't know where I got this strange idea because, looking back, I see that it is not true. My dear brothers, Wendell and Mark (third and fourth oldest, respectively), used to find it great fun to shut me up in the basement, in the dark.
The dark basement was a wonderful place for a little child to be. It was cold, full of spiders, and I'm sure there were ghosts; their voices drifting down from the ductwork. Strange thing abut those ghosts, though: they sounded amazingly like my brothers. I can't explain this mystery, unless the ghosts were those of some long-gone relatives.
The one thing I remember most about Wendell is his arm. It seemed he always had a broken arm--always. Somehow, this talented brother of mine had been able to break the same arm, in the same place, and (I think) on the same date for three consecutive years.
Of Mark I remember little, except that when my cousin and I played house we fought over which of us got to be Mark's girlfriend. Actually Mark had plenty of girlfriends of his own (Mom called him a Casanova), and he didn't need my cousin or me to fill the position.
In the basement we had an old, upright piano. The poor thing was painted an ugly, yellowish-ivory color and it had a six-inch (or so) high mirror running across the top. Some of the keys were chipped and some were so dirty that they felt rough, and the two highest notes didn't play. On top of the piano was a brass clock with a glass case. The base of the clock was oval-shaped and was of brass as were the numbers and the works; it had a glass dome.
My brother, Gregory (the second oldest), used to sit and play the piano quite frequently. He nearly always included "The Entertainer" or "Joy" (a modernized version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring") in his repertoire. My cousin Wendy and I spent a lot of time playing spies; and Gregory was often the subject of our spying. We spied on him while he played the piano; sneaking around the basement, knocking over boxes, tripping and telling each other to be quiet. But Gregory always seemed to know when we were spying on him.
The basement was the place for playing house. It was huge and had one small couch, dozens of sleeping bags, and a washer and dryer that could all be used for furniture. Paul and Melanie (my fifth brother and older sister) used to play house with me fairly often; but we didn't call it playing house. It was "Butchie and Keiko" [say "kee-ko"--and they chose those names, not 
me]. Paul played Butchie, Melanie played Keiko and I played the poor, harrassed mother of these vicious children. I would pity anyone who had children as mean as they were; and no matter how naughty they were I could never punish them--they punished me! Sometimes, though, Mark would come to my rescue--he would play the dad. He kept me amused by giving outrageous orders such as, "Turn off the sun!"
Upstairs was different. There you could smell furniture polish, floor wax and baking bread. You could hear Mom speaking in Portuguese on the phone with her sister. Or you could hear soap operas, like "Dark Shadows" or "As the World Turns." You could see her watching her "novels," baking the bread or cleaning the house. Mom would ask us to help her with the housework; but, for the most part (as seems to be the case with most children), this was a hopeless cause. So we went away again, outside or to the basement, to be chased by ghosts, play spies, or play house, or whatever it was that we did. --1985
I remember, as a child, thinking my older siblings to be the most wonderful people on earth. I don't know where I got this strange idea because, looking back, I see that it is not true. My dear brothers, Wendell and Mark (third and fourth oldest, respectively), used to find it great fun to shut me up in the basement, in the dark.
The dark basement was a wonderful place for a little child to be. It was cold, full of spiders, and I'm sure there were ghosts; their voices drifting down from the ductwork. Strange thing abut those ghosts, though: they sounded amazingly like my brothers. I can't explain this mystery, unless the ghosts were those of some long-gone relatives.
The one thing I remember most about Wendell is his arm. It seemed he always had a broken arm--always. Somehow, this talented brother of mine had been able to break the same arm, in the same place, and (I think) on the same date for three consecutive years.
Of Mark I remember little, except that when my cousin and I played house we fought over which of us got to be Mark's girlfriend. Actually Mark had plenty of girlfriends of his own (Mom called him a Casanova), and he didn't need my cousin or me to fill the position.
In the basement we had an old, upright piano. The poor thing was painted an ugly, yellowish-ivory color and it had a six-inch (or so) high mirror running across the top. Some of the keys were chipped and some were so dirty that they felt rough, and the two highest notes didn't play. On top of the piano was a brass clock with a glass case. The base of the clock was oval-shaped and was of brass as were the numbers and the works; it had a glass dome.
My brother, Gregory (the second oldest), used to sit and play the piano quite frequently. He nearly always included "The Entertainer" or "Joy" (a modernized version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring") in his repertoire. My cousin Wendy and I spent a lot of time playing spies; and Gregory was often the subject of our spying. We spied on him while he played the piano; sneaking around the basement, knocking over boxes, tripping and telling each other to be quiet. But Gregory always seemed to know when we were spying on him.
The basement was the place for playing house. It was huge and had one small couch, dozens of sleeping bags, and a washer and dryer that could all be used for furniture. Paul and Melanie (my fifth brother and older sister) used to play house with me fairly often; but we didn't call it playing house. It was "Butchie and Keiko" [say "kee-ko"--and they chose those names, not 
me]. Paul played Butchie, Melanie played Keiko and I played the poor, harrassed mother of these vicious children. I would pity anyone who had children as mean as they were; and no matter how naughty they were I could never punish them--they punished me! Sometimes, though, Mark would come to my rescue--he would play the dad. He kept me amused by giving outrageous orders such as, "Turn off the sun!"Upstairs was different. There you could smell furniture polish, floor wax and baking bread. You could hear Mom speaking in Portuguese on the phone with her sister. Or you could hear soap operas, like "Dark Shadows" or "As the World Turns." You could see her watching her "novels," baking the bread or cleaning the house. Mom would ask us to help her with the housework; but, for the most part (as seems to be the case with most children), this was a hopeless cause. So we went away again, outside or to the basement, to be chased by ghosts, play spies, or play house, or whatever it was that we did. --1985
