Every day millions of people go through their lives giving little attention to the thousands of times they use their hands and feet. They drive to the coffee shop, walk in, stand in line, take out their wallet, pay the bill and take the coffee. All of these tasks are done without paying the hand or foot any notice. And this is only one of the many tasks that the average hand or foot is responsible for accomplishing on a daily basis. But, there is one simple way to give your appendages the respect they deserve—hurt one of them.
All it takes is a paper cut or a hang nail to remind you how many times you reach into your front pocket. Stub your big toe and then try and work your way into your kicks with out bending over and untying them properly. Or in the case of my friend Craig: break your little toe and you will soon see the value of the little digit that usually just goes along for the ride.
It was late in the evening and we had just made it home from my sister’s place. I sat down in the living room and Craig went into get ready for bed: brush his teeth, take out his contacts. When leaving the bathroom he “stubbed his toe.” I heard him from the other room shout “Ouch!” and a few choice expletives. Let me explain quickly, I have never been one to jump up and run into the other room every time someone says ouch. Craig understands this and frankly I like to think it is one of my many traits that he likes. If I hear something, I first ask if the person is okay. One might think I am rude or selfish for not immediately checking out the situation in person; I actually consider it a service to both parties involved. If they are okay, they simply answer and I can stay where I am and continue whatever I am doing. Staying put also provides the other person involved the opportunity to pick them selves up with dignity and not be embarrassed by the situation. But, be assured, I am not so lazy or heartless as to stay where I am if the person does not answer or cries out for help a second time. I will make the trek to where they are and assist any way possible. In this situation I asked Craig if he was okay and he reassured me he was fine.
Now let me be clear how Craig would have acted if the situation was reversed. Had I stubbed my toe and shouted: “Ouch!” Craig would have been there in front of me with an ice-pack, Tylenol and bottle of water before I even had a chance to raise my wounded toe to my hand and hop on the other foot. And this is one of the many traits I like about him.
But, it was late and after all he said he was fine, I didn’t give the incident much thought. I finished what I was doing and eventually made my way to bed. The next morning Craig woke up and said his foot was still hurting him. Honestly, I had forgotten about the whole thing. But thought to myself: he is not one to complain, so I’d better do the right thing and take a look. I thought at most I would have to fetch a band-aid or tell him it looks fine. I pulled back the blanket, looked at his foot and gasped! I was in shock! It looked like his foot was caught in a trap. All four toes were facing forward (like they should) except the little one, on the end, was bent at a perfect 45 degree angle to the others. It looked like a kick-stand on a bicycle.
I started bombarding him with questions: “ Oh, My God Craig, what did you do!?!” “Didn’t you notice this last night!?!” “Does it hurt!?!” He simply explained that he stubbed it on the way out of the bathroom, but when he looked down at it he couldn’t tell what had happened because he had already taken out his contacts. That was it. He didn’t fall. And contrary to what I thought he hadn’t gotten it caught in a trap.
I didn’t know what to do. I was feeling a little guilty for not giving the situation the attention I should have—twelve hours ago. I immediately went into doctor mode. I got on-line and looked up: broken toe. Sure that surgery was necessary, I quickly came to the conclusion—nothing could be done. The only treatments available for a broken toe are ice and tape. Eventually and in time it will heal on its own. Still wanting to help I made a trip to stock up on medical tape and ice packs. I was ready to mend my patient. When I walked in the door Craig had already showered dressed and was ready to leave for work. After convincing him he needed to tape his toe, he sat still long enough for me to cause him more pain and make my self feel better. I did my best to rope in the run-a-way toe. After I was done he was out the door.
It has been three days since he broke his toe and Craig has yet to use the ice packs I bought for him. He limps around but with out as much as a complaint. Let me tell you if this were me with the broken toe: I would have called in for the week and they would have to give me a wheel chair and handicap licenses plates.
I began to wondering what purpose the little toe served. Maybe I would act the same way as Craig if I were to break my toe. After looking into it the outcome is divided; there are some that claim the little toe no longer serves a function and there are equally as many people that think without the little toe a person could not balance properly. I now think that both are true, it just depends on who you are: Craig is of the supporters of the little toe serving little to no function and I am for certain that if I were to break mine my balance would never be the same. Either way, for balance or for show hurt your little toe and you will be reminded of how often you lean on it, or at least how often you lean on your friends.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I Now Pronounce you Father and Son
My brother Justin is the youngest of the four of us children. He has always lived at home with my dad; and since my father has been divorced since: forever. He and Justin have grown to live together very well.
Dad has the lower level. Justin has the upper level.
Dad pays all the bills. Justin takes out the garbage on Sundays.
Like an old married couple, they fall into routines easily; their latest includes going grocery shopping every Tuesday. Both of them hate grocery shopping so much, they turned the chore into a game. Their goal is to get in and out in under 30 minutes. They have strategically chosen Tuesday for two reasons: 1. new DVD’s are released on Tuesday and 2. half the American public is home in front of their televisions watching American Idol.
In exchange for our dad supporting Justin the only thing he asks is that he has a job.
While Justin was in college my dad didn’t care so much the type of work Justin had- - as long as he had a job. And on the other hand Justin has never been one to shoot for the moon. He is the type of guy that “goes with the flow,” or “doesn’t make waves.” Whenever I give Justin suggestions about what he should do with his life or his career or schooling he simply shakes his head in agreement and says: “Yeah, Okay, thanks Jay.” He does as he is told, does an excellent job and is content with his position- - honestly an employer’s dream, unless the employer requires him to be at work early in the morning.
A few years ago Justin was going through a rough patch; he had just been fired from his job at the local Wal-Mart, where he had worked for the past 2 and half years. He collected carts from the parking lot and pushed them into the store (they did not purchase one of those automatic cart pushers until after Justin was fired.) Now, keep in mind my family lives in a small city in Iowa. The summers are deathly hot and the winters are disturbingly cold. Justin pushed an enormous number of heavy, metal carts through the crazy Iowa climate: that included death defying humidity, sub-zero temperatures, ass-levels of snow, monsoons of rain, and a slight uphill incline to the front entrance to the store. My brother Justin has the calf muscles of a Greek god. He did all of this for little money and never once complained. So when he took a job at a different retail giant to work mornings unloading the trucks and stocking the shelves, everyone thought this was a promotion. The only catch-- the job started at 5 a.m.
My father on the other hand has always been very optimistic. “Just get up, put in full day’s work and be home by 2. Sounds like a good deal to me.” Dad though it was great. And so did Justin at first. No one except Justin truly knows how long he worked that early morning shift, but everyone in the family knows exactly how dad found out Justin stopped working that early morning shift.
Like Dad and Justin do, they fell in to a routine. Justin would take his shower at night, go to bed on the early side, wake up at the butt-crack of dawn, and leave for his day of work before the sun came up. Dad would wake up, switch the load of laundry he had started the previous day to the dryer, fold the clothes from the dryer and put a new load into the washer, take his shower, and then leave for his day of work.
Justin would come home, eat something, take a nap, and play some video games. Dad would come home, park on the side of the house so Justin could be sure to get out of the driveway without a problem the next day, have dinner, play some games, maybe watch a movie, and then go to bed himself. This was their routine for a few months- -or at least that is how dad had thought the weekdays were going.
Unbeknown to him, Justin had modified the routine ever so slightly.
Justin would still take his showers in the evening and go to bed relatively early, and Justin would still get up well before dawn and leave for work, it is here that the break in routine happens. Instead of driving to work Justin would drive his car around the neighborhood just out of dad’s sight. He would then walk back to the house, climb over the backyard fence, climb through his bedroom window and hang out in his room and wait there until dad left for work. At which time he was free to do whatever he wanted: go back to sleep, watch television, or play video games. His only responsibility was to make sure his car was parked back in the driveway before dad got home.
Like I said no one except Justin knows how long this new routine went on but like everything in the universe- - the only constant is change.
One morning while dad was making his way to the laundry room to change over the laundry he heard Justin’s television. Thinking it was rather loud and knowing it would be on all day or at least until Justin got home, he made his way upstairs to turn it off. He found the remote on the bed, turned off the television and threw the remote back onto the bed. Dad went back to his normal routine of showering getting ready. While on his way out of the house he stopped because he thought he heard Justin’s television again. He though: maybe he hadn’t actually turned it off or maybe while tossing the remote it had turned it self back on- - either way he would simply go back upstairs and turn off the television again.
He walked into Justin’s room and began to look for the remote control. It was not on the bed. He though: maybe when he had tossed it onto the bed it took a bad bounce and fell to the floor- - that must be what had happened because the television had somehow turned its self back on. He began to look for the remote on the floor. Not on the first side of the bed, so he made his way around to the other side of the bed. Not only did he find the remote, which was in Justin’s hand, he found Justin dressed in his work clothes, lying on the floor with half of his entire body hidden under the bed and the other half of his body, his leg, arm and head sticking out watching television. Shocked at what he saw he asked:
“Justin, what the hell are you doing?”
To which Justin replied: “What?”
After stumbling through his words and waiting for dad to calm down Justin told dad that he had been fired because they caught him punching in and sleeping in his car. As mad as he was, dad kind of understood. After all Justin was never a morning person.
After the incident it took a while for the two of them to fall back into a routine but they eventually did. The only difference is now Justin is supposed to pay rent, an incentive to work, dad thinks.
Fifty dollars a week.
I think dad has collected rest five times in three years. But that is what married couples do; they forgive and forget and keep on living.
Dad has the lower level. Justin has the upper level.
Dad pays all the bills. Justin takes out the garbage on Sundays.
Like an old married couple, they fall into routines easily; their latest includes going grocery shopping every Tuesday. Both of them hate grocery shopping so much, they turned the chore into a game. Their goal is to get in and out in under 30 minutes. They have strategically chosen Tuesday for two reasons: 1. new DVD’s are released on Tuesday and 2. half the American public is home in front of their televisions watching American Idol.
In exchange for our dad supporting Justin the only thing he asks is that he has a job.
While Justin was in college my dad didn’t care so much the type of work Justin had- - as long as he had a job. And on the other hand Justin has never been one to shoot for the moon. He is the type of guy that “goes with the flow,” or “doesn’t make waves.” Whenever I give Justin suggestions about what he should do with his life or his career or schooling he simply shakes his head in agreement and says: “Yeah, Okay, thanks Jay.” He does as he is told, does an excellent job and is content with his position- - honestly an employer’s dream, unless the employer requires him to be at work early in the morning.
A few years ago Justin was going through a rough patch; he had just been fired from his job at the local Wal-Mart, where he had worked for the past 2 and half years. He collected carts from the parking lot and pushed them into the store (they did not purchase one of those automatic cart pushers until after Justin was fired.) Now, keep in mind my family lives in a small city in Iowa. The summers are deathly hot and the winters are disturbingly cold. Justin pushed an enormous number of heavy, metal carts through the crazy Iowa climate: that included death defying humidity, sub-zero temperatures, ass-levels of snow, monsoons of rain, and a slight uphill incline to the front entrance to the store. My brother Justin has the calf muscles of a Greek god. He did all of this for little money and never once complained. So when he took a job at a different retail giant to work mornings unloading the trucks and stocking the shelves, everyone thought this was a promotion. The only catch-- the job started at 5 a.m.
My father on the other hand has always been very optimistic. “Just get up, put in full day’s work and be home by 2. Sounds like a good deal to me.” Dad though it was great. And so did Justin at first. No one except Justin truly knows how long he worked that early morning shift, but everyone in the family knows exactly how dad found out Justin stopped working that early morning shift.
Like Dad and Justin do, they fell in to a routine. Justin would take his shower at night, go to bed on the early side, wake up at the butt-crack of dawn, and leave for his day of work before the sun came up. Dad would wake up, switch the load of laundry he had started the previous day to the dryer, fold the clothes from the dryer and put a new load into the washer, take his shower, and then leave for his day of work.
Justin would come home, eat something, take a nap, and play some video games. Dad would come home, park on the side of the house so Justin could be sure to get out of the driveway without a problem the next day, have dinner, play some games, maybe watch a movie, and then go to bed himself. This was their routine for a few months- -or at least that is how dad had thought the weekdays were going.
Unbeknown to him, Justin had modified the routine ever so slightly.
Justin would still take his showers in the evening and go to bed relatively early, and Justin would still get up well before dawn and leave for work, it is here that the break in routine happens. Instead of driving to work Justin would drive his car around the neighborhood just out of dad’s sight. He would then walk back to the house, climb over the backyard fence, climb through his bedroom window and hang out in his room and wait there until dad left for work. At which time he was free to do whatever he wanted: go back to sleep, watch television, or play video games. His only responsibility was to make sure his car was parked back in the driveway before dad got home.
Like I said no one except Justin knows how long this new routine went on but like everything in the universe- - the only constant is change.
One morning while dad was making his way to the laundry room to change over the laundry he heard Justin’s television. Thinking it was rather loud and knowing it would be on all day or at least until Justin got home, he made his way upstairs to turn it off. He found the remote on the bed, turned off the television and threw the remote back onto the bed. Dad went back to his normal routine of showering getting ready. While on his way out of the house he stopped because he thought he heard Justin’s television again. He though: maybe he hadn’t actually turned it off or maybe while tossing the remote it had turned it self back on- - either way he would simply go back upstairs and turn off the television again.
He walked into Justin’s room and began to look for the remote control. It was not on the bed. He though: maybe when he had tossed it onto the bed it took a bad bounce and fell to the floor- - that must be what had happened because the television had somehow turned its self back on. He began to look for the remote on the floor. Not on the first side of the bed, so he made his way around to the other side of the bed. Not only did he find the remote, which was in Justin’s hand, he found Justin dressed in his work clothes, lying on the floor with half of his entire body hidden under the bed and the other half of his body, his leg, arm and head sticking out watching television. Shocked at what he saw he asked:
“Justin, what the hell are you doing?”
To which Justin replied: “What?”
After stumbling through his words and waiting for dad to calm down Justin told dad that he had been fired because they caught him punching in and sleeping in his car. As mad as he was, dad kind of understood. After all Justin was never a morning person.
After the incident it took a while for the two of them to fall back into a routine but they eventually did. The only difference is now Justin is supposed to pay rent, an incentive to work, dad thinks.
Fifty dollars a week.
I think dad has collected rest five times in three years. But that is what married couples do; they forgive and forget and keep on living.
Hi, My Name is Ann and My Favorite Color is Clear
There are four children in my family: three boys and one girl.
All of the boys were born five years apart with the only girl born four years after the second boy and 16 months before the last.
All of the boys have our typical family look: wide noses, light skin with freckles, but the only girl has the full extent of our maternal grandfather’s Greek ethnicity: a long slender nose, olive skin without as much as a blemish.
All of the boys’ were named names that began with the letter J, after our father and grandfather Joseph. The oldest was named Joseph (of course) the second was named Jason, and last Justin. The one and only girl was named Ann, after our paternal grandma: Shirlee Ann.
No one could have predicted that being born a beautiful dark skinned girl to an all boy family or being named after the most important person in our family could provide the ammunition for the foundation of the story known as: “Ann’s Life.”
Because our mother left early on in our lives Annie, as we grew to call her, was truly the only girl in a house of all boys. And when I say all boys—I mean all boys… There was a television, telephone, and garbage can in every room of our 800 square foot, 3 bedroom, one bathroom house—including the living room. My father divided the basement up into three bedrooms for the boys to dwell while the upstairs bedrooms were left for him, Annie and his one true love—his computer. At the top of the stairs were two 4 x 9 foot book shelves that housed the families’ pride and joy—our movie collection. We used to buy movies before buying movies was cool (hence the television in every room of the house.)
Though the three bedroom house was converted into six bedrooms with the help of cubical office dividers in the basement, it still only contained the one bathroom. Despite the drain in the laundry room us boys would pee in from time to time, all five of use shared the one bathroom and thought nothing of it. Alone time in the bathroom was a luxury that was not afforded to any of us, but I don’t think we noticed—until we got older any way. Terms like: “Hurry, pee like a rocket!” and “Go and use the drain!” were common house hold phrases. When we were all younger, and on vacation, our family of five could stop for a bathroom break and be back on the road in less than 5 minutes tops. We’d all go on one bathroom: Annie would use the toilet, Dad and I would pair up at the urinal and Joe D. and Justin would take the sink.
We had a routine: Annie would wake up before dad and take her shower, then dad would go next, and I’d take the third and cold shower. Justin and Joe D. would usually shower at night. It worked for a while, but as Annie matured there was an unstated rule that allowed Annie to have unlimited access to the bathroom, any time and as long as she wanted.
The day Annie started her period my dad sent me to Target with a blank check to get Annie supplies. He said: “Go and get Annie whatever she needs.” We came home with enough feminine products for a sorority house. Not knowing what to get or what to expect we wanted to be prepared for anything, so we stocked up on everything: pads for heavy days, light days, tampons, over night with wings, without wings, pads for swimming, you name it we bought it. I don’t remember having to ever buy feminine products again as long as I lived at home.
All throughout her life, and still today I have tried to convince my sister that she was adopted. I would explain to her facts: mom and dad had three boys, perfectly spaced five years apart, and all braded with the family letter “J” and yet they felt they still had room in their hearts for one more child. Sure that they would have another boy they decided to adopt a little girl. I would supplement the facts with a sweet story that explained of the trials and tribulations of a little Indian orphan girl named Sacajawea.
Sacajawea was born a beautiful olive skinned little girl to an Indian family who could not afford her any more.
“Due to the strict adoption laws in the sate of Iowa we know little about Sacajawea’s family today.” I would tell her. “We do know that they decided to put her up for adoption; it was, after all, in the best interest of the child.”
It was during her short time in the orphanage that the southern orphanage owners decided to change Sacajawea’s name. In hopes of appealing to parents wanting to add a little girl to their family they changed her name to Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith.
“And it worked! Despite your original name mom and dad fell in love with you the minute they laid eyes on you. They brought you home, changed your name to Ann Marie and here you are…” She would cry and say it’s not true and I would do my best to convince her that it was. “Ask anyone, they all know. But I am sure they will tell you I’m lying to spare your feelings.”
My sister grew up answering to the name Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith and though she says she knows deep down inside that she isn’t adopted, she still feels a special connection to the great Indian guide that lead Lewis and Clark on their expedition.
When Annie was born our parents went a little over board with her room: pink walls, flowery pink wall paper, and thick, dark, pink shag carpet (that she would cry every time she had to vacuum because it too so long,) pink blinds, pink pillows… And as she grew up the room remained just as pink as the day it was painted. It is clear to say that growing up Annie’s favorite color—forced upon her—was pink. But just to reassure her that I knew more about her than she did, I would explain that her favorite color was in fact not pink—it was clear. I would make her repeat after me: “Hi, my name is Ann and my favorite color is clear.”
Throughout her childhood Annie has suffered two massive blows to her head: one resulting in stitches and one resulting in a cracked eye socket. The first was delivered to her through a 2 x 4 thrown by our brother Joe who we called Joe D. due to his middle name being Daniel.
It was a beautiful summer’s day; Joe D. and I were ordered to clean out the back yard shed, while Annie and Justin play on the swing set. I was sitting off to the side suggesting to Joe D. how to best clean up the area while he was doing all the grunt work: moving the snow plow, the lawn mower, and the weed whacker. He began to throw random pieces of 2 x 4 boards out of the shed and onto the lawn. Bored with the swing set Annie and Justin started to dodge the flying pieces of wood. And it was fun until Annie missed judged the arc of the flying weapon and caught the board with her forehead (or five-head as I explained to her as she grew older because her forehead was much larger than the width of a normal “four” head. So because if this yours should actually be called a “five-head”. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “I’ll contact the medical academy so they can make the necessary adjustments on your medical records.”) Annie was given ten stitches: three inside stitches and seven outside, the scar sets just below her hair line and is rarely seen today.
The second blow to the head was delivered while playing baseball with our cousins at their house. Standing too close to the one batting, Annie caught the follow through right at the corner of her cheekbone. It was a total accident, but not knowing what to do our aunt’s boyfriend took the kids and swollen eyed Annie to Dairy Queen for “shut-up and don’t tell” treats. Annie ordered a cherry slushy, ten minutes later at grandma’s house, when the normal head trauma vomiting started, the cherry slushy looked like blood projecting from the swollen face little girl. Rushed to the hospital it was discovered that she had two hairline cracks in her left eye socket.
Two head wounds, living life with out a mother or a woman in the house, and continuously being reminded of her previous life before she was adopted were just parts of life that Annie grew from, going through adolescences in a house full of boys proved to make Annie even stronger.
Whenever she was pushed or didn’t want to do something Annie would fight back. She did not take being the only girl as a disadvantage in fact she used it to her advantage. The simple phrase “Whatever” with a strong “t” and enough sarcasm that a deaf person could pick up on it meant: leave me alone or you’ll be sorry. All she had to do was utter the single word and all four of us would stop what we were doing, leave the room and proceed to our respective corners of the house.
Even today Annie knows how to hold her own. She turned out to be extremely independent. (A little too independent our dad thinks.) But Annie is her own person and can rely on herself. She went through the expected tom-boy stage, but what emerged from the Grant Hill jersey wearing little girl is a beautiful young woman that knows what she wants out of life and how to get it.
Even today Annie is a bit of an enigma. She will move across the country for scarcely a reason, jump out of perfectly good air planes, crochet baby blankets for friends and family (just like grandma Shirlee,) climb mountains, put her hair in dreads-locks and cover her self with tattoos because she wants too; and for no other reason. Annie is a strong independent woman, with great wit, and a killer sense of humor. Though she is as independent as a woman can honestly be, she still wonders to herself: is my favorite color truly clear?
All of the boys were born five years apart with the only girl born four years after the second boy and 16 months before the last.
All of the boys have our typical family look: wide noses, light skin with freckles, but the only girl has the full extent of our maternal grandfather’s Greek ethnicity: a long slender nose, olive skin without as much as a blemish.
All of the boys’ were named names that began with the letter J, after our father and grandfather Joseph. The oldest was named Joseph (of course) the second was named Jason, and last Justin. The one and only girl was named Ann, after our paternal grandma: Shirlee Ann.
No one could have predicted that being born a beautiful dark skinned girl to an all boy family or being named after the most important person in our family could provide the ammunition for the foundation of the story known as: “Ann’s Life.”
Because our mother left early on in our lives Annie, as we grew to call her, was truly the only girl in a house of all boys. And when I say all boys—I mean all boys… There was a television, telephone, and garbage can in every room of our 800 square foot, 3 bedroom, one bathroom house—including the living room. My father divided the basement up into three bedrooms for the boys to dwell while the upstairs bedrooms were left for him, Annie and his one true love—his computer. At the top of the stairs were two 4 x 9 foot book shelves that housed the families’ pride and joy—our movie collection. We used to buy movies before buying movies was cool (hence the television in every room of the house.)
Though the three bedroom house was converted into six bedrooms with the help of cubical office dividers in the basement, it still only contained the one bathroom. Despite the drain in the laundry room us boys would pee in from time to time, all five of use shared the one bathroom and thought nothing of it. Alone time in the bathroom was a luxury that was not afforded to any of us, but I don’t think we noticed—until we got older any way. Terms like: “Hurry, pee like a rocket!” and “Go and use the drain!” were common house hold phrases. When we were all younger, and on vacation, our family of five could stop for a bathroom break and be back on the road in less than 5 minutes tops. We’d all go on one bathroom: Annie would use the toilet, Dad and I would pair up at the urinal and Joe D. and Justin would take the sink.
We had a routine: Annie would wake up before dad and take her shower, then dad would go next, and I’d take the third and cold shower. Justin and Joe D. would usually shower at night. It worked for a while, but as Annie matured there was an unstated rule that allowed Annie to have unlimited access to the bathroom, any time and as long as she wanted.
The day Annie started her period my dad sent me to Target with a blank check to get Annie supplies. He said: “Go and get Annie whatever she needs.” We came home with enough feminine products for a sorority house. Not knowing what to get or what to expect we wanted to be prepared for anything, so we stocked up on everything: pads for heavy days, light days, tampons, over night with wings, without wings, pads for swimming, you name it we bought it. I don’t remember having to ever buy feminine products again as long as I lived at home.
All throughout her life, and still today I have tried to convince my sister that she was adopted. I would explain to her facts: mom and dad had three boys, perfectly spaced five years apart, and all braded with the family letter “J” and yet they felt they still had room in their hearts for one more child. Sure that they would have another boy they decided to adopt a little girl. I would supplement the facts with a sweet story that explained of the trials and tribulations of a little Indian orphan girl named Sacajawea.
Sacajawea was born a beautiful olive skinned little girl to an Indian family who could not afford her any more.
“Due to the strict adoption laws in the sate of Iowa we know little about Sacajawea’s family today.” I would tell her. “We do know that they decided to put her up for adoption; it was, after all, in the best interest of the child.”
It was during her short time in the orphanage that the southern orphanage owners decided to change Sacajawea’s name. In hopes of appealing to parents wanting to add a little girl to their family they changed her name to Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith.
“And it worked! Despite your original name mom and dad fell in love with you the minute they laid eyes on you. They brought you home, changed your name to Ann Marie and here you are…” She would cry and say it’s not true and I would do my best to convince her that it was. “Ask anyone, they all know. But I am sure they will tell you I’m lying to spare your feelings.”
My sister grew up answering to the name Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith and though she says she knows deep down inside that she isn’t adopted, she still feels a special connection to the great Indian guide that lead Lewis and Clark on their expedition.
When Annie was born our parents went a little over board with her room: pink walls, flowery pink wall paper, and thick, dark, pink shag carpet (that she would cry every time she had to vacuum because it too so long,) pink blinds, pink pillows… And as she grew up the room remained just as pink as the day it was painted. It is clear to say that growing up Annie’s favorite color—forced upon her—was pink. But just to reassure her that I knew more about her than she did, I would explain that her favorite color was in fact not pink—it was clear. I would make her repeat after me: “Hi, my name is Ann and my favorite color is clear.”
Throughout her childhood Annie has suffered two massive blows to her head: one resulting in stitches and one resulting in a cracked eye socket. The first was delivered to her through a 2 x 4 thrown by our brother Joe who we called Joe D. due to his middle name being Daniel.
It was a beautiful summer’s day; Joe D. and I were ordered to clean out the back yard shed, while Annie and Justin play on the swing set. I was sitting off to the side suggesting to Joe D. how to best clean up the area while he was doing all the grunt work: moving the snow plow, the lawn mower, and the weed whacker. He began to throw random pieces of 2 x 4 boards out of the shed and onto the lawn. Bored with the swing set Annie and Justin started to dodge the flying pieces of wood. And it was fun until Annie missed judged the arc of the flying weapon and caught the board with her forehead (or five-head as I explained to her as she grew older because her forehead was much larger than the width of a normal “four” head. So because if this yours should actually be called a “five-head”. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “I’ll contact the medical academy so they can make the necessary adjustments on your medical records.”) Annie was given ten stitches: three inside stitches and seven outside, the scar sets just below her hair line and is rarely seen today.
The second blow to the head was delivered while playing baseball with our cousins at their house. Standing too close to the one batting, Annie caught the follow through right at the corner of her cheekbone. It was a total accident, but not knowing what to do our aunt’s boyfriend took the kids and swollen eyed Annie to Dairy Queen for “shut-up and don’t tell” treats. Annie ordered a cherry slushy, ten minutes later at grandma’s house, when the normal head trauma vomiting started, the cherry slushy looked like blood projecting from the swollen face little girl. Rushed to the hospital it was discovered that she had two hairline cracks in her left eye socket.
Two head wounds, living life with out a mother or a woman in the house, and continuously being reminded of her previous life before she was adopted were just parts of life that Annie grew from, going through adolescences in a house full of boys proved to make Annie even stronger.
Whenever she was pushed or didn’t want to do something Annie would fight back. She did not take being the only girl as a disadvantage in fact she used it to her advantage. The simple phrase “Whatever” with a strong “t” and enough sarcasm that a deaf person could pick up on it meant: leave me alone or you’ll be sorry. All she had to do was utter the single word and all four of us would stop what we were doing, leave the room and proceed to our respective corners of the house.
Even today Annie knows how to hold her own. She turned out to be extremely independent. (A little too independent our dad thinks.) But Annie is her own person and can rely on herself. She went through the expected tom-boy stage, but what emerged from the Grant Hill jersey wearing little girl is a beautiful young woman that knows what she wants out of life and how to get it.
Even today Annie is a bit of an enigma. She will move across the country for scarcely a reason, jump out of perfectly good air planes, crochet baby blankets for friends and family (just like grandma Shirlee,) climb mountains, put her hair in dreads-locks and cover her self with tattoos because she wants too; and for no other reason. Annie is a strong independent woman, with great wit, and a killer sense of humor. Though she is as independent as a woman can honestly be, she still wonders to herself: is my favorite color truly clear?
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