Friday, April 07, 2006

Why my sister will never be a supermodel

That skunk post got me thinking about my upbringing and the area where we grew up and stuff. It wasn't really a farm or anything; just a cabin with a fence around the yard in the middle of someone's cattle ranch (beef, not milk). I ran around barefoot and picked figs, blackberries, oranges, and apples from our neighbor's orchard and the wild bushes that grew everywhere. We had a huge garden (tomatoes, strawberries, peppers, etc.) with an apricot and a walnut tree that both produced massive amounts of fruit.

We had chickens for a while but they got picked off by coyotes and possums one by one until the only one we had left had learned to flap up into a tree to roost at night. My favorite chick was named Lucky, but he grew up to be a mean rooster. We had goats before I was born but the male goat (Vinnie) pinned my very pregnant mom against a fence when she was home alone and my mom got so freaked out (because if you were 8 months pregnant and a big billy goat pinned you against a fence with his horns, wouldn't you be?) that they got rid of him. There was a forest nearby and a field full of cow patties where I rode my bike and a hill that you could climb and a tire swing and a rope swing and a jungle gym and a really awesome view.

Only one of our neighbors was within walking distance. He was flamingly gay and used to mow his orchard bare-assed nekkid except for big steel-toed boots.

This one time, we had a bunch of strawberries that my mom wanted to give to another of the neighbors, so we hopped in the car and drove down the road to their house. I think I was six and my sister was 3ish. While my mom visited with the neighbor, my sister and I played outside with their dogs.

One of the dogs' favorite games was fetch, but did they like to fetch regular dog toys? No, they liked to fetch cow bones. So I was throwing these big heavy cow leg bones for one of the dogs and my arm started to get tired. During one throw the bone slipped out of my hand and fell behind my back..

...smack into my little sister's forehead, who happened to be standing Right Behind me and I didn't even know it. She started screaming, and my mom ran out of the house and started screaming, and they brought my sister into the house and wiped up her face and it was a really bad cut. So they had to drive down the mountain and all the way to Healdsburg to the emergency room because of course it was a Sunday and the pediatrician's office wasn't open. I was so scared that I had killed my sister. It was a total accident! When she came home she had a line of stitches on her forehead and a rubber exam glove blown up like a balloon with a smiley face drawn on it, and she'd totally gotten an ice cream cone (I could tell from the drips all over her shirt). I was so jealous.

It turned out that her stitches SHOULD have been done by a plastic surgeon instead of an intern, because when her stitches came out she had a big scar that my mom covered for years with bangs. The scar is still there, though it's faded over the last 20 years.

Now, my sister is beautiful. Drop-dead, totally gorgeous, with perfect white straight teeth (and she never needed braces), clear, glowy skin, lustrous hair, great bone structure in her face, and a thin frame with good muscle tone. If I hadn't given her a big-ole scar (and, I suppose, if she were 5'10 instead of 5'4) she totally could have been a model. She's never held the scar against me, but I've always wondered whether she hates me for giving her the one flaw on her perfect face.

1 comment:

Monkey McWearingChaps said...

Eh. Scars mark our history on this Earth, I tend to think most of them make people more interesting and cool looking than they would be without said scar.

Personally, I think you're as hott as the other two of your sisters. Okay, I haven't seen #3 but you and the supermodel type are remniscent of one another.

By the way, I'm loving these cattle ranch stories. You're like the N. Cali version of Gerald Durrell...shit I thought *I* had a bucolic upbringing.