Something About Those Eyes

by Debbie Wheeland

  My little brother walked out to the car thrilled with his new possession. As soon as we were safely inside, Dad reached over and yanked them off Dave’s face. “Thanks for my sunglasses, buddy.” Our father always made sure his six kids had new clothes and shoes without spending a dime!

  Every year Dad waited until Christmas Eve to get us a tree, knowing the day before Christmas, the trees would be free. We didn’t care when we got the tree, we were just glad to get one. We’d happily decorate hours before Santa Claus was due to arrive.

  Most of the people in our neighborhood also had lots of kids and hardly any money, but each family was generous with their food. Our mom always prepared a big dinner for us. She regularly included vegetables, meat, and potatoes. She was great at making homemade tortillas and homemade bread. Two houses down, Mrs. Leo always had a huge pot of piping hot pinto beans simmering on the stove. Up the street, Mrs. Kinzer’s home was filled with the smell of scrumptious homemade tamales. Our growing family stopped growing when my baby brother, Steve was born in the late spring of l960. With six kids in tow, we thought we had a monopoly in the neighborhood until we counted Mrs. Kinzer’s kids; there were ten of them.

  There was never a dull moment in the Griswold household. We experienced many amusing escapades, thanks to Mike, who we thought of as our hero. We all counted on him and looked up to him with awe in our hearts. Because of this, there was never any animosity for our cherished oldest sibling even though we all somehow knew Mike was Mom’s favorite.

  From the time he was little, he was the mischievous one. Our mother had a pet peeve; we couldn’t ask her anything while she was half asleep. But that didn’t stop Mike. On Saturday mornings, (after Mom quit her job) he would wake at the crack of dawn, come into our bedroom and proudly announce in a booming voice, “Today is bread ball day, get up, hurry get up!”

  “You better ask Mommy’s permission,” I said, being the obedient one and always afraid to break the rules.

  Tiptoeing into Mom’s room, Mike stood next to her bed, “Mom, can we make bread balls this morning?”

  Waving her hand, with one eye open, she sighed, “I don’t care. Now get out of here.”

  “She said okay. Let’s get started,” Mike waved us kids into the kitchen.

  All six of us would march into our small kitchen where Mike would grab soft, squishy, pieces of white bread and pass them to each of us. Tearing off the crust, we’d sprinkle granulated sugar on top and roll our delicious creations into little white balls. Of course, they didn’t stay white, as our dirty hands soon turned the round dough spheres into a dingy grey. Hungrily, we’d cram our delicious delights into our mouths, and throw the remaining balls at each other. Pretty soon the whole loaf disappeared. What a mess awaited our mother when she’d finally drag herself out of bed.

  Six pairs of innocent eyes would be staring up at her, as she’d scream, “Who did this?”

  All fingers pointed to Mike.

  “I asked you and you said we could make bread balls today.”

  “No, I didn’t,” yelled Mom.

  “But you opened your eye and looked at me, I thought you were awake,” grinned Mike..

  “All of you get in the kitchen and clean up this mess right now!”

  At other times, our imaginative brother would entertain us with his funny, made-up stories. Proudly, he’d pull out the reel-to-reel tape recorder.

  “Tell us the story of Froggy Toad and Lily Pad again,” we’d beg.

  Sticking out his tongue as if to catch a fly, Mike would change his voice and make frog sounds, “Ribbit, Ribbit!”

  Rolling on the floor, chuckling loudly, our laughter filled the house. We’d kick each other and jump around like little frogs. Mom would sit back and watch us, obviously enjoying the fun. Jerry Lewis was my brother’s favorite television character and he would trip and fall, just like Jerry. Other times we’d holler, “Mike, do your frying bacon imitation.”

  Standing with his arms straight down at his sides he would shake furiously, throw his self on the floor and tremble spastically, moving every part of his body as if he were sizzling.

  Mike wasn’t the only entertainer of the family. I’d make up songs and pretend to be various television characters. My favorite song was from the movie, “Damn Yankees” and I pretended to be the main star, Lola. I’d dance around the house wearing a towel around my shoulders singing, “Whatever Lola wants Lola gets.” All the kids and our mother would roar with laughter. “Debbie, you’re so dramatic. You should become an actress,” Mom would often say.

  We all loved hanging out with our big brother. During the summer months we’d spend most days walking the short distance to the orange grove around the block. Back in the sixties there were acres of orange trees and grape vineyards growing everywhere. Us kids would spend our weekends collecting branches, old tires, large rocks, dried tumbleweeds, and anything else we could use to make forts. When our stomachs growled with hunger, none of us wanted to head home and end our fun. We’d pick fresh, ripe oranges off the trees, or stuff juicy, purple grapes in our mouth then we’d run to the nearby YMCA to use the bathroom or get a drink of water. Back then there were no water bottles, or cell phones, and certainly no fear of strangers to accost us. We always felt safe with our big brother even though he was just a year older than me and small in stature.

  While we were still in elementary school Dad enrolled us all in the local YMCA and we were fortunate enough to take swimming lessons there. Luckily, it was a short walk from our house. Throughout the summer on Saturday afternoons we’d all swim in the YMCA’s enormous indoor pool. Monica and I had vivid imaginations and along with our friends we’d pretend to be mermaids or pirates hunting for buried treasure. Most of the kids in our neighborhood hung out at the Y and we were like one big happy family. There was teasing, fighting, making up, sleepovers and fun adventures.

  I was the family caretaker and I took care of my little brothers. Playing with them pretending to be a horse while they rode on my back was a favorite game we often played. Other times we played Hide and Seek and I’d chase them through the house while they howled with laughter. When my little brothers started school, I was the one who made sure they had clean clothes to wear, got their cereal ready for them, and packed them a lunch.

  For whatever reason, our mother didn’t seem to be around. Often she’d retreat by spending hours hiding away in her bedroom or getting in her car and driving away somewhere. She was emotionally unavailable to us kids, of course we did not realize it at the time.

  I considered Monica my best friend, although we had our share of arguments and fights. Outwardly, Monica seemed like a sweet little thing, but she had a mean streak. When she wanted to intimidate me, she’d make herself appear tough and scary and I always fell for it. One time when I was nine and Monica was eight, I saw her in the kitchen standing still with her back towards me.

  Being the bossy big sister I was, I poked her in the back. “You’re supposed to be washing the dishes. I’m telling Mommy on you.”

  Monica slowly turned to me, with a large butcher knife in her hand raised at me, and her face smeared with black eyeliner. Glaring at me though frightening half-slit eyes, she shrieked, “I’m going to kill you,” while slowly heading towards me.

  Terrified, I screamed, “I can’t believe you want to kill me! I’m your sister!” I started running from her.

  She put the knife down and laughed. “You’re so gullible. Of course, I don’t want to kill you. I was just teasing you. I even got mom’s makeup and put it on my face to make myself look evil. I made sure no one else was in the house, because I didn’t want to trip and accidentally hurt you or myself.”

  “I thought you really hated me. You hurt my feelings.”

  “I didn’t really mean it. Why do you have to take everything so seriously?”

  Monica prided herself on giving me a good scare and once
I got over it we both had a good laugh over it.

  Our mother regularly accused Monica of being lazy while I was occasionally praised for being the helpful one. Cleaning the whole house, I was always trying to prove to Mom how good I was. Regretfully, I tattled on my sister, because she didn’t do as much as I did. When Mom walked through the doors I’d greet her with, “I cleaned the whole house and Monica didn’t do nothing!” Maybe Mom would love me more because I always cleaned without being asked!

  Monica often threw horrible fits. Sadly, our mother took out her frustrations on my little sister and she’d frequently get a spanking. Grabbing her by her pony-tail, Mom would smack her over and over while screaming cruel things to her. “You’re so lazy. You don’t do anything around here. I’m sick of your fits. You act like a crazy person.”

  Monica had long wavy, beautiful dark brown hair. It was always longer than mine. My hair was stringy, straight, thin and shorter than hers. She was short and petite while I was tall and gangly. Since I didn’t believe I was pretty, I thought my sister was beautiful and was occasionally envious of her. Our hair always seemed to be full of knots, but we loved having long hair. Our mother would sit us down, grab a hairbrush and try and comb through our headful of tangles. If we’d squirm, or fidget, she’d bop us on the head or shoulder with the brush to quiet us down. I remember the time Mom let the neighborhood teenager cut our hair short just like the Beatles. It took us a long time to forgive our mother for that. Mom felt bad and she never cut our hair short again.

  When my sister was a teenager, people used to say she looked like Valerie Bertinelli from the sitcom, One Day at a Time, while I was told I resembled Susan Dey from the Partridge Family. Sadly, neither of us grew up believing we were pretty, confident or feeling good about ourselves.

  Monica and I often played house, she usually pretended to be the father or her favorite actor, Tony Curtis. I was always the family dog. Us three oldest kids would put on shows for our siblings and the neighborhood children. Finding old clothes, scarves and mismatched socks we’d dress crazy and we’d act out comedy routines, causing rippling laughter amongst everyone. In those days, there were no video games or DVDs, and we always found fun ways to use our imaginations.

  Mom never went out of the house without her makeup on and all six of us would gather in our small bathroom and watch her meticulously line her eyes with black liner, color her cheeks with pink rouge and put on red lipstick. Joking with her we’d try unsuccessfully to get her to close her mouth while putting on mascara. She never did. Pulling the curlers out of her hair she’d hold it up high and tease it with a comb before brushing it out. Mom would raise her arms above her head, “look at me I’m a witch,” and sometimes she’d even chase us throughout the house.

  You could always find our mother outside tossing a ball with the boys, or working in the yard. Throughout their childhood the boys were usually involved in baseball. Some of the best times we had were watching our brothers play games at the park on warm, summer evenings. We bought penny candy at the snack bar and walked around with our neighborhood friends while cheering on our siblings. No matter what was going on with Mom, she always went to the games, either volunteering or sitting in the audience supporting our brothers with screams and hollers.

  My three younger brothers were uniquely different from each other and they were all a year apart. Dave, who was the fourth child, always told tall tales and amused us with his funny stories. I will never forget the time when Dave was five, Mom and Dad threw a huge adult party. The next morning Dave woke up early and walked in the garage. He proceeded to drink all the half empty glasses of orange juice. Unbeknownst to him the glasses were also filled with vodka. We teased him for years about getting drunk at such an early age.

  Dave often walked and talked in his sleep. Once, when Mom was out and we three older kids were still up watching television, Dave walked down the hallway after he had been in bed a few hours. He stood in the living room then knelt down and began to flick his fingers against the hard floor.

  “What are you doing Dave?” We snickered.

  He continued to flick his fingers on the floor. “I lost my marbles.”

  Rolling on the floor, we exploded with laughter. Afterwards I quietly led my little brother back to his bed. The next morning, he had no remembrance of his antic from the night before. Another time while we older kids were up late, Dave strolled out of his room, opened the front door, walked out, and slammed it shut. We waited a few minutes for him to return. Then Mike, Monica, and I ran outside in search of our brother. We found Dave curled up in a fetal position in the middle of the street, fast asleep on the cold, hard, asphalt. We always got a good laugh over Dave. Since he was the only one with blond hair (mine had already darkened,) we’d often gang up on him and tease him, unmercifully. “You’re not really a Griswold, you were adopted. Mom found you on the doorstep.”

  He’d cry at first but when he got older he was the first one to play jokes on us. And now he tells people. “I’m not really a Griswold. I’m adopted.”

  Rob liked to whine and grumble. We found him to be an easy target to make fun of because he had asthma and occasionally had wheezing attacks. Luckily, he only landed in the hospital a couple times from his condition. To his detriment we’d mock him unmercifully by holding our throats and repeating, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” which caused him to whine and cry even louder. Of course we didn’t understand how serious asthma was and we didn’t realize how cruel and insensitive we were being. We could hear Mom screaming in the background, “You kids better stop that!” Mom was a yeller and she rarely knew what was going on, which only encouraged us to torment the younger ones.

  Rob recalled we had a big box of mismatched socks. Each morning while getting ready for school we’d run to the box and look for identical socks. Rob also remembers our family always being out of toilet paper. To this day he keeps no less than thirty rolls of extra paper and he prides himself on buying plenty of socks. Interesting how our childhood habits define us!

  Steve, the baby of the family, was the skinniest and scrawniest one, although now he is the biggest one of the bunch. When Steve was born, Mom remarked about how cute and adorable he was. “He’s so pretty he could be a girl.” She kept his hair long, and before his second birthday, she put a dress on him and called him Michele. We still have the picture to prove what a pretty boy Steve was.

  Our babysitter spoiled Steve and he became a first-class brat. He would holler and cry a lot and we teased him and made him cry even more. We also ganged up on him and made him believe he was adopted, too. This caused him to wail even louder. It was music to our ears!

  Halloween was Steve’s favorite holiday. After hours of trick-or-treating, Mom would empty all our treats into one large pillowcase, roll it up and hide it away. Somehow, our baby brother always found those tasty candies and every year we could count on our brother to gobble up most of our Halloween candy. Steve had an overactive imagination. When he was three he would say to us, “Remember the time I was a policeman or a fireman?” We would bait him and keep asking him questions because he loved the attention and we enjoyed laughing at his stories.

  Most of the time I thoroughly enjoyed taking care of my younger siblings. When Steve grew up and got married he’d often say to his wife, “I prefer it when you burn my hotdogs, that’s the way my sister, Debbie always cooked them. And that’s the way I like them.”

  Even though there was much teasing, we all truly loved each other and we banded together to protect one another. I don’t remember any sibling rivalry when we were little, or to this day. My mom drilled it into our heads while growing up, “Stay close to each other, you’re all you have.”

  5

  God and Cops

  “For I know the plans I have for you.” Declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

 
I grew up attending St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Fontana, my parents thought it was important us kids went while they slept in on Sunday mornings. On Saturdays, we three older kids went to Catechism. I was afraid of the nuns, with their black dresses down to their ankles and their hair completely hidden inside their head-coverings. My sister says she remembers learning about Jesus. But the only thing I remember is learning about Mary and I thought she was wonderful, I adored her. I watched a movie about St. Bernadette who claimed she saw the Virgin Mary. Afterwards, I’d spend countless hours daydreaming she would appear to me. Faithfully, I said prayers to Mary and often visited the statue of her in the church’s courtyard. One October I even put some of my Halloween candy at Mary’s feet as a sacrifice to her.

  God was always an angry god to me. I constantly worried that he would take his giant club and beat me over the head when I made a mistake. I felt like I had to be perfect to receive his love. I viewed God the same way I saw my mother, someone I couldn’t please, no matter how hard I tried. Each Sunday morning, I’d rush around the house begging my siblings to go to church with me, while my stomach growled because we weren’t allowed to eat breakfast until after we’d had our small, round white communion wafer. There was something so pure and sacrificial about that wafer melting on my tongue. Usually Mike and Monica would accompany me, but often times I’d walk five blocks alone. I needed to assuage the guilt, shame, and self-hatred that haunted me. I didn’t want God to be mad at me, and I just knew in my child’s mind that if I didn’t go to church on Sundays bad things would happen to me or one of my family members. I had to protect everyone and I hoped to keep God at bay, make him happy and avoid being punished by him.

  I can vividly remember my First Communion. My mother clothed my sister and me in matching, frilly, snow-white dresses. I can still recall the hand-made lace veil my grandmother made just for me. I was so proud and I felt like a princess. I didn’t understand what I was doing, but I knew it was a happy occasion and I was to become a bride!