Disjointed Memories

I suppose I could start where my memories begin but that would leave gaps and a confused timeline. I could tell you about the time I snuck through our bedroom window, down our fence and to the "back house" to get Pepsi and oranges for us. Or I could tell you about the A/C blasting in our room while we played with yards of fabric purchased on eBay. I could describe for you how it felt gathering (potentially) lethal household items to hide away. Or how I would sit, looking through the bedroom window wishing my dad would come home and rescue us. Most of my childhood memories come in flashes and they are mostly unclear. Growing up in my family was not something you might want to remember. But some memories stick with you despite your best efforts to forget. I'm number three of six children. Six babies brought into the world to feed the hunger of an unquenchable soul. Six babies and maybe a hundred pets. There were so many of us and that meant we had each other. That and the impressive set of defense mechanisms were able to develop. I'm grateful we had each other though I would certainly spare them the pain if I could. Before the "big house" we lived on a property with two homes. It was a big lot which also homed several disabled vehicles and a row of storage sheds. We spent some time living in the "front house" and some time in the "back house". I think we moved to the back shortly after we got the great danes and only briefly but I can't recall for sure. What I remember from the front house is a lesson I carry with me today: If your house is dirty your life is chaos. We had a lot of little dogs then and they pooped in the house a lot. We were typical kids and we were lazy about cleaning up after them. Sometimes we would step around the waste to avoid picking it up. My mom came into the room one of those days and after yelling she grabbed big trash bags and threw everything away. I distinctly remember my sisters' flute being among the casualties. An expensive instrument was not something we would come by again. I don't remember what I did or didn't do the time I was thrown down and pushed forward along the wood floor. I can tell you though that wood floors do leave skid burns. She apologized afterwards and I told her it was okay. "It's not okay," she said. The time we ran away was a strong bonding experience for us although we only made it down the street. I can remember some nice things from our time in the front house too. The whipped cream fight we had during our anti-halloween party, karaoke nights, playing an elaborate don't-touch-the-floor monster game in our room and in that closet that seemed to stretch forever. The real trouble wasn't in the front house or the back house though. The true trouble began in the "big house."