Lucy Reflects

I am one of six children. The first three of us are about 18 months apart, then came my sisters and youngest brother in four-year increments.

In my younger years, I spent my days following around my older brothers, trying to be just like them. I constantly had dirt under my nails and tinkered in my dad’s garage, trying to build stuff with scrap wood and metal, operating a circular saw I had no business using. If I wasn’t shooting a BB gun or pretending to smoke cigarettes using twigs, I was playing with matchbox cars in the dirt or riding a hand-me- down bike.

I was always eager to be a part of my brothers’ next adventure. I was mostly not welcome, except for the times they needed a guinea pig in a dicey new stunt.

My dad, who owned his own welding company, would receive supplies in large cardboard barrels. Empty, these barrels served as great material for different projects for us. Marty and Adam had bigger plans for the barrels – rolling down the yard inside them. But I had to try it first.

“What if I roll into the road?” I asked as they both coerced me into the barrel.

“You won’t,” Marty promised as he sealed the lid.

“Why can’t we leave the lid off?” I yelled as it darkened inside the barrel and I began spiraling down the yard.

My mom thwarted their plan of me jumping off the barn roof with an umbrella to see if it actually did make you fly. They’d wind up dish towels and chase me around yelling “Guess what time it is? It’s TOWEL WHIPPING TIME!”

Occasionally, my dad and brothers would go watch mini sprint races not far from our house. After weeks of begging and pleading, my dad finally agreed to take me one Friday evening. I hated it. I screamed and cried until we had to leave.

“I wish you were never born,” my brothers told me.

There was a lot of “I wish you were never borns” flying around at The Redcay household between us kids. And my mom would always tell us to say, “I just wish you were a little older.”

My parents kept us busy with chores. We had a large garden and we picked beans and corn and strawberries as a family. My dad would have us watch to make sure sparks from his welding didn’t catch anything on fire. He was a pipe welder and we would often, as a family, paint the pipe structures he built.

“You know, the only reason mom and dad had so many kids is so we could be their slaves,” my brother Adam said one hot summer day as we picked snap peas. Unbeknownst to him, he said it within ear shot of my dad and I wasn’t sure if he’d live to see the next day.

Each one of us wanted so badly, at one time or another, to be the only child in that family. When I was about nine, I wrote in a Mother’s Day Book to my mom, “I just wish Julie didn’t exist.” My mom made me scribble it out and write “I just wish Julie was a little older.”

Julie from an early age, loved to clean. And if she wasn’t cleaning, she was busy hating Natalie. The three of us shared a room and Julie REALLY wished Natalie wasn’t born. Because I was older, I often took Natalie under my wing. She was such a cute little girl and I reminded Julie that maybe she just wished Natalie was a little older.

Born on the Fourth of July, Jim was 12 years younger than me. “Firecracker Jim” was a little bit like each of us. He wore cowboy boots with tie-dye shirts and cut-off jean shorts. He said curse words as a toddler. He played in the garage. He built bikes and worked on cars. He had Adam’s knack for fixing things, Marty’s good looks, Julie’s sense of humor and Natalie’s compassion for animals. He loved whiffle ball just like we all did growing up.

On May 23, it will be four years since Jim passed away. If there was ever a time we were all so glad to have each other, it was that day.

To date, there’s a total of eight grandchildren, one of which is Jim’s daughter. And there’s a ninth on the way. We invade our parent’s house every few weeks, trash the place, play whiffle ball, and eat all of our parent’s food. My mom plays in the sandbox with the kids, just like she did with us.

My dad often sits back and reflects on the new generation of kids in his life and always make sure to tell us each visit, “I’m so glad you were all born.”

Share your memories of childhood, your siblings and growing up, both good and bad. We always love to hear from our readers!