They Called Me Goose

Being the youngest of seven was not easy especially since I grew up in a time before video games, cell phones and computers.

Yes, there was TV but nothing like today.

Back then, there were five channels. Programming went off sometime after midnight and all you’d see on the TV was the American flag.

I’m not kidding about this.

Cartoons were on Saturday mornings and that was about it.

This was a time when children had to entertain themselves and I was often the star of that entertainment.

Let me tell you, being a star of the shows and games my siblings put on was not fun.

NOT AT ALL

What did they do, you wonder.

My two main tormentors were my sister, Barb and my brother, Mike. They were five and six years older than me but still the closest to me in age.

And they were quite creative in their games.

My nickname was Goose. I have no idea how I got it or why, but that’s what it was. (probably, got the name because of the phrase “silly goose”).

Sometimes on Saturday morning my brother and sister would sneak into my bedroom when I was sleeping and slip an egg under my pillow.

Then, they’d eagerly wait for me to wake.

They probably spurred that along but I don’t remember. All I remember is waking and they’d be in my room almost bouncing with excitement. (at that age I didn’t recognize the glint of evil in their eyes – lol).

MIKE: “Goose, look what you did while you were sleeping.”  He’d point to my pillow.

ME: “What?” Rubbing my eyes. Sill half asleep.

BARB: “You laid an egg, Goose.”

ME: “Really?” Lifting my pillow in awe and staring at my baby. It wasn’t possible but somehow, I’d done it.

Mike or Barb would then snatch the egg from my bed or my hands.

MIKE: “Yes, and we’re going to eat your baby for breakfast.”

Both of them would run from the room. I’d jump from the bed screaming at them to stop. To bring it back but I was smaller and slower. I’d catch up to them in the kitchen. They’d already have the refrigerator door open where they’d mixed my baby in with the other eggs.

Then, they’d turn to our mom who was always busy working (she had seven kids after all) and say, “Mom, can we have eggs for breakfast?”

She’d say, “Of course.”

And I’d scream, trying to get her to listen to understand that they couldn’t have eggs because they were going to eat my egg. My baby.

My mother was too busy to listen to such nonsense and nonsense it was. I didn’t lay that egg. It wasn’t my baby. Deep down even I knew that but somehow, dreams of magic and the impossible slipped from my imagination and took root in my mind and heart.

What if I could lay an egg? Or fly? Or befriend a dragon and save a prince?

Seeds were planted in my childhood. Potent seeds of trust and lies. Friendship and betrayal. Fear and anger twisted and tangled with love.

My siblings loved me and I loved them (still do).

Sometimes they were my most hated enemies and sometimes my best friends.

They hurt me and I hurt them.

Yet, we fell asleep knowing that we loved each other no matter what.

I write fantasy and romance. My stories tend to have many of these feeling twisted together. Life isn’t simple so stories shouldn’t be either.