Playing House

When I was about 6 and Aunt Barb about 12, we would play together, sometimes in Grandma

Santa's basement and sometimes in the attic. One of my favorite things to do was to play house.

When Barbara was a willing participant, she would help me get out kid-sized chairs and a table,

votive candles from church, dishes, napkins, silverware. We would make pretend food and tea.

Of course, there were dolls to join us. It was perfect. It was especially great when we did it in

the attic where nobody knew where we were. At 8 years old I still loved playing house, but at

14, Barb did not. Not only did she not enjoy playing house, she relished making me miserable.

She wold tell me she wanted to play. She would always say it with great enthusiasm. Then she

would tell me to hurry and get all the play things out. I dragged each plate, each cup, each doll,

out to the kiddie table. I would beg her to light the candles. Then, at the precise moment I was

ready to rejoice and Play House, Barbara would declare, "I don't feel like playing." I would gasp and start crying, but because we were in the attic, or the basement, no one could hear me. After watching me suffer for a few minutes, Barbara would say, "Don't be a baby!" A baby!

Was there anything worse that being called a baby when you are 8 years old?

My aunt also enjoyed making me miserable in other ways during her early- teen years.

There was the time she and a friend threatened to throw me down the clothes chute on the

second story out-side my grandmother's bedroom. They went so far as opening the little door and forcing my head into the opening. I grabbed onto the sides of the chute and screamed.

"You are such a baby! You couldn't fit through that tiny opening." Being called a baby and

being called too pudgy to fit through the opening. A double whammy.

Then there was the time my aunt, her friend, and I were swinging at a playground. They had

me on a swing and were turning the chains around and around and I thought it was fun. At

least, I thought t was fun until they put my wrist inside the chain, too. I said, "Don't, I have a

bump there on my wrist." They both looked and agreed there was a bump there. So, did

they let me go and hug me and say they were so sorry? No, they did not. They twisted it

harder on the bump. When I began crying, of course they said, "Don't be a baby."

I managed to last a few more years in spite of my aunt and by the time I was 10 and she was

16, she was more mellow and I followed her around like a puppy dog. She read a lot of

magazines, went to St. Elizabeth's and fell in love with my next door neighbor. By that time,

we had a swing set in my back yard and she was sweet enough to push me in hopes that

Billy Neithe would see her and think what a sweet girl. Only I knew the awful truth of what

a mean and wretched person my Aunt Barbara really was.