"Are you an only child? Write about your siblings or lack thereof."
1967...
“…and this is a dump truck, Lainy. See? This part, you lift it up and WOOSH all the dirt pours out into a big pile and then you drive over it. See?” Five year old Wesley Jansen was balanced on the arm of a chair, leaning over the side of his sister’s bassinet excitedly talking to her about little boy nonsense and make believe.
“Wesley Ethan, what have I told you about putting those dirty, nasty cars on your sister? Get down from there before I paddle your behind.” And his mama was less than thrilled about it.
“I’m just showing her my truck. She’s boring and don’t do nothing.””
“Doesn’t do anything, sweetheart.” The correction came automatically. The exasperation followed as she lifted the boy down from his perch. “And of course she doesn’t. She’s six months old. Babies do three things. They sleep, eat and smile at the angels.”
“Daddy says that ain’t angels. Just gas and gas means farts.”
“Lord, grant me strength…Wes, don’t use that word around me or your sister. Girls like nice words and pretty things.”
“What about trucks?”
“Little boys like trucks. Now go play. I need to start supper.” She gave the boy a push towards the door and then reached into the bassinet for a moment, socks needed to be adjusted and blankets smoothed.
As soon as Mama was back in the kitchen, Wes reclaimed his perch on the arm of the chair and once more dangled the little cast iron truck in his sister’s face. “You’re my sister, I know you like trucks.” He even let her have the object when chubby fingers closed around cool metal, laughed as she kicked her feet and grinned. “And farts.”
Laine Anderson//Flint Creek//287
“…and this is a dump truck, Lainy. See? This part, you lift it up and WOOSH all the dirt pours out into a big pile and then you drive over it. See?” Five year old Wesley Jansen was balanced on the arm of a chair, leaning over the side of his sister’s bassinet excitedly talking to her about little boy nonsense and make believe.
“Wesley Ethan, what have I told you about putting those dirty, nasty cars on your sister? Get down from there before I paddle your behind.” And his mama was less than thrilled about it.
“I’m just showing her my truck. She’s boring and don’t do nothing.””
“Doesn’t do anything, sweetheart.” The correction came automatically. The exasperation followed as she lifted the boy down from his perch. “And of course she doesn’t. She’s six months old. Babies do three things. They sleep, eat and smile at the angels.”
“Daddy says that ain’t angels. Just gas and gas means farts.”
“Lord, grant me strength…Wes, don’t use that word around me or your sister. Girls like nice words and pretty things.”
“What about trucks?”
“Little boys like trucks. Now go play. I need to start supper.” She gave the boy a push towards the door and then reached into the bassinet for a moment, socks needed to be adjusted and blankets smoothed.
As soon as Mama was back in the kitchen, Wes reclaimed his perch on the arm of the chair and once more dangled the little cast iron truck in his sister’s face. “You’re my sister, I know you like trucks.” He even let her have the object when chubby fingers closed around cool metal, laughed as she kicked her feet and grinned. “And farts.”
Laine Anderson//Flint Creek//287