Pretty in Orange

 


I have a cousin named Cindy who is five years older than me, almost exactly. So, when I was 6 years old (as I am in this picture), she was 11. My Aunt Martha used to give my mother hand-me-down clothes from Cindy for me. We were always very grateful because we never had enough money. My father had spent the first five years of his marriage to my mother informing her that they were moving. He didn't like his job, he could do better, so pack up, we're hitting the road! On one of those occasions, they left in such a hurry that what couldn't fit into the car--including my mother's wedding gown--was left behind. My mother cried when the car broke down miles away and they ended up having to rent a U-Haul truck after all. They did not return for the left-behind stuff, though.

In their first five years of marriage, they brought three babies into the world--I was smack in the center, sixteen months older and sixteen months younger. Do you suppose I got enough attention? I still remember how frustrated and sad I was when I told my mom, "It's not fair! I never get to hold the popcorn!" But phooey on my emotional needs. My dad was busy trying to find a better job, a job that deserved him. That's why my parents moved us twenty-five times in their first five years together. And when I say "moved," I mean from Wisconsin to Missouri to Montana back to Wisconsin with a U-Haul truck hooked to the back of our decrepit car. No down-the-block moves for us. I still remember during one move I could actually watch the street through the rust-eaten floorboards of the car.

When we finally settled into our house at Whispering Firs, I was in kindergarten and that's when the bags of hand-me-down clothes began to arrive. My cousin's daddy was a minister and consequently, she had lots of pretty dresses. For some reason, many of them were orange, so my school pictures from first grade, second grade, and third grade featured lovely orange attire. I thought I looked pretty hot at the time. I also nursed a fierce jealousy of Cindy with her fancy duds and her preacher daddy. My daddy slept all day and worked all night and had rough, calloused hands and a stern face. Her daddy's hands were soft when he shook mine and his hair was smoothed perfectly into place and he always said, "Hi, Beautiful!"

The main problem with Cindy's clothes, though, was the size. Cindy was a petite bird of a person. I'm more of the sturdy, frontier-girl type. Some of the beautiful clothes just wouldn't fit around my normal sized waist. Which explains why I thought I was fat as a child. I was normal, but I was trying to fit into a Barbie doll's clothes.

Today, Cindy lives not so far from me. I see her occasionally and she might weigh 90 pounds on a particularly "fat day." I'm just thankful that I don't have to try to fit into any more of her hand-me-downs. My grown-up self-image is wobbly enough as it is.

And here's a tip for all mothers of girls: When your normal-sized girl says, "Mommy, am I fat?" please, please, please, just say, "No, of course not. You look perfect to me."