When I was a kid living with my grandparents and father, my Nanny and Papa would snooze in the afternoon when I came home from Kindergarten. When they would pass out during the soap operas, I would get busy.
Picture a 5 year old Nancy with a bowl cut and a glimmer in her eye acting out every commercial she had ever seen. I was a television addict. It was my next best friend. I'm not proud.
I had seen EVERY COMMERCIAL EVER MADE. I broke a Dexatrim or Comtrex into a ziplock and hid it under the bed. I cut into Dad's Old Spice because the Irish Spring commercials suggested that was a great idea. I broke eggs on the counter for reasons that escape me.
Nanny would wake up, her wig askew, light up a Viceroy and see the evidence of my hijinx. A report would be filed with Dad and I would get my comeuppance.
But the best day was the day Papa found a half drunk beer beneath a bush in the back. "Bill," he said, "I think Nancy's been in the beer." They never suspected my brother.
I got some more comeuppance. I had clearly done a five year old cost-benefit analysis and decided it was worth it to give it a shot.
It was worth it just to be able to tell that story.
Life over on South Rogers was lively. More stories will pour forth as I remember them.
I can still smell that house. I can still hear the front door open. I can still feel myself snuggle into Nanny's orange recliner next to her.
I can still feel the love I felt there. And how much I miss it. And them. The pipe, the ciggie holder, the experimental afternoons. Much went wrong with my early days. All that? It went right.
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