Growing Up George

For our 2012 George Christmas party, my mom's "ugly sweater" consisted of pictures of her brothers.

When I was little, a stranger would stop my mom and me at a local store.  They would say to my mom, “Are you one of those crazy Georges?”  Or even better, “Are you that crazy [insert any uncle’s name here] sister?  My mom would hesitate and then very quietly say, “yes.”  The stranger would then tell us some shocking/probably illegal story that my mom hadn’t yet heard about one of her crazy siblings.  I would just laugh and laugh.

 

In looking back at my almost thirty-two years of life, a lot of who I am today can be contributed to my childhood.  My childhood was glorious not because of all of the trips I went on or experiences I had, but rather the people, my very own aunt and six uncles, that made my childhood the best ever.  My mom frequently jokes and says, “I wish I was an only child,” but I am so glad she isn’t.  Where would I be without these crazy Georges?

I have so many memorable experiences with each of them, but felt that I should pick the highlights for now.

When my aunt was in her early teens, and I was not yet in school, my aunt decided to have a sleepover while my grandpa was on vacation. Naturally, my mom was the responsible guardian, and just as naturally, I packed up all of my cool girly things to fit in with Aunt Kathleen and her friends.  When they all listened to Bill Cosby’s comedy tape, I laughed even though I didn’t understand what was funny.  When they talked about boys at school, and shot soda through their nose, I followed, and shot soda through my nose.  When they all carried their sleeping bags out to the backyard, I followed behind them with my orange and yellow sleeping bag nearly double my size.  This was the final straw for my aunt. She shot me the “I can’t believe you are ruining my party glance,” picked me up like a baby, carried me to the kitchen, and dropped me onto the floor.  My mom gave me “the look” and I knew I was doomed to spend the rest of the evening inside, alone, and away from all of the fun.  I bawled, and wailed, then sobbed and sniffled my way to sleep, in Aunt Kathleen’s bed of course.  When I awoke the next morning, my mom, Aunt Kathleen, and all of her friends had a surprise:  I peed her bed. 

Yes, my aunt was fun, silly, and crazy, but she was a mere amateur compared to the wild ways of my six uncles.  Everything they did, they encouraged me to try, and would praise me afterwards.  All of the swearing, dirty jokes, and farts, they let me be present for, and as long as I promised not to ever, ever, ever, tell my mom , so help me God, I was a welcomed member of the boys club and still hold that position today.  

My Uncle Kevin, before he moved to Washington, had the entire Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar posted around his bedroom.  He is my Godfather, and sent me the most unique Christmas gifts every year until I was eighteen—a flute made out of wood, a shammy to wash the car, and a recycling handbook—all treasures that I still have.  He once even bought me a sheep from Africa that the people could use the wool to make clothes for themselves.  That was so hilarious to me! 

My Uncle Sean, who is a mix between a panda bear, a gorilla, and Chef Boyardee, refused to let anyone enter his room.  He had the basement room, across the hall from Kevin and his swimsuit girls, but he didn’t have carpet.  For some reason I thought that was super neat.   One day, I got a quick peek inside and all I remember noticing was his leopard print bedspread…and underwear.  Yikes!  He once invested his hard earned money and rented an authentic gorilla costume, and came barreling into the living room grunting on Halloween.  I cried and huddled in the corner, while my mom beat him with a broom.  He still laughs about it twenty years later and my mom says that is why she has long fingernails.

  My Uncle Brian may very well take the prize for the craziest.  He had platform Pee Wee Herman shoes, and he would dance on the top of the kitchen table in them with the music blaring in nothing but his underwear and a white dress shirt.  I could jump on his bed, climb in and out of his bedroom window, and eat all of the sugary substances in the world and he would pay for it!  Uncle Brian first introduced me to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” music video, despite how terrified I was.  He took me sledding in the winter, and played kickball with me in the summer.  He once had me eat an entire bag of gummy worms in ten minutes.  He was a true pal and I cried when he moved to St. George even though I was nearly fifteen.

For some strange reason I can bring myself to call all of my uncles by just their first name, but then there is “Uncle Tim.”  Uncle Tim would frequently let me sleep over at his house in his wife’s doll room…the ultimate vacation.  He would wake up at four a.m. to go to work, and I would consistently flush the toilet at regular intervals to get his wife, my aunt Nicki, to awake.  One night before bed, Uncle Tim and Nicki heard fire engines blaring past their house.  This happened over the course of several minutes. Uncle Tim finally went out to the porch to see that Saint Benedicts Hospital was on fire.  “We have to go see,” he  yelled.  I looked down.  I was in my pink slippers and robe.  “Put your snow boots on, you’ll be ok.”  And so I did.  We drove right up to the burning building and watched alongside the firemen.   They since have built a new hospital down the street from my grandpa.  Uncle Tim’s version of the events of that night was that I begged him to take me, and it was his duty as my favorite uncle hint, hint, to do so.  I playfully argue back, but we both loved that night and bring it up frequently.  Uncle Tim was the first person who saw my ears pierced and commented on how brave I was.  He would play Mario Brothers (old school Nintendo) with me every Wednesday short day and always let me be Mario while we ate caramel popcorn.  He is who I call in any emergency, and has attended every birthday party and both of my graduations.  Uncle Tim is my second dad.

The story of my strange uncles and their impact on my life today would not be complete without mention of my uncle Chris.  Chris’ life still remains a mystery to me, a puzzle missing just one piece.  He has never been married, lives in a shack (literally) and works a job he claims he hates and has hated for the past forty years.  Chris, however, has a memory and an I.Q. of a genius.  He can quote any fact from any time period and have three sources to back it up.  He gives money to any friend and family member who needs help, and even to those that don’t.  I frequently ask my mom about Chris and why he acts the way he does.  My mom shows me photographs, and simply states, “before your grandmother died, Chris had a beautiful smile.”

If I could give you one word to sum up my early childhood, I would ask for two: Nick and Heather.  Nick and Heather were the children of my Uncle Steve who lived in Sandy.  Sandy was a far off land to me, and when they would come up and visit, it was an ultimate treat.  Nick and Heather were my partners in crime.   They would usually come up for Thanksgiving and stay at the Marriott Hotel in Ogden.  I was so pleased when they asked me to start joining them.  We would swim all hours of the night, and order fruity drinks at brunch the next day.  My Uncle Steve would play hide and seek with us in the hotel, and we would always jump as the elevator landed to our floor.  On our way back to the hotel once, my cousin Heather had me open my Christmas gift early.  It was a Barbie hot tub.  I was ecstatic.  “Go on, tell her,” my uncle prompted.  Heather started crying.  Between sobs she said, “I told my dad to get you the hot water too, but he said no.”  The van erupted with laughter.  This is one of my most favorite memories of my cousins.  

Whether I was imitating Kathleen or chasing fire engines with Tim, my childhood has impacted my life for the better.  I wish I had a grandmother, but more importantly I wish my mom had her mom.  I realize, however, that my life wouldn’t have been so enriched, so loving, and so much fun if I didn’t grow up George.