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..mostly the pig.
Part 2, From "I'm not mad anymore"
Preface
“You’ve been through so much Cindi, so much tragedy. How do you keep such a good attitude? Why are you still so optimistic?”
I get this question a lot, and many of you do, too.
All of the stories I write in “I’m not mad anymore” seek to answer this question. Some of my answers may not be what you expect and some of my answers may not be what you want to hear, like the story I share today.
The decision to publish this story was grueling, and even more agonizing to write.
But I believe that sharing stories, difficult or divine, lets us know that we are not alone and that we all seek answers to the same question: why me?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1972 - My Mom and Dad’s house in West Ellicott, New York
I was 17 in 1972, and getting ready to leave home for Denver to be with my boyfriend, Brian Lake.
But I didn’t tell my Mom and Dad.
My Dad had just showered, and the bathroom was hot and steamy, so the door was open. He was shaving, so I stepped in and leaned sideways against the bathroom countertop.
His white silky boxers had a crease in the front from my Mom’s incessant ironing.
As I watched him shave around his mouth, I twisted my lips in tandem with his.
“Dad, can I borrow ten bucks? Me and Kelly are going out later and-“
“Oh. So you’re gonna pay me back?” he said.
“Well, as soon as I get another job, I’ll-“
“Oh, so you just want me to give you ten bucks, right?” he winked at me.
“Kinda,” I said coyly.
He continued to shave and I continued to contort my mouth to match his.
His right leg was cocked back, heel up, his toes sprawled out on the heated bathroom tiles like chunky marshmallows, and I could see the top of his thick, white calf. My Dad was built with muscle blocks, all thick and wide. His fingers, forearms, chest, hips, thighs; all thick and dense and wide. Kinda like the Michelin Man.
I’m built a lot like my Dad. In’t that lovely??
I saw something on the back of his calf, like faded hash marks. I thought they were stretch marks, but then I squinted a little more and realized they were not stretch marks.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“What’s what?” he said.
“What are those little white stripes on the back of your calf? Did Mom tie you up again last night?” I giggled.
He did not respond.
I waited.
“They’re scars” he finally said.
“From what?” I asked, alarmed.
Again, he did not respond, and I waited.
I leaned back to look at his other calf; more white marks.
“Do you need to be in here?” he demanded.
“Yes, I do. Tell me what happened.”
Another pause, then he said:
“Dad and maw hardly ever left the farm together,” he said. “I think they went to a funeral. So me and Richie thought they’d be gone for a while so we could try smoking some cornsilk behind the cow barn."
"Well, it was me that thought it was a good idea. Ritchie did pretty much whatever I wanted cuz I was his older brother.”
He applied more shave cream and kept shaving.
“So we got some dried corn silk from maw’s garden and Ritchie got some paper from somewhere and we rolled it into a big cigarette. We got matchsticks from Maw’s kitchen and when we finally got it lit, we choked and coughed and started laughing like hell,”
I interrupted him:
“Oh so that’s why you hate smoking so much?” I asked.
“No.” He stopped, rinsed his razor, taped it off, then looked straight into the mirror.
“All of a sudden, I look at Ritchie and he’s white as a ghost and staring right passed me. I thought he was getting sick.”
Dad continued.
“I turned around to see what he was looking at and it was Dad. Standing there looking at us. I froze too and I knew we were gonna get it, again. Dad hated smoking.”
He rinsed his razor again, tapped it, looked straight into the mirror and said fast:
“He went and got the horse whip, told us to take off our pants and underwear and not to move or we would get it worse.”
Dad bent down to the sink and rinsed off the shave cream. Then he grabbed the hand towel next to my head and got pissed when he saw the water falling out of my eyes.
“Well I don’t smoke, goddammit, so he must have been right!” he yelled.
He firmly moved me out of the bathroom and closed the door.
My seizures started a few months later.
1967, Celoron, New York
My Dad cut off all my hair when I was 12.
When I was in 7th grade, I was allowed to have a boyfriend, as long as my parents met him first. I was quite mature for my age, I babysat over 20 hours per week to pay off an L-100 Hammond organ. I begged my Dad for an organ for years.
“If you pay half, I’ll pay the other half,” my Dad told me. “Deal!” I squealed, and we shook on it.
I got good grades, did what I was told, and never got into any trouble.
Until 7th grade. This is when all the sixth graders from Celoron and Lakewood Elementary schools were combined at Southwestern Middle School, a brand new school, filled with brand new boys.
And boy, did I ever like boys!
Early in the school year, before it started snowing (it always snowed before Halloween) I sat alone in the library, at a big round table, reading Charlotte’s Web. A boy came over to my table, pulled out the chair next to me, and sat down, close, like he knew me.
He leaned over and whispered, “Is that a good book?”
He smelled like Dial soap and his breath smelled like strawberry candy. Goose bumps popped up everywhere, in places I didn’t know they could pop up. I started to shake a little, inside. I was a mess!
I turned to answer him, but nothing came out at first. His face was so close to mine and he was smiling big at me. His dark chocolate eyes matched his curly hair and his dimples were even bigger than mine.
“Yes, this is a very good book,” I said. “Would you like to read it with me?” I asked him.
He kept smiling and moved his chair so close to mine that our forearms touched. I was a goner.
I had seen him plenty of times because his locker was just a few feet down from mine. He was much bigger than the rest of the boys in my class. And he was so popular! Everyone seemed to stop and chat with him, even the teachers used to kid him about whatever trouble he’d been in.
He lived in Lakewood and was in eighth grade, but I think he was supposed to be in ninth or tenth grade. He wasn’t stupid like “duh” stupid, but I think he preferred doing more adult things than thinking about school.
I flipped through the pages in Charlotte’s Web, pretending I was a fast reader, and enjoying his fresh soapy smell, and the heat from his breath on my neck as he looked over my shoulder.
“Mr. Spring,” the librarian lady whisper-yelled. “Do you need to sit that close to Cynthia?” I chuckled a little, Dan winked at me and moved about two inches away.
‘He winked at me, ‘ I thought, ‘only my Dad winks at me.”
He wasn’t interested in Charlotte’s Web, though. It wasn’t long before he lightly tapped me on the shoulder with his forefinger, and I turned to look at him.
“Would you like to go skating with me?” he asked quietly. My eyes flew open and all my fluid-producing glands went into overdrive; this was also new.
Yes!” I said, “but you have to come over and meet my parents first, Is that OK?” I asked him.
“Sure, that’s fine with me,” he smiled. As he stood up to leave, I tugged on the sleeve of his blue denim shirt and asked him: “What’s your name?”
“I’m Dan. Dan Spring.”
Dan Spring came to my house and met my Mom and Dad. They both liked him quite a bit. He came to my house many times and we would walk to Evan’s Skateland together. My brother Steve was two years older than me and he already knew Dan.
“He’s a hood”, Steve told me. “And he hangs out with the high school guys,” he said. “You better be careful,” he warned me. “You better be good.”
Be good. hmmm. I was done thinking about school after I met Dan Spring. I was done going to Sunday school too, and I was done with being a “good little girl”. That was the most important thing in 1967. To be a “good girl”.
How come Steve didn’t have to be a “good little boy” anymore?
Dan was not like any boy I ever knew. Once we were inside Skateland, he would lace up my skates for me and then we would rush into the rink, to hold hands and talk and flirt and share quick little peck kisses, on the cheeks, sometimes on the lips; but you were not allowed to make out at the skating rink and if you did it where everyone could see you, you were a whore.
“I found something cool outside I wanna show you,” Dan told me. “It’s behind the skating rink”.
“OK, But it’s freezing cold outside!” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm,” and he smiled at me. That’s all I needed.
I already knew what was behind the skating rink: old rusty tractor-trailers and snow-covered hunks of twisted junk metal leftover from the old Celoron Park. Steve and his buddies used to mess around back there, they would take scraps of wood and other stuff and build tree forts.
Me and Dan left Skateland a half hour early. He led me by the hand around the back of the roller rink to a tank-sized rusty green trailer with no door. He jumped inside and said “Come on in here and get out of the wind!” So I did.
We huddled close and jumped up and down to try and keep warm and our breath made fluffy clouds between our faces. Then Dan put his hands in both my coat pockets, pulled me in close, and he kissed me.
This wasn’t the first time he kissed me, but it was the first time we kissed when it was wet.
There were more than goosebumps appearing.
And it went on like this for six months; when I babysat, Dan was there, when I went downtown for organ lessons, Dan was there, under the football bleachers, behind Skateland, under the high school stairwells, me and Dan were there, playin’ kiss, kiss, kissy games.
One day, Dan came to our house so we could walk together to Skateland. “I think you two have the cutest case of puppy love I ever saw!” my Mom said to me and Dan.
“Puppy lo-“ I began to protest, but Dan began to bark and howl like a little dog, interrupting me. My Mom just laughed and laughed. And Dan grabbed my hand, pulled me to the door and said “We’ll see you after skating, Mrs. Bush!”
“Puppy love?” I said to Dan, once we were outside.
“That’s right, puppy love,” he said firmly. “And that’s just what you want them to think.”
Dan was so smart that way.
I was 12, he was 15, and we were truly, deeply, in love. There was nothing that could keep us apart.
And everything was just fine and dandy and on the up and up. For a while.
My Mom was at the kitchen sink doing dishes. My Dad was at his desk estimating material costs on a new house for Bennett Homes.
I was doing homework at the dining room table and I needed an eraser to undo an error on a rough draft for a writing assignment.
I walked up behind my Dad, flipped my long hair back, and tucked it behind my ear so it wouldn’t hang in Dad’s face or over his papers and disturb him.
I put my right hand on his left shoulder and leaned over him to grab a pencil with an eraser from his pencil jar. “Excuse me kind sir”, I said. He turned his head to the left to look up at me. He smiled and looked down, continuing his calculations for about one second until his head snapped back like an overstretched rubber band to look up at me again.
“What is THAT?” he roared at me. “What the hell is THAT??” he thundered.
He violently pushed his chair away from the desk, jumped up, grabbed all my very long hair in one hand, and pulled it up over my head. Then he yanked my hair and my head to the left with a hard jerk, fully exposing the right side of my neck.
This was the first time I felt like I was going to die, and not my last.
“WHAT…IS…THAT?” he yelled at me, while jabbing his finger at my neck with each word, but never touched my skin.
“Hic…key”, I wimpered, instantly blubbering, shaking, and realizing the monumental mistake I had made.
“What? What did you say?” he said softly, through his clenched teeth. “Who did this to you?” he snarled, his teeth gritted so hard, I thought they would snap off like dried twigs.
“It’s from Dan”, I sobbed, trembling.
“A hickey. Do you know what kind of girl gets a hickey?” he snarled, and he twisted my hair around his wide, thick hand, pulling it tight, away from my scalp. With each word he said, he yanked my head to the left, exposing the quarter-sized mark in the middle of the right side of my neck.
“No Dad, I just…”
With all my hair twisted around his fist, he leaned over the desk and opened the pencil drawer.
He grabbed the large black and silver scissors with his right hand, and screamed “BAD GIRLS, VERY BAD GIRLS!”, snapping the scissors in front of my face with each word.
This was the first time I ever heard my Dad scream. And it was the last time I ever heard him scream.
“Little girls who think they’re so cute”, he seethed. “Let’s just see how cute Dan Spring thinks you are now,”
I started to pee myself.
I screamed and tried to pull away, but he gripped and twisted my hair so tight that my feet left the floor.
He opened the scissors wide in front of my face one last time, then smacked the scissor blades down flat on the top of my head, and began cutting and slicing and chopping all my hair off. All of it.
All over my entire head. From my bangs to the nape of my neck, from ear to ear, all of it, until my scalp was covered with nothing but wispy, jaggedy, one-inch hair nubs. Until top of my shoes were covered with my hair.
When he could no longer hold me in place because my hair was gone, he grabbed the back of my shirt at the neck in his fist, twisting it, bunching it up, holding me in position. I could not breathe. I could not yell.
He pushed me backwards into the living room. I was shivering, trembling. He shoved me hard and I fell into the ugly, scratchy green couch. I sobbed and groped at my head with both hands, desperate to find hair.
I looked up, trying to find my mother. But she was not there.
And he was not done.
He began to take off his belt.
“Stand up. STAND UP!” he thundered.
I did.
“Take off your pants and your underpants.” he said, in a monotone voice I never heard before.
I did.
I stood there, half-naked, head hanging, and violently trembling, in front of my father.
“Lay face down on the couch.” He said calmly.
I did.
And he whipped me, over and over and over, and with each belting, I screamed into the couch, gagged and coughed and spit and scraped my face into the scratchy, ugly green couch, I writhed and jolted up with each strike, screaming and pleading for him to stop.
During the beating, he never screamed or yelled. He never said a word, until he stopped.
“Get up. You are never to see Dan Spring again. You are never to go roller skating again. You will go to school, come home, and remain here until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand me?” Monotone again.
“Yes.” I uttered.
But I certainly didn’t mean it.
I grabbed my clothes and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I was sweating and wet and dripping with what I thought was pee.
It was blood.
My brother was in his room. I think he was probably thrilled.
I was such a thin-skinned, hypersensitive kid, always whining and crying about nothing, and constantly tattling on Steve. I was a blubbering, blabbermouth, tattle-telling little girl.
And now, finally, it was Steve’s time to shine. The Princess had fallen from grace and was now the shameful pig.
I do not know where my Mother was. Every time this happened, I never saw her.
I stayed in my room for the rest of the day and night. No one bothered me. No one checked on me.
I came down in the morning to use the bathroom and get ready for school, but my Dad intercepted me at the bottom of the stairs.
He was holding a box of 3”x4” Telfa gauze pads and a roll of brown packing tape.
“Stand still”, he commanded.
He ripped the paper on the telfa pad, shoved my head to the side to expose the hickey, and smacked the snow-white pad over it. Then he tore off a length of the brown packing tape and strapped it over the pad, pressing it hard against my neck with his concrete fingers.
Then another strip of tape. And another, until the brown sticky tape covered nearly half of my neck, from front to back, with just a fraction of the white pad sticking out of the top and bottom of the tape.
“You leave this on. You don’t take it off. I will check it in a few days to see when your hickey is gone. Do not take it off” he said. He left for work. I cleaned up, and I left for school.
I couldn’t wait to see Dan. I just - could - not - wait.
Story 2: The Princess and the Pig, Part One
From: "I'm not mad anymore", By Cindi Lamb
It’s early spring, 1963, in Celoron, New York.
I saw his red-and-white truck stop with a quick skid just in front of the burn barrel and boat ramp at the end of Livingston Avenue. The road ends right next to our three houses.
Dad got home early today, around five, and this was rare. Mom hadn’t even changed into her “fancy Dad clothes” yet, the silky jammies and the slippers that had feathers around her toes.
Our front screen door shut with a bang as my Dad rushed in to grab up my Mom, growl and nibble on her neck, and hug her like it was the very first time. And I knew what he would do to me if I was there when he burst into the kitchen.
“Hello sweetheart!” he bellowed, and he stomped his big boots, shook his arms like a boogey man, and swiped his hands down the front of his pant legs, unleashing a cloud of white plaster dust. His white shirt, white pants, and white face were all covered with it.
My Dad was “Harold L. Bush, Plastering Contractor”, and those words were professionally painted in radiant red on both sides of his white siderail toolboxes on his Ford truckbed. It looked great. And he looked great!
“Hello, sweetheart,” Mom said, turning her head from the sink long enough to see the poof of white dust settle to the floor that she vacuumed just hours ago. She didn’t fuss at him, though; that was part of her job: accept and clean up, and because in seconds, he moved on her like a big bee on spring pollen. There was no time to fuss!
I sped down the stairs, holding tight to the railings, skipping two steps at a time. I ran through the dining room into the kitchen in just enough time to see him wrap his arms around her from behind and lightly sling her side to side, almost sweeping her off her feet.
“Hi Dad!” I yelled excitedly. “Punkin seed!” he yelled back at me.
“Hi, Dad!” my brother Steve yelled, popping through the front door.
Dad glanced over.
My Dad slid his right hand down her side and playfully plucked a handful of hiney. “Harold, the children!” my mother laughed loud.
My Dad released my Mom (and her hiney) and turned to me. “How’s my little punkin seed today?” he asked, and he hoisted me up to meet his steel-blue eyes.
“I’m good, right Mom?” I said, and with the tip of my index finger, I gently wiped the white dust off his eyebrows and nose.
“That’s good to hear,” Dad said. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and gently placed me back on the floor.
Mom turned around from the sink and crossed her arms just under her chest.
“Harold,” she said, solid, getting his attention.
“Harold, Cindi needs a new dress for the pageant. And shoes, and a crinoline slip too.”
My Dad crossed his arms on his chest and listened to her.
“This is the last pageant, and I mean it this time,” she told him, firmly. “And it’s for the entire county! Not just Busti [pronounced bust-eye] or Lakewood or Jamestown. It’s Little Miss Chautauqua CountyPrincess!” she announced with great flair, as if I had already won!
I hated the thought of shopping, except for the butterbit treat at the Cake Shop on Third Street when we were done. But I was certain this new dress, the shoes, and the fluffy new crinoline slip would drive Nikki Smith crazy with jealousy! So it would be all worth it.
Mom kept talking to Dad and then gave me and Steve the “get out of the kitchen” look, so we skedaddled outside to play on the bulkhead.
Third grade, Mrs. Gooch, Celoron Elementary School
I had a bad crush on Bobby Foster for almost a month in Mrs. Gooch’s third-grade class. Bobby was so cute, but terribly shy; he barely talked to me and was too scared to return my note of intent: Do you like me (Put X in box) you do not like me: (Put X in box).
So I recruited his best friend, Steve Borg, as our go-between-note-passer. Bobby finally gave the note back to Steve and Steve returned my letter of intent with a big X in the yes box. I should have been happy, but by then, I developed a serious crush on Steve Borg because he was also very cute AND funny, and he liked to talk to me.
All of this turned out OK though, because Nikki Smith had a crush on Bobby. Of course she did! As soon as she found out who I liked, she liked him, too.
Nikki and I did not have a good relationship, even though we ended up sitting next to each other in school. I tried to be nice to her, and every now and then, she would forget that she hated me, but that was not very often.
“I saw you at the Little Miss Lakewood contest,” I said quietly to her. Class was starting, and it was time to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. “I liked your shoes, they were nice,” I told her.
“I was the third runner up, and YOU weren’t anything!” Nikki Smith whispered
loudly at me across the aisle. I stuck out my tongue at her and made an ugly face.
“Are you talking again Nikki?” Mrs. Gooch, our third-grade teacher, demanded. Nikki’s face turned beet red and she looked down at her desk. I thought she was going to cry again. Which I always enjoyed.
Mrs. Gooch was old. She had short, fuzzy, red hair, with deep lines that criss-crossed her forehead like a tic-tac-toe board. She was strict and not very nice, and I don’t think she liked me much, because my brother Steve was in her class before me, and he drove her crazy.
“Steven Bush!” she screamed at him one day, “If you don’t soon pay attention, I will slap your face into a peak, and then I will knock the peak off!”
But Mrs. Gooch changed after President Kennedy was shot dead in November.
For the last two years, my Mom entered me in the Little Miss Busti, Little Miss Lakewood, and Little Miss Jamestown beauty pageants, and even though I was accepted in each contest, I never even placed as a runner-up!
And Nikki Smith was in every one of these pageants too. Even though I hated her on the inside, I pretended to be her friend on the outside. She was so pretty; there’s a difference between cute and pretty and beautiful, I think. I was definitely cute enough I guess, but Nikki was unbelievably pretty, and Sandy Nelson was beautiful, but she was excruciatingly shy. Way too shy for pageant life, thank goodness.
All the boys loved Nikki. She’d slip her long, curly, chestnut hair through her tiny fingers and look you straight in the face with those almost black, Raggedy Ann eyes. And when she smiled, those button eyes sat on top of her rosy cheek mounds and you just couldn’t look away.
I watched her do this all the time. And I learned how to do it, too, only with my light blue eyes and my rosy cheek mounds. I couldn’t flip my hair, though,
because my Mom put my hair in a long, high ponytail, and would slick down any stray hair with an ample slathering of Dr. Ellis Curlast Wave Set (which was the precursor to Dippity Do). It was neon green, and gloppy like egg whites, but dried with a clear varnish sheen.
Then Mom finished off my ponytail with a cascade of silk flowers or ribbons and bows on the top of my head, the very top. Oh, and don’t forget the spitcurls; three mini spitcurls, also plastered with Dr. Ellis to the center of my forehead, always swinging to the left.
Every day. Every. Single. Day. EVERY DAY!
Until I was in sixth grade. I was finally allowed to let my hair down when I got to sixth grade. And boy, did I ever.
Just ask Dan Spring. Or any of the Hut Boys.
I really didn’t like doing the pageants; the dress shopping, the stiff shoes, the hardhat hair, but it made my Mom so happy and excited for each pageant. And I would do anything to make her as happy as she made me. Just about anything.
That weekend, we took the bus and went to Bigelow’s Department Store in downtown Jamestown for the dress, the crinoline, and the shoes.
“We’re shopping at Bigelow’s?” I questioned my Mom when we got on the bus. “Isn’t that a really expensive store?” I asked. I was surprised. We only shopped at Bigelow’s when Mom needed new nylons.
“Yes”, she said, nose up in the air, “Your Dad told me to buy the cutest dress we could find at Bigelow’s” and she patted my knee and bent down to kiss my cheek. Wow. This was the big time, for sure!
I hated the powder-blue dress with white lace trim, and the extra-poofy new crinoline, but they were truly beautiful. I hated the shiny black patent leather shoes and frilly anklets, too. But it was because the dress and the crinoline were so scratchy on my skin, at the waist and around my neck, and the unbendable shoes felt like wooden Dutch clogs when I tried to walk in them. I looked so stupid walking in those darn shoes.
I knew my parents had spent a lot of money on this pageant, partly because they believed in me and partly because they woul - notbe at the Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess pageant. They would be up in Canada for my Dad’s annual fishing trip to River Valley, Ontario. The guilt was pressing hard on my Mom and I knew it. But my Dad made a deal with her: new outfit for Cindi, and for Mille, fishing with Harold, again.
My Aunt Sharon lived across the street from us with her Mom and Dad, my great Aunt Alice and my truly great Uncle John Mitchell. My Mom asked her to take both Steve and I to the pageant and she agreed.
Aunt Sharon was 24, round and sweet, super quiet, and super smart. She was going to college to be a nurse! She had received ample instructions from my Mom about how to fix my hair with Dr. Ellis, fashion my spit curls, fluff my crinoline, and how to make sure the shoes were lustrous and shiny. Aunt Sharon made a list.
The competition was stiff in the Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess contest, and not everyone could get in it. There were over 200 entries, but only 70 were selected to compete in the pageant. When my mom told me I was accepted, I was actually a little excited to go, but nervous, too.
Mom and Dad left for their trip, and three days later I was getting ready for the pageant.
“I think I have a terrible stomach ache Aunt Sharon, and it might be diarrhea. I don’t think I should go to the pageant today,” I told her.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Sharon said, “You’re just a little nervous, that’s all. Here, have a peppermint,” and she gave me a star mint from the bottom of her purse.
“You just don’t want to lose again, you little turd,” Steve chimed in. I ignored him.
We entered the huge auditorium at the Jamestown Armory. There were more people in one place than I had ever seen before! It was packed with people scraping their noisy wooden chairs across the linoleum floor, flipping through the program, and crowding the stage edge, trying to adjust their cameras.
A bunch of fidgety wanna-be princesses gathered at the back of the stage. They could barely stand still as their mothers poked, fluffed, and fixed their hair and fancy dresses.
A few little girls were already crying, and one of them must have puked on the other side of the stage because a tall, dressed-up woman with a mop was doing her best to stop the stink and wipe up the barf.
Too late! The stank was already floating towards the front of the audience and it actually made me wanna puke once I smelled it. That was not helpful.
Aunt Sharon took us to the registration table, which was long and had five alphabetized sections, each manned by a flustered woman. Aunt Sharon handed our paperwork and tickets to the “A through F” lady, who never looked up at us. She shuffled through a box of envelopes, found one with my name on it, and handed it up to Aunt Sharon. “NEXT!” the lady screamed. Aunt Sharon was startled, but we moved to the side near one of the exit doors as she opened the envelope.
Inside, there was a white leather strip about the size of a wooden matchbox with a tiny gold safety pin at the top. Each strip was emblazoned with a large, light blue number on it. I was number three. Aunt Sharon pinned my leather tag to my upper right shoulder, being careful not to snag the dress.
The envelope also contained a 3 x 5 index card with a question on it, and a half-sheet of paper with these directions, which Aunt Sharon read to me:
1. You will be called by number to the front of the stage by the MC. Listen for your number!
2. He will greet you, ask your name, take your card from you, and ask you the question on the card.
3. You will answer the question. The MC will thank you.
4. You will then walk to the front of the stage, curtsy, and leave the stage at the opposite side you entered and return to your seat with your parents.
“Sounds easy enough to me” I told Aunt Sharon. “What’s my question, please?” I asked.
“What is your favorite game to play, and why?” she read.
“Oh, that’s a good question and I got a good answer already,” I told her, smiling.
I thought the numbers would be called in order and I could get this done and over with early so I could sit back down with my Aunt and Steve. They did not call the numbers in order.
I stood in a long line with all the other little girls who were doing the same thing as me: looking at each other, checking out each other’s dress, shoes, and hair. We picked a face, one by one, and would stare to see if she was as cute as you or if you were cuter than her.
And the competition was fierce. So many pretty dresses, shiny shoes, curly hair, but NONE of them had the bow with silk flowers on top of their head like me, NONE of them!
I still felt like all the other little girls did, though. Not pretty enough. Not good enough. Not good enough to win, that’s for sure.
But I was going to make the best of it. To calm my nerves, I tried to make friends with the little girl behind me. “Where are you from?” I asked her. “Bemus Point,” she said, and then she quickly turned her back to me, and kept talking to the little girl behind her. They were friends, I could tell.
I glanced down the line, checking to see if any of the other little girls had on the same dress that I wore; that happened a lot at pageant time. And if you were wearing the same dress that someone else had on, you just wanted to tear it off, especially if your Mom got it at Jamesway, how embarrassing!
Lots of little girls had light blue dresses on, but none of them were like mine, none of them were from Bigelow’s Department Store. Except one.
There, about twenty girls behind me, was Nikki Smith. Wearing the SAME Bigelow’s dress! I was looking at her looking at me, and she snapped her head away so fast, it cracked the hair spray on her hair, and her curls came undone. HA HA!
Oh great. She’ll win something here and I’ll NEVER hear the end of it.
Then I tried to talk to the little girl in front of me. I tapped on her shoulder a few times, but she wouldn’t budge; it was like I was stinky or something!
“Go, GO!” the little girl behind said loudly, and she gave me a push.
“Number 3, Number 3, are you still here?” the emcee chuckled.
I stumbled forward and almost fell; my rigid shoes clopped and slapped the wooden stage like a fresh-shoed horse. I walked towards the emcee who was tall, skiny, and topped with thick gray and black hair, combed back neat, but without too much VO5. He had big teeth when he smiled and looked very friendly, I remember.
“Hello! How are you?” he asked me as and he held out his hand. I thought he wanted to shake my hand, and since my mom taught me how to be polite and do it right, I grabbed his big, squishy hand and shook it, hard.
“I’m good!” I smiled. “How are you today?” I asked him most courteously.
“I’m quite good too!” he said, and the people in the audience started to laugh a little. I wondered why.
“What’s your name?” he asked me, but he didn’t lower the microphone to my face, so I stood on my tippy toes, pulled down his forearm to get the mic closer to my mouth, and yelled:
“I’m CINDI BUSH!”
I beamed up at him, dimples a blazin’. And people started laughing a little more. I was so nervous, but the sound of people giggling helped calm my nerves a lot.
“It’s nice to meet you”, he said, but this time, he lowered the mic to my face.
“And it’s nice to meet you too!” I told him. My eyes never lost his face.
“Could I please have your card, Miss Bush?” he asked, holding out his other hand.
I handed him the card and waited. I had watched the Miss America pageant dozens of times and I knew that answering this question was important.
“So Miss Cindi, what is your favorite game to play, and why?”
“My favorite game to play is checkers at the Celoron Playground.” I said.
“And why do you like to play checkers so much?” he smiled at me again.
“Because I can beat my brother at it, and I like anything that I can beat my brother at!”
The crowd laughed out loud. I didn’t see anything funny about that answer, but they seemed to like it, and that made me really happy.
“Thank you Cindi, it was nice to meet you,” Mr. Emcee Man said, and he bent down a little to get closer to my face. He had Listerine breath.
“I liked meeting you too!” I said.
Then with a wide sweep of his long arm, he motioned me to the front of the stage
Me and my slab-hard shoes clip-clopped to the front and center of the massive stage.
I was ready for my curtsy. I knew how to do this because my Mom enrolled me in jazz and tap dance lessons, and a finishing class, all through the YWCA in Jamestown. I learned how to walk straight and tall, and I learned how to curtsy, all while balancing a big thick book on top of my head. No problem.
I daintily lifted out the sides of my dress, pinky fingers extended, cocked my left knee a little, swung my right leg back and pointed my right toe down to tap the floor, I bent my left knee to squat down just a little more, and -
“OH!” “OHHH NOOOO!”
I yelled loud as the weight of my whole body suddenly tipped backwards, my legs flew out from under me, and my big behind hit that floor with a BOOM! It sounded like a canon going off!
I want to die, I want my Mom, am I on the floor?, oh someone please get me off this…
And then:
Everyone there started laughing! They thought I was funny! I think they thought I planned this. People were hootin’ and clapping and it snapped me out of my misery. I tried to get up all prim and lady-like, but no one ever taught me how to do that.
‘Don’t let them see your slip, or your underpants, or your behind!’ I kept thinking.
Once I stood up, I smoothed out my dress, tugged up my crinoline, flipped back my ponytail, and giggled as I walked off the stage.
I liked that the audience seemed to like what just happened, but I knew I didn’t have a chance to win anything after that. I just wanted to sit down with my Aunt Sharon, even if I had to sit next to my brother.
“Real swift, you goon,” Steve said when I sat down next to him, but he was laughing too.
There were still about ten little girls left on stage to be interviewed. “Can’t we please go now, Aunt Sharon? I’m never going to win after that,” I begged. “No, now shhh. Let’s be polite. It’s almost over,” she whispered to me.
Me and Steve started monkeying around, pushing and play pinching each other until my Aunt Sharon reached her arm across us to stop the fidgeting. “Stop it right now!” she said harshly, and she was ticked. So we stopped.
“The third runner-up for Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess is….(drum roll)… Number 71, Susan….blah blah blah”, clash of the cymbals.
I started elbowing Steve just to get my attention away from the names of the winners. I didn’t care if Aunt Sharon got mad or not.
“Quit it!” Steve snapped. “I wanna see who wins, you little turd.” That hurt my feelings.
“The second runner-up for Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess is….(drum roll)… Number 26…
FWAAPPP! I burped as loud as I could, and my Aunt Sharon slapped the top of my knee, “STOP it right now!” she snapped at me.
I would’ve farted if I could have worked up a “fart on demand” like Steve could do!
“The first runner-up for Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess is….(drum rolllllllll)…
I had enough. I started crying. I got up and headed for the exit door where we stood earlier.
“And our new Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess IS:….(drum roll)…
I was trying to get past Steve, but he kept blocking me with his Daddy-Long-Legs. I just wanted out of there!
“Sit down, you jerk!” Steve yelled at me and yanked me back into my seat, hard. I crossed my arms over my chest, looked at my stupid shoes, and began to blubber. I hated blubbering so much, which made me blubber ever harder.
“Number Three, Miss Cindi Bush of Celoron, New York!” Mr. Emcee yelled.
Two tears trickled down my cheeks, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this; I didn’t want to make a scene anymore. I just wanted to go-
“NUMBER THREE! OUR NEW LITTLE-“ the drum roll kept rolllllling on and on and the emcee kept yelling.
Steve jumped up, put his face right in front of my face, grabbed my shoulders and yelled:
“Get up! GET UP YOU DUMB LITTLE SHIT!! YOU WON!! YOU WON!!”
He yanked me up and started shoving me toward the aisle.
“What? What??” I sniffled, “That’s not funny Steve -“
“Miss Cindi Bush! PLEASE come up to the stage; Girl Number three, where are you?” The emcee was singing the jingle from the show “Car 54, Where Are You?”
Oh my gosh. OH MY GOSH! OH MY GOSH!! It’s ME! It’s really ME!!
“I’m here! I’m right here!” I screamed as loud as I could over the applause of the crowd. I could feel my thick thigh muscles kick in and propel me forward as fast as I could go, but it all felt like a slow-motion dream. I almost tripped again going up the stairs to the stage!
“Congratulations Cindi Bush! You are our very first Little Miss Chautauqua County Princess!” the emcee announced.
The music came up, the crowd was on their feet, clapping and yelling, and a beautiful lady and two men quickly stood beside us on stage. The lady fastened a small but fancy rhinestone tiara with bobby pins to the top of my head that encircled my ponytail flowers perfectly. Then one man draped a heavy, dark red velvet cape, trimmed with white rabbit fur and lined with white silk over my shoulders, and the other man handed me a golden trophy that seemed half as tall as me! Photographers popped up at the stage edge like a wack-a-mole game at Midway Park, and cameras flashed faster than strobe lights!
I felt like a movie star!
Another lady appeared on the side of the stage. She had a microphone in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. She began reading all the prizes and money I won from over twenty pageant sponsors. I don’t remember what she was saying, but I know she was speaking really fast and got louder and louder so everyone could hear her.
And while all this was happening, I looked down and there behind all the photographers, I saw Steve, only Steve.
I wished my Mom and Dad were there so bad at that moment, but when I looked down at Steve, he was clapping so hard and fast and he was actually smiling at me.
It was the first time I thought that maybe, he liked me.
Maybe, he was proud of me.
More than anything else that day, I remember how I felt when I saw Steve clapping and smiling at me.
Too bad that didn’t last very long.
Six-year-old Cindi Bush at her birthday party held at the Hotel Jamestown, 1961.