I was THE definition of a ragamuffin in elementary school. Usually the last to leave the house, there was nobody to remind me to brush my shaggy hair, wipe my face or make sure my clothes matched. My shag hairstyle, a creation of my penny-pinching mother who didn’t believe in paying someone to do something that you can do yourself, was also donned by my sisters who were 3 and 5 years older than me. We packed our own lunches as well as my parents’ lunches before they left at 6am for their commute to their jobs in the city.
After my parents' early daily departure, my oldest siblings were next to leave the house because high school started early and was a 20 minute drive away. My next two sisters left for junior high school an hour before me, so I was left to my own devices for the remainder of the morning, often telling the time by what morning cartoon show was on.
I usually caught the bus to school, finger-combing my hair as the orange beast growled past the wild sweet pea patch to my stop at the top of our long gravel driveway. Occasionally I would hear the roar of the diesel engine while still in my socks and had to scramble to tie my shoes and sprint up the driveway in an attempt to catch it, only to watch the taillights getting smaller as the bus crested the next hill. On those days when I had watched JP Patches too long and missed the bus, I would keep heading up the hill on my own two feet, crossing roads and trespassing through backyards to reach the school before roll was taken.
I would return from school, either on the bus or by walking - exploring, feeding dandelions to the horses or sliding down the slippery ravine to our beachfront home. Time didn’t matter. My oldest sister, who had a stay-at-home mom at my age, would sometimes greet me with a fresh batch of homemade cookies. She was trying to imitate her mother, who was also mine, but mine was not available for cookie making.
During the hours between school and family dinner, I was free to wander the neighborhood, play on the beach, splurge on candy at Bergie’s Market with my allowance, or ride bikes with friends. As long as I was home by 5:30pm, nobody really cared what I was doing. As I got older, I learned the advantage of this free time and lack of supervision. I could do anything - I mean ANYTHING - and nobody watched.
I have come to describe this magical, feral, somewhat chaotic childhood of mine as “spoiled by neglect”. My parents had been through this child raising thing 5 times before I came along and they were TIRED. It was easier for them to NOT know every little thing I had been up to because then they might feel obligated to do something about it. If by dinner time I was alive, had done my chores and properly excused myself from the table, everything was peachy in their minds. And that was fine by me!
