I Think We Were Normal

By Steve Densmore

Growing up holds challenges for everyone, and all families are different. The Densmore family in the sixties and seventies was kind of like the families you might see on television—but only in the sense that there were parents and kids.

After that similarity, they went quickly in a different direction. They never went over the cliff, but they definitely rode the edge of it—often on two wheels. Families can be a great source of memories, both wonderful and agonizing, and the Densmores were no exception in that regard. As interesting and occasionally painful as author Steve Densmore’s childhood was, he wouldn’t change it for the world. Unless someone offered him cash—then he might consider it.

This memoir shares true tales of growing up during the sixties and seventies in a family that didn’t quite match conventional standards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483450940

Book preview

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NORMAL

adjective nor·mal \ˈnȯr-məl\

usual or ordinary; not strange; mentally and physically healthy

I always thought my family was normal. I think everyone does. Normal is a relative term. Every crackpot ever born, I am fairly certain, thought his family was normal. On the other hand, people have a tendency to equate normal with boring, and our family was anything but boring.

My parents had five children between the ages two and eight when they built a house and moved to Sheridan, Michigan. It had a population of 684 people when we moved there. I left home when I was eighteen, after having lived there for sixteen years. At that time, we were still considered new people. The Midwest is very consistent and steady, and change is not a constant there.

Here are a few factoids before I take you down the Densmore trail. Harry Densmore (my father) married Jane Coen (my mother) at some point (I was a kid---what kid knows their parent's anniversary?) and had five children. From oldest to youngest, they were Jerry, Kerry, Larry, Harry, and Steve. You might have guessed by now that I am Steve---the name that didn't rhyme. I remember asking my mom why my name didn't rhyme like the others. Her response was I don't know, honey, but if you were a girl, we were going to name you Sally. Nice, Mom, but that still doesn't rhyme.

On top of that, I am the only child in our family who is left-handed. Being left-handed plus not having a name that rhymed equaled chants of You were adopted! throughout my adolescence. I know there is nothing wrong and everything right with adoption. However, I chose another tactic. I informed my siblings, on many occasions, the reason I was left-handed was that 87 percent of the world's geniuses were left-handed. I told them that our parents didn't make my name rhyme because, after four failures, they finally got the gifted child they had wished for and broke the rhyming chain. Consequently, I was beaten quite regularly for my gift of superior intelligence.

As hard as it was to be me, I always felt sorry for my sister because she was the only girl and had four brothers. Now I think it was wasted empathy because being the intelligent, left-handed, youngest brother was in no way comparable to being the beautiful, sweet, and only daughter among many sons. It was not even close.

ONE GIRL AND FOUR BOYS

I f a girl had washed ashore on the island in Lord of the Flies , she would have felt a lot like my sister. She was the second-oldest child and was very smart. She knew that her brothers' only interest in her dolls would last the amount of time it took to pull them apart to see how they worked, leaving her with a room that looked like Jeffery Dahmer's basement. She decided playing dress-up was better and targeted the two youngest brothers, Harry (he has always went by H. J.) and me. She didn't have money to bribe us but did have access to the kitchen.

My brother H. J. had a ravenous appetite. I don't have a copy of his birth certificate but am fairly certain he was three feet tall at birth and just kept growing at an alarming rate. I liked to eat as if I was as tall as he was, but my height wasn't cooperating. I wanted to be tall and did my part to eat that way, but my body didn't do its part. Understand that I didn't have a weight problem. I had a height problem.

So my sister bribed us with food to dress up in little girls' clothes and have cookie parties with her. Okay, she called them tea parties, but tea doesn't taste as good as cookies. Cookies are awesome. As terrible as the whole dress-up thing sounds, it was okay except for one part that still angers me today. H. J. always got to wear the silk slip. This meant I had to wear the scratchy, burlap, not-so-silky one. That was so unfair! He refused to play unless he got to wear the silky one, and let's face it---I couldn't refuse to play, because I needed the cookies to keep my weight consistent with my intended height! Ah, the sacrifices I made.

WHEN HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK BECOMES DRAG THE LAKE!

W e loved playing hide-and-go-seek while we were growing up. In fact, it was my favorite game. It was fun in another way for my siblings, who used the game outside the spirit in which it was intended. My loving older siblings later told me that they would often invite me to play the game, offer to be it , and then never look for me. Apparently, they secretly renamed the game, Make Stevie Go Away for a While. I am still not amused.

On one memorable occasion when all the kids were participating, I found the perfect hiding spot under a canoe in our garage. Unfortunately, I fell asleep in my perfect hiding spot, which never ends well when you belong to a family that cares about you. Apparently, when you can't find your youngest brother after a few hours of searching and live near a lake, you don't think, Wow, that kid can hide! Instead, you feel obligated to tell the adults you think the stupid kid drowned himself in said lake.

My family searched frantically for me while I slept and had pleasant dreams under the boat. Finally, my brother Larry found