ROTTEN

Well, here’s another bad Easter Sunday picture of Beans, Big Sis, and me, circa 1957. I know the year exactly because I’d just had my beloved ponytail chopped off to make way for the hideous short perm. Mama Bore didn’t want to be bothered with trying to fix my long hair while changing diapers on the newborn expected in May. Humbug. No comment about the braces on the teeth or whatever that is in my hair. Is it a baby chick? I don’t know.

Still, I’m looking more excited about the family Easter egg hunt than the older sibs. Let’s face it, at 14 and wearing faux choker pearls and dainty white gloves, Big Sis is in no condition to traipse around the backyard and I don’t blame her. And Beans is going to have to take off that snug suit jacket if he expects to gather more eggs than the wiry, competitive Flaming Bore. “Outta my way, slow poke!!”

If the truth be known, had the photographer allowed, I suspect Beans and Big Sis would have gladly rushed out of their uncomfortable Sunday School best and just let me hunt solo. And since I was a selfish little brat, that would have been fine with me. “Hooray! Hooray! I get all the eggs in the world! They’re mine! All miiiiiiiiiiine! You don’t get a single one! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

--Excuse me for the outburst. But this was my last picture as the “baby” of the family.