I grew up on a farm in the country, with an older brother at home and three boys down the street. No girls around. The boys and I were together almost every free day after school and on the weekends.
Our activities did not include sharing a 64 box of Crayolas while we carefully colored in a Sesame Street coloring book. Nor did our activities include reading the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys series together. Nor did they include playing dress-up.
However, to the boys’ credit, while I did not personally care for dolls in the least, our activities did include playing with G.I. Joes and Barbies. Well, actually, the activity was limited to disrobing them, then laughing hysterically, like we had just invented that.
No sedentary activities for these boys. They were on the go, and I was always right behind them, trying to keep up. Feeling left out, left behind, or both.
In cold weather, they were on Grandpa’s pond, playing hockey with their friends—as I skated in circles in the corner by myself. In the warmer months, the boys were usually playing in the rock pile beside the field.
In retrospect, I realize that the boys could smell weakness, and my childhood was a bit like being in Lord of the Flies.
One evening, they made a tall chimney out of the rock pile, then tricked me into climbing into the bottom of it. I was just happy they asked me to be part of the activity. Then the boys proceeded to throw rocks down at me as I attempted to dodge their missiles. I wish I was kidding. The only reason they stopped is that I got a defensive wound on my right hand that needed medical attention. I still have the scar to this day.
Another time, we were playing in the hay bale tunnels in the barn. The boys suddenly disappeared. When I realized I was alone and went to leave, I found that they had barricaded me in. I only had to yell for help for an hour before my Grandpa heard me.
You’d think I would learn, and just stay away from them. But they were the only people around to hang out with. I rarely, if ever, told on them—that wasn’t how kids rolled back then. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?
So by the time the Big Snowball Fight rolled around—yes, I should have been a little more on my game.
Two embankments had been built, for each team to hide behind and lob snowballs over.
That particular day—surprise, surprise—I was a team of one, and three boys were on the other team.
I was a clumsy kid, but lucked out and lobbed a few good ones that hit their mark, so was feeling very confident and BOOM WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT OH MY GOD IT HURTS SO MUCH
I was lying on the ground on my back, unable to see, my face frozen and pulsing.
The boys saw I was down for the count.
And went off to do something else.
I rolled over and pried my little snow-encrusted eyes open.
To find two huge eyes staring back at me.
The eyes of a dead owl.
A frozen, dead owl.
They had thrown a FROZEN OWL at a SEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL and HIT HER IN THE FACE and then WALKED AWAY.
Did I learn from that experience? No. Being harassed was better than being alone.
The nickname “Owl-y” only stuck for a couple years.
