She came.........May 14th, 1972.  With her dark skin and dark hair, a total opposite from my pale Irish complection and red hair.  She was an intruder, come to take the limelight off of me and turn it upon herself..............I was bitter.  Glacinda was her name, a combination of my mother's name, Linda and my maternal grandfather's name, Gleason.  She was adorable and completely annoying.  I was a rebel in a foreign land of aliens who were no longer completely bowled over by my dancing antics and my evil ways.  I would have to concoct other means by which to get the attention that I so deserved.

So, I started kindergarten and became a hypochondriac.  As a toddler I had been rather sickly, so I decided to carry this over into my rather grown up life as big sister and kindergartner.  I was surely going to die on a daily basis.  Every scrape or bruise was most definitely melanoma.  Bumps were of course cancerous tumors and I was convinced (with my grandmother's help) that if I did not eat all of the food on my dinner plate that I would develop leukemia.  I of course had no real clue as to what these diseases were, only that they killed people.  People like my Papa Majors who passed of stomach cancer.

I hated school, worse than Kiddie Kollege.  I didn't want to sit in a circle indian style for book reading time.  I didn't want to fingerpaint or play with blocks.  I wanted to be home, searching my body for discoloration and watching the Mod Squad!  This school thing was not for me!  My mind was too creative for this, it kept wandering, making up stories, my soul craved drama and I was not finding it here........that is until Brian Blanco decided to stick his hands down my pants one day during storytime......

Now let me tell you about my grandpa.  He was a 6ft 5" Dutchman with hands the size of hams.  He served both in the Army and the Air Force.  In the Air Force he was an airplane mechanic and continued on in that profession during his civilian life.  He had a tender, heart of gold, but that all changed when Brian Blanco's fingers did the walking.  He called the school and demanded a meeting with a mortified Mr. and Mrs. Blanco and my teacher.  He dragged me along with him and I had to stand there and listen as he pointed his large finger into the faces of Brian's parents and demanded that if they didn't do something with their little pervert, that he would.  And then, he turned on the teacher and demanded that Brian not be allowed within spitting distance of me in the future.  From then on, Brian was always on the opposite side of the circle during story time.

I adored my grandfather.  He would go to the store almost everyday to pick up things my grandma needed and always returned with something for me.  He would take me way out onto the country backroads, set me on his lap and let me "drive" his old Pontiac.  He would lead me around his farm explaining to me about all of the animals and the things growing in the garden.  He would take me into the garage and try to explain to me about how the engine in the car worked, as though I understood or even cared.  He was my hero and Brian Blanco's worst nightmare.

   

So, yes, this was my life, a life of table dancing, modelling, tv watching and attempted smoking.  I was a rebel, a loner.

As time would have it my hair began to grow, and let me tell you, when it began, it did not stop!!  It grew until I could sit on it.  As homely as I was, I must say that my hair has always been my shining glory.  Everywhere I went people would stop and look on in awe and my booty length, thick auburn curls.  I can remember my grandmother washing my hair in the sink.  I would stand on that vinyl kitchen table chair, bent over at the waist listening to my grandma mutter under her breath about how she had never seen so much hair on one person in her whole life!  It was at least a forty five minute ordeal as she would wash and condition one section at a time.  Then would come the combing which brought about more muttering and fretting.  Finally, she would sit me on the den floor and put my head under one of those old fashioned hair dryers that they used to use in the salons and such.  I would happily sit there and watch scooby doo, all snug as a bug in a rug as my hair dried.  Hours later I could often be found sound asleep under that warm dryer, hair still damp.

I LOVED being at my grandparents!  They had a small farm with goats, chickens, a horse and a bull that my grandpa had purchased to slaughter for the beef.  Unfortunately, my grandfather was an animal lover and named the bull, and we would walk out to the pasture, pet, feed and talk to said bull.  I will never forget the day that the butchers came to the farm, strung up our pet bull and slaughtered him.  My grandmother's freezer was full of what was left of what's his name.  It was tense and awkward as my family sat around my grandparents dinner table, pushing the steak around on our dinner plates.  It was dead (no pun intended) silent.  Finally, my grandmother spoke up and asked, "Does this beef taste a little gamey to you"?  I sighed in relief as one by one all of the adults agreed that the beef did not taste right at all.  It was quickly thrown into the trash, and so was the rest of what was left of what's his name in the freezer.

Thruout my life I came into contact with a bevy of animals.  We always had dogs, cats, or as I stated previously, animals on my grandpa's farm.  Which is why it was so exciting for my parents to take me to a local petting zoo. I walked among all the cute little animals petting the goats, pigs, ponies and a variety of other farm animals.  I was especially intrigued when we came upon the Llamas.  They were so funny looking and fun to pet.  I stood there stroking the nose of one particular llama as my mother and father explained the odd animals to me.  Suddenly, the llama reared back, made a strange noise from the back of his throat and let loose with a geyser of green slime.    

I stood stock still, mouth and eyes clamped shut, trying not to breathe for the odor.  And suddenly, I hear laughter from onlookers as my parents swooped down upon me.  I was literally covered from head to tow with llama loogie.  It was everywhere, in every nook and cranny.  My ears, my nose, down into my shoes and between my toes, and all thru my hair.  And the stench!  Oh my word it was awful.  I can remember people laughing at pointing at llama snot girl as my parents raced me to the car, removed my clothes and tried to clean me as best they could.  Once home, I was quickly immersed in the tub and scrubbed until my skin shown red.  The hair was a different story altogether.  As thick as it was it literally took weeks to get all of the green mess and stench out of my hair.  Needless to say, I have steered clear of llamas ever since.

It was around this time that the Lord began to deal with my parents about returning to church and raising me in the house of God.  And, my mother became pregnant with my sister Cindy.  Now what a way to go and mess up my perfect, only child, ultra spoiled, heathen life...........

On any given day you could find me glued to my Grandparents black and white watching shows like, Gilligans Island, Bewitched, Romper Room, on and on and on, AND, as an added bonus, I could sing all of the theme songs word for word, on cue, and with delight, for anyone who seemed even remotely interested, and those who were not.  Now the churched preached against that 'ol devil's box, that one eyed demon was surely going to split the very pits of hell, however, apparently my ever so strong headed Dutch/German Grandfather had not gotten the memo.  My parents also had a television due to the fact that neither one of them were in the church at the time.  I can remember so vividly my mother picking me up from my grandparents after she got off work, rushing home, rushing into the house and turninig on the telly just in time for Star Trek, this was followed by the Tom Jones Show.  I would sit mesmerised by his dancing abilities and the pretty ladies dancing around him, my mother on the other hand was mesmerised by the gold chain lying in a field of chest hair and Tom's open to waist silk shirt.

I was a strange child, content to stay indoors, talking to myself in the mirror, making myself cry, admiring the tears as they rolled down my cheeks.  I had a little imaginery friend who lived behind the headboard of my bed, we talked nightly, but that was the extent of my social contact.  I remember once my mother picking me up, setting me on the back porch and telling me, "You are going to get out of the house and play"!  I had never been in our backyard alone and I did not know what to do.  I saw monsters behind every bush and tree, I was paralyzed by fear, sitting there on the stoop crying.  I guess this is why my parents decided to enroll me in that God awful, horrible, torturous place called "Kiddie Kollege". 

I HATED Kiddie Kollege!  I cried every single day when my parents or grandparents took me there.  Didn't they understand that I was a complicated child who needed to be alone to hone her table dancing and theme song singing skills?  I didn't want to be here with these dirty children with their runny noses and soiled diapers!  I was of better stock than that!  They didn't really care about my protests, so every day, off I went to my personal hell.  The only things that kept my sanity intact were the early morning dance hour where I would show off my profound abilities, peeking to see if the teachers were watching me.  Usually, they were.  That, and lunch time where I would be served spaghettios with sliced cheese!  Heaven!  To this day I love that!  And everyday I asked when my mommy and daddy were coming and every day they told me the same time, and everyday, I went home, to Tom and his swivelling hips.

As time went on I noticed a change in my parents.  I would lie in the living room floor and hear my grandma and my mother talk.  My grandma was telling my mom that she and my dad needed to go back to church, that I needed to be in church.  I remember one day so vividly laying on my tummy watching television, but I wasn't watching, I was listening, to them.  My childish mind began to think of spiritual things, things I could not comprehend, but I knew that something was missing in our lives.  Something was afoot and if it had anything to do with the removal of the big black and white" boxes from our living room, I was having none of it!  And for good measure I attempted to take a drag from one of my dad's unlit cigarettes to prove just how much of a rebel I was.  It was unlit thankfully,  unfortunately however, my behind WAS......

If, per chance, I had actually been sent home with the woman upon whose Tata's I was nom nommin'  my life might have taken a far different path.  I suppose I would have pursued a career in theatre or stand up comedy, two things that have always appealed to me, or become a famous Harlequin Romance writer.  Either way, I could have been filthy rich, but, as fate, and God's will would have it I was sent home with toothless woman.

In spite of her lack of molars, I would not trade my mother for any other, nor my father for they raised me in the fear and admonition of the Lord from the time I was five years old.  But, up until that glorious day, we were living the thug life.  Now, let's talk about my father.  By anyone's standards, he was considered "hot" back in the day.  My earliest memories of him are of his wavy black hair slicked back in a duck tail, curls dancing at his forehead "Elvis style".  His clothing of choice were jeans with a white t-shirt, pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve and a lit one hanging from the side of his mouth.  Kicked out of every High School in Modesto, he was James Dean rebel material.
Where my mother lacked molars, (which she has never let me forget), my father's butt had been hi-jacked.  Unfortunately for me, I got the full mouth of teeth and my dad's invisible butt. 

Bald until I was two years old, (go figure) my mother in her desperation to put SOMETHING on my dome would make little bows and attach them to my scalp via either scotch tape or Karo Syrup.  No, I am not kidding.  This worked perfectly until the warmer months when the Karo Syrup would melt and there would go the bow, sliding down the side of my face.  Everywhere we went my mother was asked over and over how she got those bows to stay in place, and everyone including you my dear readers and yes, myself, were bewildered.  I was always dressed to the nines and it didn't take long for me to figure out that I was adorable.  Hair or not, I was irresistable.  This is where my life began to take a turn to the depths of table dancing and modeling.

My maternal Grandfather was a sucker for cameras and radios, so he always had the latest technology and LOVED to photograph Tweety.  I would stand in the middle of the coffee table for hours posing for my beloved grandpa as those old flash cubes exploded.  I would turn this way and that, hands on hips, foot out, looking over my shoulder, primping for the camera, I loved it.  When I became bored with that I would beg my grandpa to set up the old record player so I could dance.  They would stack a huge pile of 45's my dad had gotten from a friend who had been a DJ at a radio station and I would stand on a vinyl kitchen chair and dance the evening away to the Beatles, Elvis and my personal fave, The Jackson Five!  This lifestyle satisfied for only a season, and then I began the slippery slope to the more evil of entertainments............TELEVISION!!!

My life has been an interesting one from the moment I entered this world on January 19th, 1967, Doctor's Hospital, Modesto California.  From my first lusty cry my world has been rife drama, adventure, suspense, terror, tragedy and just downlight hilarity.  I came out butt first for crying out loud.  The first thing that doctor and nurse saw was my behind, and I have been trying to get the focus off of that thing ever since.  Yes, I emerged bootie first with my feet hovering around my mouth, and well, that explains a whole lot in my opinion.  My mother has proudly told and retold the tale of how she was in so much pain that she broke every molar in her mouth due to her gritting from the agony.  I find that rather interesting as she has gritted her remaining teeth at me on numerous occasions for much lesser offenses.

I was ugly, I could bring a grown man to his knees due to my ugliness.  A head slicker than snot, huge eyes loomed from a little face, a dinky little mouth rested atop a pointy chin.  And pale?  I practically glowed in the dark with the blue of my veins glowing as light thru parchment.  I looked like a little bird and was promptly nicknamed Tweety.

Now, this was "back in the day" when fathers were not allowed in the birthing rooms and the babies were whisked off almost immediately to the nursery.  There, they were cared for and taken to their mother's for only short periods of time for feedings, bonding and diaper changing training, (cloth, I might add).  So, one day shortly after my birth, the nurses presented me to my mother.  As she gazed into my eyes something did not seem quite right.  I was larger than she had remembered, and I had hair!  When had I grown hair.  I felt different in her arms too, something was just, well, off.  She brushed the feeling aside and continued to feed me from the bottle.  Once I had finished, my mother decided it was time for a diaper change. As she unpinned the diaper her unease increased, and you can imagine her shock as she discovered that I was not, well, you know, a girl?  But rather a boy!!  Frantic she buzzed for one of the nurses.  "This isn't my baby" she cried as she handed the little boy to the nurse.  "Where's my baby, Shawnacee"??  As you can imagine there was high drama at Doctor's Hospital as the staff scurried to find the little bird. 

Oh they found me all right, happily suckling at another woman's breast................

Upon my arrival home from the hospital my mother and grandmother noticed something strange.  There seemed to be a lump on the right side of my neck that continued to grow with each passing day.  Now, these were the days when you just didn't rush your child to the doctor for every little sniffle, scraped knee or cough, it just wasn't feasible.  So, we did it the good 'ol fashioned Pentecostal way.  My mom and grandma had a handkerchief anointed with oil and prayed over by the Pastor.  They then took that thing home and tied it around my neck and within just a few days, that lump was completely gone!!

Yes sir, I was fourth generation Pentecostal!  One God, Apostolic tongue talking shonda ma honda all the way!  That is until I turned approximately two years old and took to dancing on tables.....................