Oktoberfest ~ More Than Just Beer!

I love to travel.  I mean, I love, love, love to travel. One of the greatest perks for a writer is traveling to far away, exotic places to conduct research.

My debut novel races through glamorous cities like Rome, Paris, Vienna and Nice.  The main story begins in Munich, which made me think about having my characters attend Oktoberfest, especially since I’ve always wanted to be part of the festivities, too.

Heidi Goldman in the Englischer Garten

I had the good fortune of being accompanied by Ludwig Webel, one of the managers from the tourism department. 

Ludwig Webel,  Heidi Goldman's gracious host, holding her gift.

He was my new friend, guide and walking Wikipedia about all things involving Oktoberfest and Munich’s history.

Oktoberfest.  The very word conjures up all kinds of fantasies and I, too, let my imagination run wild.  Sure, I could have watched YouTube, but I wanted to experience the festival with fresh, unbiased eyes.  Take in the sights, smells and the wonder of it all.

Over six million people from around the world attend Oktoberfest.  The second week is nicknamed Italian Weekend. Munich is bursting at the seams with Italians.  Riding the U-bahn during Italian weekend can be daunting.  Locals are pushed and shoved in overcrowded subway trains by their bon vivant comrades and other Oktoberfest visitors.

While that is the sentiment of many local Müencheners, whose city is invaded for three weeks every year, the rest of the world looks forward to Italian weekend.  These visitors bring color and warmth to cafés, parks and other public places.  And into the beer tents, they bring exuberance.  Throughout the Marienplatz, Munich’s main square, their love, charisma and engaging conversation spills over to every neighboring district.  They talk to strangers passing by or sitting near them in restaurants.  They don’t notice that no one understands Italian.  It doesn’t matter.  Their language and hand gestures seem universal and somehow everyone understands the gist of their exuberant conversation.

The Italians love people.  They love food.  They celebrate life with a joie de vivre that not many cultures could duplicate.  In the beer gardens, you can hear and see loud discussions, hands moving every which way, continuous laughter, conversations and discussions where all the friends talk simultaneously, debating some subject that appears to be as urgent as life and death.  They talk and eat at once.  Forks wave above and around their heads to make a point between mouthfuls of food.

During Oktoberfest, massive steins are held high during Ein Prosit, the famous beer drinking song, boisterous toasts culminating in loud clinking of their heavy steins filled with chilled, foamy brew, toasting their fellow man and most times new friends at adjoining tables to the left and right.  In a large beer tent, like The Schottenhamel, filled with ten thousand people from all over the globe, people begin as strangers and within minutes make new friends at their own table and surrounding ones.

Heidi Goldman in The Schottenhamel Beer Tent ~ Oktoberfest, Munich, Germany

Food is shared and everyone sings in unison to the songs played by the Bavarian band.  People sway back and forth.  Others dance.  A cacophony of music, animated talking and singing reverberate up to the high pitched roof.  All of that is encouraged by vivacious Italians, who sometimes run around from table to table encouraging everyone to participate.

So, how could you not love them and look forward to their participation year after year?  Too much traffic in the city?  An easy trade off!  Their personalities bring a rainbow of color to Munich, transforming the city into a kaleidoscope of vibrant hue, week two of Oktoberfest.

While the Marienplatz is the major artery of Old Town, the Italians are the very heart beat---the pulse of the city during Oktoberfest visits.

The paparazzi love high society tents, like the Hippodrom 

Heidi Goldman at The Hippodrom Beer Tent

and the Käfer Tent, but you must be a somebody to get in.  The rest of us have other choices and my new friend and guide took me to the Schottenhamel tent where all the young, fun loving nobodies of the world would be partying, getting lost in a sea of Italians, Australians, Canadians, Americans and other Europeans who return every year to attend Oktoberfest.

Women walk around town or are seen on the U-bahn wearing dirndls and the men, lederhosen. 

This is traditional clothing of Bavaria.  Müencheners pride themselves in keeping the tradition alive.  When I saw the men and women dressed traditionally, I assumed they were going to Theresienweise to work in the tents, but soon learned that during the three weeks of Oktoberfest, the locals feel free and comfortable wearing their “tracht.”  It’s their way of showing Bavarian pride.

Escada Dirndl

Every year Escada designs a few special limited edition dirndls for Oktoberfest.  American’s often think of the “Brunhilde” type of woman:  fat, buxom and dowdy, wearing a big dress and apron.  Surprisingly, the clothes are youthful and sexy.  I was amazed when I was shopping and noticed a fuchsia suede, mink trimmed busier, laced with crisscross satin ribbon across the bodice.

Escada bustier

At the entrance of Theresienweise, the fair grounds for Oktoberfest, my eyes widened.  Hundreds of thousands of people were walking around.  Children were screaming on wild amusement park rides with parents looking on.  Colorful flags blew in the wind.  People were eating and drinking at booths, laughing, dancing, and meandering toward the tents.

Heidi Goldman at Munich's Oktoberfest ~ Theresienwiese

My guide gave me two choices:  we could walk ahead through the amusement park, or bi-pass the festival and go directly to The Schottenhamel Tent.  I opted to continue walking with the crowd.  I was dying to see all the rides and booths.

It was already twilight and the flashing neon lights of the fair, bursting with color were enticing people to buy tickets for exhilarating roller coaster and amusement rides. 

There were so many people walking in all directions.  Some were racing to a favorite ride, others to a food stall.  As people tried to make their way to the crowded area in front of the beer tents, there was a kind of unspoken dance among the multitude of visitors: forward, back, sideways, shove: forward, back, sideways, push.

I noticed young ladies wearing heart-shaped cookies around their necks decorated with curly-cue icing that read:  Tolle Frau! (Super Woman!)  The other, Komm in Mein Liebeslaube!  (Come to my love nest!) And the third strawberry blonde darling’s cookie read:  Liebe Mich! (Love me!)  Visible messages inviting men to be their lovers.

Heart-shaped cookies for sale

Young girls and older women in their low-cut blouses and frilly white aprons over knee length dresses had an air of understated sensuality.  So much for Brunhilde!  These women looked sexy.  Certainly not the stereotype portrayed in movies.

Naturally Oktoberfest is fun, but the reason for this annual celebration is in honor of Prince Ludwig, who then became King Ludwig 1, and his marriage to Princess Therese.  Their celebration included a horse race, and over the years the celebration grew and grew to what it is today, in Theresienwiese:  Theresa’s meadow.

Observing the rides, the people and the splendid color of the fair was eye candy.  To the left and right were brightly lit tents with neon signs like:  The Floh Circus (Flea Circus), Wilde Mouse Ride and Geister Schloss (The ghost castle ride.)

Geister Schloss-Ghost castle ride

Continuing along the dirt path was the House of Horrors with Frankenstein and his bride tilted on the awning

Frankenstein's House of Horrors

 and across the way was Auf Geht’s Beim Schiechtl which has a gruesome presentation inside on how to behead a human being using the guillotine. Perfect and gory entertainment for adults and children alike.

My guide pointed to the enormous blow-up Prosceccole Contrese bottle on top of their champagne booth which had a photograph of a bearded man.  He explained that the Prosecco was named after mad man King Ludwig 11, who at the age of eighteen inherited the throne from his grandfather, Ludwig 1, when he abdicated his position to be with, Lola Montez, the woman he loved.

As we made our way down the end of the rides near the enormous brightly colored Ferris wheel, my guide pointed, “Look over there, to the right.  There’s The Schottenhamel Tent!” 

Heidi Goldman at The Schottenhamel Beer Tent

Without waiting for a response, he said, “Follow me and stay close.”

People swarmed the doors, pushing and shoving to get in.  Times Square in Manhattan is crazy, but this was sheer lunacy topped with a certain kind of frenetic energy.  People without reservations were determined to get into the tent one way or another.  My guide grabbed my arm and I squeezed in between the masses of people until we finally reached the side entrance of the tent.  With one more push, like giving birth, arms from out of nowhere grabbed and yanked us into the cavernous tent.  The door slammed behind all the loud, impatient party go-ers, who would continue to wait outside, desperate to get in.

We stumbled forward into the tent and headed for the upstairs balcony that over-looked ten thousand raucous, fun-loving attendees.  The room glowed golden.  Around the circumference of the room were food stalls, offering Bavarian delicacies:  Kasse, Speisen-Ausgabe, Schweinbraten and Hendl.  And on the raised platform in the center were Oktoberfest musicians playing, Hey Baby! While the crowd from non-English speaking countries and English speaking countries, sang the lyrics perfectly.

Unfortunately, I can’t sing on key, so I lip-synced the entire song with gusto.

I looked over the railing in disbelief.  It looked like a Josef von Sternberg production---a visual extravaganza from the high vantage point above the crowd.  Like the movie, The Devil is a Woman, where he used the horror vacui technique, every space on the big screen just like this Oktoberfest tent, was completely filled. 

Ten thousand people were singing in unison and dancing with strangers, who would soon become close companions before night’s end or at least by the next song.

After we were seated in a booth away from the railing, the oom-pah band began to play, YMCA.  All the Europeans, Australians, Canadians, South Americans suddenly stood up at their seat, in the aisle and on the tables, singing the lyrics and doing the arm gestures to the noted song.  I was shocked to hear American music in a German beer tent.

By the end of the song, a roar of applause filled the tent drowning out the beginning of New York, New York, the next selection.  All that was missing was Frank Sinatra!  The waitress came by with large pretzels. I had to have one and then we ordered two beers, rotisserie chicken and boiled potatoes.

Heidi Goldman holding Bavarian Pretzel

The tent was a vision.  Enormous green leafy wreaths trimmed with small light bulbs hung low from the ceiling, giving a warm amber glow to the cavernous room.   People from all over the world meandered through the aisles singing, swaying, and dancing with strangers.

Waitresses carrying six enormous beer steins in each hand walked carefully through crowds of people delivering the choice beverage of Bavaria to happy patrons.

Suddenly the Bavarian band played Ein Prosit.  The crowd roared.  I looked at my guide, confused.  He whispered loudly, “It’s mandatory for us to drink when you hear that song!”

“Far be it from me to break the rules!” I said, taking a gulp of the cold brew.

Heidi Goldman with Ludwig Webel, her gracious host

“When you hear this song, and you will all night long, everyone at the table toasts each other and then we take a large sip of beer.”

The booth to our right was filled with ten boisterous Italian men who flirted with me incessantly. 

Heidi Goldman's new Italian friends at Oktoberfest in Munich

They leaned into our booth and initiated toasts with me and the others at the table.  One of them handed me a tooth pick with a piece of cheese and salami.  How could you not love a guy who feeds you?

Two playful Italians put on eye glasses trimmed with blinking lights and swayed in each other’s arms to the music.  The most handsome man passed his pair to me and encouraged me to dance. 

Heidi Goldman dancing with fun glasses in Schottenhamel Tent ~ Oktoberfest

Having had a couple of beers, I stood up, arms swaying above my head and shook my body to the rhythm of Mick Jagger’s,  I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. 

The Italians continued talking simultaneously, arms gesturing wildly as the roar of the crowd ebbed and flowed with the music. 

The timbre rose to a feverish pitch.

At the end of the evening, the fairground was even more beautiful with bright lights lining the beer tents.

If it wasn’t for the photos and videos, I’d never believe I really attended Oktoberfest.  Who knew I’d have so much fun conducting research for my novel, but I’d also get a lesson in history, beer, and a little bit of Italy while attending Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany.

Heidi Goldman ~ "Auf Wiedersehen!"

The Tattletale!

If my brothers could have gotten grades for teasing, they would have been straight A students.  In fact, they were so abnormally brilliant, they should have been on the Honor Roll, making the Dean’s list for at least a decade.   

And me?  I would have gotten an A for single-handedly tattling an infinite amount.  And an A+!*  for being the loudest crier in the house.  I was out-numbered two against one. My two brothers buried me at Jones’ Beach because they said, “I was their little treasure!”  What a line of bologna!   But as their little sister, I fell for it.

The holy terrors cut off Barbie's head 

and if that wasn’t enough mischief for two little boys, they ruined all my Barbie coloring books by drawing green squiggles under her perky nose on every single page.  Not exactly glamorous for the diva of dolls, although funny in retrospect.

So, really…can you blame me for tattling? 

As I grew up, the teasing changed a bit.  I remember the time I was madly in love with all the boys in second grade.  When I came home from school, I took black magic marker, pink card board paper and wrote:

I taped the four words to my wall and then went around the corner to the candy store and had a slice of cheese pizza and a cherry Coke.  My brother’s walked in and asked for a sip of my Coke and a little itty bitty bite of pizza.  In one fell swoop, both were gone and so were the boys.

By the time I returned home, I was hungry, thirsty- no Pizza, no Coke- and really mad at them.  I went to my bedroom for peace and quiet. Seeing the wall, I screamed, “Mommmyyyyy!”  

Someone removed one word, making me admit that I was nuts. I’m not exactly accusing Bobby or Dickie, since I did not witness the defiling of my well intentioned sentence...but YOU do the math.

Now I ask you…how much more could a girl take?

And so I yelled. A lot. And loud.

Enter Dad.  To the rescue.  

“Bobby,” his voice boomed, “did you do this?”

Bobby’s lip quivered.

My father ripped his belt out from the loops so quickly we could hear the leather snapping. 

“No, Daddy!  Not the strap!”   Now Bobby was crying.

“The strap!”

My eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Into your room!  I’m going to punish you for teasing your sister!”

“No Daddy!  Nooooooooooooooo!”

My father marched him into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

I heard the belt snap over and over again.

I fell to the floor like a rag doll, sobbing hysterically.  “I promise not to tattle anymore, Daddy.  Please don’t hurt Bobby!  Pleaseeeeeee Daddy!  Stoppppppp!”

I heard Bobby being beaten to a pulp.

Again, my brother screamed, “No, Daddy!  Noooooo!  I promise to be good!”

 “Too late, young man!  You’ve teased your sister too much!  Now I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. 

And with that, I heard the belt smack again and again and again, making a horrible, crackling sound.

Bobby cried out after each strike.

I begged for mercy, feeling guilt and remorse for tattling.  It didn’t matter.  The pounding Daddy gave Bobby continued for what seemed like hours.  I was sure Bobby was dead. 

Finally the door opened.  I was afraid to look up. But I did, wiping away a truck load of tears.

When Bobby finally came out of the room, his head was hanging.

Dad shook his finger at Bobby, “Now say you’re sorry to your sister.”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his behind.

I grabbed Bobby and held him tight. I cried my eyes out, telling him how sorry I was for tattling.

Before you call CPS, Here’s the Rest of the Story:

Years later, I discovered that both my father and Bobby tricked me. 

It seems that while Bobby was allegedly being beaten by my father, screaming and hollering for mercy, my dad in actuality was beating the dresser in the bedroom, pretending he was hitting my brother.

My dad was the kindest, most gentle father in the world.  I should have known he would never hit my brother.  Again I was the butt of their joke.  And to this day, the boys continue to blast me with noogies, reminding me again that They Got Me Good!

That’s okay because what they don’t know is that now I’m tattling about them on my blog for the entire world to see.

Paybacks are hell!  But, oh, so much fun!  Now look who has the last laugh!  Gotta love the Internet!

Smack in the Kissa!

It’s no secret the day I was born, my brothers ran away from home.  I had no idea I had that effect on men…albeit young men.  Eventually, my brothers moved back home and as the months went by, they realized I wasn’t that bad. True having a puppy would have been better, but for second choice I wasn’t a terrible alternative, even if I was a girl.

Bobby and Heidi

Dickie and Heidi

Sometimes it was fun for the boys to play with me.  

Dickie and Heidi with baseball trading cards.

Most of the time it was fun to just poke me. I was their human play toy. Not quite as cool as G.I. Joe…but, at least they could get a reaction out of me which was their goal…unlike G.I. Joe who always remained cool, calm and collected. Talk about a stoic face...almost like my face~yeah, right.

Now, take a good look at my brothers:   Aren’t they absolutely, positively the most darling boys you have ever seen? Don't they look harmless? Adorable? Non threatening?  WRONG!  Oh, how appearances are deceiving!

Bobby-Kindergarten Graduate and Dickie

This picture was taken five years before I was even a twinkle in my parent’s eye. That's when they were presumed innocent.  Then I was born.

Who knew Bobby, the cutie pie wearing a kindergarten graduation cap, could turn out to be:  Evil Knievel? 

  

Or Dickie with the angelic face... 

He became goodie-two shoes when he watched Bobby getting into all kinds of trouble…but there was mischief lurking behind those baby brown eyes...and I would find out soon enough.

Let's fast forward five years or so…

On one particular winter night, something magical happened.  It snowed all night long until the early hour of the morning.  It was quiet. Peaceful. The schools were closed. Stores were closed.  Long Island was a winter wonderland.

The snow had drifted all the way to the top of the roof of the house. We were buried in up to the chimney.  Quite the adventure for kids with great imaginations. Poor dad had to figure out a way to get at least one door to open.

And so he did, much to my brother’s delight.  They played outdoors in the snow for hours, creating what would turn out to be a morning of human torture for me, their little sister, innocent and gullible.  I wasn’t exactly a formidable adversary, but fun to torment none-the-less.

Both boys were busy in the backyard building an enormous wall out of snow.  It was much more like an ice fortress and perfectly sculptured.

Dickie-Head Engineer

When they finished, they made snow balls and carefully placed each one on top of the wall.  They called my name and enticed me to come outside to see what they built.  

At five, I believed in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny-even though I was Jewish. I couldn’t wait to play with my big brothers, but they had other things in mind…like target practice!  Picture me as the red dot in an archery target.  Get the picture?

They looked at me.  I looked back with innocent eyes until the first perfectly formed snowball was thrown at me and hit me smack in the kissa.

I was their target practice, like when you throw the ball at the moving ducks at a carnival and have to knock them down. I knew I was in trouble. Talk about a dead duck!  Too young to know what was going on or to duck, they convinced me to come closer and look at the fort.

Ah, the innocence of youth. As I walked further into the backyard, my little body was caught in a snow drift up to my chest.  Running away was out of the question.  I couldn’t move forward or backward.  I was literally stuck in the snow.  And that was their goal.  Diabolical, don't you think?

Then I saw the gleam in Bobby’s eyes.  Oh no!

The snowballs that lined their perfectly engineered snow fort, made it easy to discharge ten snow globes in a row at top speed. The boys took turns bombarding me with snowballs one after another: Bam! Bam! Bam! What fun they had.

As they continued to blast me with snowballs, I screamed in a high pitched voice that could crack crystal glasses a mile away.  Remember the commercial of Ella Fitzgerald singing for Memorex?  She hit the highest note humanly possible and shattered glass.  Let’s just say my bellowing probably sent the neighborhood dogs running wildly in all directions. Talk about a voice that traveled faster than the speed of light, breaking the sound barrier.  That was pretty much how I reacted when my brother’s ganged up on me.

My father, the diplomat, who was as boyish as my brothers (and devilish, too) came running outside, trying to hide a smile and gave the boys the best scowl he possibly could muster with upturned lips.  Some unspoken punishment!

Super-Dad to the rescue!  He lifted me above his head with my arms dangling this way and that and brought me safely into the warm house.

My father, dressed in a ski parka, may not have worn a Super-Hero cape that snowy morning, but he would always be my Super-Hero.  Until the day I tattled one too many times…

Barbie~Decapitated!

Somehow I survived childhood unscathed. But not poor Barbie~Decapitated, you know.

The day started like any other day with my two big brothers:  Them: Teasing; Me: Crying and Tattling.  My mother intervening: “Boys!  Leave your sister alone!” The usual stuff families are made of.

On this particular day, I retreated to my bedroom-the land of Barbie and Ken, kingdoms with Prince and Princesses…a room that was transformed by imagination everyday when I played dolls.

The first issue I had was with my father who for the first time ever refused to buy me what I wanted:  the Barbie case.  It was so beautiful.  The box was covered with glossy pink and black pseudo patent leather featuring Barbie front and center. Inside was a closet, including a draw for shoes and hangers for her wardrobe.  It was the prettiest doll box I had ever seen.  To my father, Mr. Practical, it was glossed over 

cardboard ready to fall apart~Garbage!

Instead, he gave me his prize possession-his fishing tackle box covered with faux snake skin.  It had a sturdy handle and two clips strong enough to remain sealed if an atomic bomb exploded close to the box.  

Nothing would ever fall out or break.

I burst into tears when he presented it to me.  How could I put my treasures in a box covered with snake skin?  Ew!  With a look of confusion on his face, he just didn’t get it.   Not discouraged, he removed all the fishing hooks, flies, threads and lures and gave it to me to house Barbie and her friends.

Back to Barbie…

Somehow, the boys confiscated, kidnapped and tortured my iconic doll and pretended to be Picasso, drawing green curly cues under her nostrils to imitate…how shall I say this politely?  There is no way.  They 

drew snot on poor Barbie’s face.

My screams could be heard around the world:

Me: “Who did this to Barbie!”

Bobby:  Dickie did it.

Dickie:  Did not! 

Bobby:  Did, too!

Dickie:  Did not!

Bobby:  Jerk!

Dickie:  Moron!

Bobby:  Numbskull!

Dickie:  Idiot!

Enter:  My mother.  The peace maker.

With an outstretched hand, I gave her my once beautiful doll who looked like she had a severe leaky sinus infection and couldn’t find a tissue.

My mother apologized and confessed that she did it.  Protecting my brothers, the holy terrors, was a perfect political move.  Quick thinking and very clever. I bought it, hook, line and sinker.  She knew I could never get mad at her.  I was too young to wonder why my mother would destroy my Barbie.

Naturally years later I knew it was either Bobby,  Dickie or both boys having fun.  To this day, her head has been missing. The boys of course  “don’t remember” decapitating Barbie.  I’m sure they did the dastardly deed, scribbling all over Barbie’s face in green, and then stole the evidence so I couldn’t accuse them. Rather convenient if you ask me.

Just like the missing picture of me buried up to my earlobes at Jones Beach, I needed proof to accuse my brothers of the heinous act.

And then a miracle happened.

A few years ago, I received a gift from Bobby in the mail.  A ring box.  How can I stay mad when he does such sweet things, right?  I love jewelry and I immediately tore off the ribbon and opened my present.

My mouth dropped. Inside was a head.  It reminded me of the scene from the Godfather when the movie producer finds the horse’s bloody head in his bed and screams.

At that very moment, I realized that it was Bobby who had decapitated Barbie because why else would he send me the Barbie head? To my way of thinking, the gift was a form of an apology all these years later. 

When they say, it’s the thought that counts…this puts a whole new spin on that phrase. 

Regrettably, Ebay sold him a fake Barbie head.  I think the rubbery head with reddish hair and a freckle face is actually Skipper.  But the thought was so sweet, how could I ever tell him the truth?

So, headless Barbie in the snake-skin covered tackle box my dad gave me so long ago rests besides the so-called “Barbie” head my brother Bobby gave me.

It’s all good.  Just Kid Stuff.  

~ The Stink Eye! ~

The day I was born, my brothers ran away from home.  

Bobby was ten and Dickie was six.  They wanted a puppy.  Instead they got me.  Armed with two salami sandwiches, miniature green army men and packs of baseball cards containing a stick of pink bubble gum tucked under their arms, my grandmother watched them move into the playhouse in the backyard. The boys were determined to live out the rest of their years with a lawnmower, ladder and clipping shears decorating their new camp.

If you think being the youngest and only girl was easy, guess again. I didn’t stand a chance.  I was a human pin cushion~ I was picked on, tickled to death, and the recipient of the dreaded Noogies and Indian burns that were inflicted upon me whenever my parents left me alone with the two holy terrors.

Blind faith and trust in my big brothers always got me into trouble.  You’d think I’d learn, but no matter what the boys did, I always believed their version of the truth. 

Like the time we went to Jones Beach. 

Back in those days, no one used sunscreen.  The product hadn’t been invented.  Coppertone was the covering of choice.  It was reckless not to come home with lobster skin that peeled for days. The moms would wear one piece bathing suits with built-in pointy bras and don a “schmattah-like” scarf on their over-bleached blonde hair.

The expedition in the car went something like this:

In the back seat, I was sandwiched between my big brothers, like  Bologna on white. Bobby was on my left and Dickie on my right. Bobby would glance at Dickie.  That knowing naughty look.  Of course I was only three and didn’t notice anything other than my Barbie.  Bobby would tap my right shoulder to get Dickie, who was sitting on my right, in trouble. 

I’d look at Dickie.  “Quit it!”

“I didn’t do it. Bobby did!”

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Then Dickie would tap my left shoulder and blame poor Bobby for teasing me.

“Stop ittttttttt!” I whined.

“Boys, leave your sister alone,” my mother would say with the voice.

It worked for a nanosecond. 

Round two went something like this:

Bobby:   "Hey Doozie, how many ugly pills did you take today?"

Me:        "I didn’t take any," I insisted.

Bobby:    "Then, why are you soooooooooo ugly?"

My eyes would well with tears. Just as I was about to tattle and scream, “Mommyyyyy!”  Bobby would give me the Stink Eye.

I knew I better not tell or he’d give me a noogie I’d never forget.

This was too much fun for a thirteen year old.  Next, he enlisted the help of Dickie.

Basically Dickie was Mr.Goodie-two-shoes.  Primarily because he watched Bobby get into all kinds of trouble and he learned very quickly what not to do. I think he lived vicariously through our big brother but 

Dickie was smart enough to avoid getting caught. On the rare occasion that he did, the six-year old turned lawyer could reason, plead and explain himself silly to my parents who had to be amused by his charms and erudite explanations.

Bobby had no self-control.  He just couldn’t contain himself.  Teasing me was his mission.  One can’t change fate.  So, he continued tormenting me by spelling my first name slowly to catch my attention:  “H…e….i…d…i…”

I looked up.  He was talking, rather spelling, about me. This much I knew and I also knew this couldn’t be good.  The boys were planning and plotting against me, but I barely knew my alphabet.  How could I figure out what they were spelling?  I didn’t stand a chance.

Bobby saw how tormented I was and knew the flood gates were about to open.  There it was again:  The Stink Eye!

I bit my lip, trying so hard not to tattle.

Dickie continued spelling much to my dismay.  “H..e..i..d..i.. is  a… g…i…r…l."

That’s all I could take!  “Mommyyyyyy!  The boys are spelling about me!”

Bobby gave me a noogie to my upper arm before my mother turned around.

The teasing would continue until I burst into tears.  Then my dad would chime in, “If you don’t stop it, I’m going to pull the car over right now!”

If he was especially annoyed, or at least pretending to be, he’d pull off to the side of the road and add, “If you boys don’t stop teasing your sister this minute, I’m turning the car around.”

We were quiet for another ten minutes until we asked in unison, “Are we almost thereeeeeeeeee?”

My poor parents.  I don’t know how they survived parenthood. Or the thirty minute drive to Jones Beach most Sundays.

By the time we got there, we were starving.  There is something about being cooped up in a vehicle, teasing and tattling, that works up an appetite.

My mother would take out a spread to choke a pig.  Prepared food covered with wax paper, paper plates, cups and plastic forks were strategically placed on a big beach blanket protected by netted covers. Remember?  We always had all kinds of goodies, including ham sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise, a large can of Charles Chips (New Yorkers are smiling), super delicious homemade potato salad, mom’s doctored-up Lipton’s ice tea with cooked lemons and a truck-load of sugar that could easily rot the teeth of everyone in the US, and hardboiled eggs which somehow were always covered with beach sand.  Probably my brothers doing.

On one particular beach outing, Barbie and I were minding our business when suddenly Bobby called my name.  I was thrilled.  My big brother wanted to play with me.  How great was that!

The boys were digging all the way to China or at least that’s what they told me.  I didn’t really know where China was, but I figured it must be pretty far away because the hole was rather deep.

“Hey, Doozie,” Dickie called out.  “Can you help us?”

Me help my big brothers?  Didn’t I feel important.

“Stand in the hole so we can see how deep it is.  That way we know how much more digging we have to do.  Ya know, China’s pretty far away.”

The next thing I knew I was buried alive, sand up to my chin.  The boys were howling with laughter.

The funny thing about childhood memories is how the victim remembers all the details and perpetrators~nada!  To this day, both brothers swear they never buried me in the sand at Jones Beach. 

But I have proof.  There’s a picture of me up to my ears in sand.  My dad always took pictures at odd moments.  Like the time I had mono or had four impacted wisdom teeth pulled and my face was the size of a Buick.  So, of course, Dad took a picture of me buried. That’s okay, I got even when he was killing a spider in his underwear on his hands and knees and Click!  I got him backside up!

Here’s the problem:  I have been searching for the Jones Beach photo for years in my mother’s house. She has a box of pictures dating back to at least 500 BC.  The boys have visited her numerous times and on one particular visit I saw Bobby rummaging through the box.

Interesting how the proof is suddenly missing now that I want to blog about that adventure. Could the timing be better?  I know Bobby confiscated that photograph. If it takes a lifetime, I will hunt it down and post it at a later date and give Bobby the Stink Eye for pilfering the evidence.

But until then, all I can say is that living with my brothers was no day at the beach.