My Extraordinary Ordinary Life by Sissy Spacek, Maryanne Vollers Page B

vaccine loaded in like ammunition. The needles were long and dull. I could see the hole in the point of the needle from where I was standing halfway across the room. It made me feel queasy. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and waited my turn. It was like waiting to be executed. We lined up in the cafeteria in front of the nurses. Nobody talked much and I wondered who would cry. Not me. I looked away, stuck out my arm, and suddenly it was over. After that the summer was nothing but fun again.
    There was always plenty to do in Quitman, even when school was out. We didn’t need to go to camp; we made our own fun and had our own adventures. It could be as simple as playing a game of jacks on the kitchen floor, or walking along the road chewing on stalks of sour grass that we called goatweed. We also chewed on chunks of tar we’d find in a heap behind the Gem Theater. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounds—kind of like smoked taffy. We did a lot of interesting things in the alley behind the picture show. We lit grapevines like cigars; they were hollow, and we breathed in the sharp smoke until we doubled over coughing. It hurt, but it hurt good. Once some tough boys came down the alley and threatened to beat us up, then changed their minds when they saw my ponytail. I think this was the first time that being a girl seemed like it might be a good thing. After that, my brothers didn’t mind as much when I tagged along.

     
    I would get right in with them when they had dirt clod wars or played baseball in the back lot. They made me catcher until a fast ball hit me right between the eyes. I saw some serious stars that afternoon, but it didn’t stop me. I would have been home plate if they had asked me, just to be a part of their world.
    Sometimes our schemes were more elaborate, like the time Ed and Robbie fashioned giant wings out of cardboard boxes and tape. The wings were not just for dramatic effect; they were for flying. My brothers would climb up the rose trellis and sail off the roof like Superman. The challenge was to land in the grass and not end up dead on the sidewalk. I would stand and watch in shock and awe, like any good little sister. I really expected them to fly. Probably one of the reasons they kept me around was that I believed.
    We spent hours just running barefoot along the network of trails that crisscrossed through the fields and woods that connected all the different neighborhoods. We memorized every rock and stump so that we could sail along without even looking, jumping high over prickly bull nettle, missing rocks that could stub a toe, and avoiding yards that we knew were full of sticker burrs. It was common knowledge that the best time to play was after supper in the summertime, that magic hour when the sun was going down and all the kids were out in their yards or in the street, playing hide-and-seek or “Piggy Wants a Signal.” One by one we’d hear parents start to call their children in for the night, but we’d keep on playing, as if we were racing for something, the last rays of daylight, the last little bit of fun, trying to make the magic last just a few minutes longer. But when we heard our dad’s familiar whistle cutting through the trees, we would drop everything and run down the trail to home.
    Sometimes on warm nights, Mother and Daddy would spread a quilt on the grass in the backyard, where all of us could stretch out and spend hours looking up at the stars. Daddy pointed out the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper, and we’d watch for shooting stars blazing through the endless dark. I would always make the same three wishes when I saw one: to be beautiful, to be loved, and (always thinking ahead) to have a million more wishes. My brothers and I had long conversations about the meaning of “infinity.” Like, where does the sky end? And what’s beyond that? We contemplated “infinity” until our little brains were throbbing.
    Sometimes we asked our parents big