Kiss and Tell (2 page)

Chapter One

Mink

A
beautiful, pristine Emerald Isle is how I would describe Newfoundland, Canada. It lies at the easternmost point in Canada, northeast of New York, with a similar weather pattern, though a slightly shorter summer.

The farming community of Whitbourne lay just minutes away from our ranch on the coast of Newfoundland. It was the closest thing to a town I ever experienced growing up, but the nearest hospital was in Markland, a few more miles away, so that was where my birth was officially recorded. Whitbourne was where I would attend grade school and receive my very first (disappointing) kiss from a boy, a bass player named Billy.

MY MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS – MY MATERNAL GREAT GRANDPARENTS.

MOM AND DAD

My parents had seven kids and a mink ranch. We’ll get to the kids, but first let me say that mink are the most stinky, smelly animals imaginable. My dad’s brother, a fisherman with his own boat, went to the tiny fishing village of Dildo (that’s right, you heard it correctly —Dildo) each day. He gave my father any scraps that weren’t sold or otherwise used, and my dad threw these together with grains and dead horse parts—pretty much any dead animal part would do. He’d grind all these guts and carcasses together in a meat grinder and feed this mixture to the mink. They thrived on it and bred like… well, like mink.

Mink were killed by breaking their necks, in order to protect the pelt. My dad, his brother, and a couple of ranch hands would go down the rows of pens in the shed…
crack, crack, crack…
a very quick death, really. Then the carcasses were hung upside down by the feet and each fur was carefully cut and peeled off in one piece. The pelts were then skinned of their fat and dried. That was the stinky part.

MOM AND KIM, ANOTHER DOG, ME AND LANCE

We raised a few chickens as well, and I can say they actually do run around after their heads are cut off. There was plenty of killing going on at the ranch. Given my upbringing, you’d think I’d be a vegetarian today, but I’m not. It was just farm life. Headless, half- dead chickens would race around our yard for thirty seconds or so, wings flapping and blood spurting out of their necks, before finally collapsing in a puff of dirty feathers. My mother would send one of us to retrieve the body before one of the dogs did. Then we would begin the plucking and gutting process—something that involved large pots of steaming hot water and lots of elbow grease. My older brother, Lance, tells me we had other animals, but I don’t recall any cows and pigs except for those belonging to the neighbors.

MY DAD - THANK, YOU FOR THE EYES, NOSE, LIPS AND MY NEVER-ENDING ACNE.

MOM AND DAD (SMOKING) WITH ME AT 7 MONTHS

My dad was a big, handsome guy who looked a little like Chris Isaak. He was six-foot-two with a classic V-shape body: wide shoulders, slim waist. He had generous lips and an easy smile; bright blue eyes and large hands. He could snap the neck of a mink with one hand, and I remember him carrying me on his shoulders. He was constantly hammering, sawing, building, and fixing things. He made our swing and our seesaw and helped Lance build a raft. To me, he was bigger than life.

MA AND PA OUTSIDE THE FIRST HOUSE BEFORE THE FIRE THAT TOOK MOST OF MY BABY PHOTOS. (NOTE THE LOVELY ALUMINUM SIDING.) BROTHER LANCE, SIS KIM AND ONE OF MANY DOGS.

Daddy’s girl from the start, I was the third child of seven. When I arrived—a sporty
and
spunky girl—he was thrilled. In our youth, I was probably the most athletic of all my brothers and sisters, until the seventh baby, my sister Tracy, was born when I was seven. We are the closest and most alike. The Tweed kids appeared in this order: Lance, Kimberly, Shannon, Sara, Tarry, Jeff, and Tracy. We ranged in coloring from white-blond to carrot-top. Tracy and I were right in the middle: she was a little browner; I was a little redder. Sara and Kim had hair that was nearly white, and Lance and Jeff were blondes. Tarry, the middle boy, had bright red hair.

What were my parents thinking, having seven kids? Happy forever thoughts, I’m sure: they were both hardworking and fun-loving, and life was good for us all.

To me it appeared that my mom and dad were madly in love. He used to chase her around all the time; they were always playing and kissing. Seeing their relationship made a lasting impression on me, setting up an expectation of how it could—or should—be. If they argued or disagreed, I never saw it. My mom was very healthy and energetic. Obviously she had no problems conceiving, and she breezed through her pregnancies and deliveries. She took the attitude: Hey, I’ve got to do the wash anyway; it’s just a bigger load. I’m cooking dinner anyway; it’s just more food. I was born in 1957, still a good while before birth control hit the farm. We had cats and dogs everywhere, new puppies and kittens all the time, and kids running around all over the place, somebody always in diapers.

OUTSIDE THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HOUSE MY DAD AND HIS FRIENDS BUILT, BRICK BY BRICK.

YEA! SOME SNOW OUTSIDE THE MINK SHEDS.

The family finances were constantly fluctuating. My dad’s mink ranch was pretty successful until the explosion of fake fur in the sixties. Before and after that, there were times when mink ranching could be very lucrative. Even with seven children, my family was considered reasonably well-off because we lived on a ranch, covering several acres, and were in the process of building a new house. (We lived in my uncle’s house on the same property during construction.) In adult terms I have no idea how much money the farm actually made. My dad employed a few ranch hands, and I remember one of them made $35 a week, which sounded like a lot back then.

My dad built our new house, brick by brick, with a little help from our friends. He’d found a pretty spot for us to live, down by a pond. We loved that pond: we played on it, in it, or near it all the time. In the winter beaver would build slides that led down the hill into the water. We’d slip down the beaver slides and hit the ice. When it wasn’t thick enough we’d fall through. My mother was constantly running down to fish out one half-frozen kid or another from the water. Also in the winter, Curly, our huge Clydesdale horse who hauled things around the ranch, would pull us kids around on the hood of an old car turned upside down. That was our sleigh—my dad’s idea.