My younger sister is, if not exactly the black sheep of the family, still seen as a bit of a wild child by most of our relatives. Somehow, it doesn’t give anybody any cognitive dissonance to also think of her as a hopelessly naive babe in the wilderness. How they square this with her actual existence as a married professional in her thirties, I’m still not sure, but it all seems to have rubbed off on my youngest cousin. He’s in his early twenties, has never lived away from home (and his fiercely protective mother), and barely finished high school.

My sister is extremely fond of our cousin; it’s just a bit rough on her to have conversations like the following.

We’re at a party for the completion of [Sister]’s Master’s degree.

Cousin: “Well! That took you a while, didn’t it?”

Sister: *Pauses* “What do you mean?”

Cousin: “Just, didn’t it take you longer than it should have?”

Sister: “It took me four years, yes. I never said that I found graduate school easy. I’m lucky to have had the help and support that I did. Just like you.”

Cousin: “What do you mean?”

Sister: “Well, you had trouble finishing school, too, right?”

Cousin: “Yeah, but I finished on time.”

Again, she’s talking about her grad studies; he’s talking about HIGH SCHOOL.

A few days later, [Cousin] is looking around the condo [Sister] owns with her husband.

Cousin: “I mean, it’s nice, I guess.”

[Sister] and my brother-in-law live in one of the most expensive metro areas in North America because she can’t pursue her career anywhere else in Canada. It’s not at all comparable to the four-bedroom house [Cousin] lives in, rent-free, with both his fifty-something parents, in a much more economical area of the country.

Finally, one night over dinner, the conversation turns political.

Sister: “I’m saying that prison reform is an issue that the prime minister is ignoring. How can Canadians call ourselves better than anywhere else when we’re treating jails like a garbage heap to dump in those people we don’t know how to deal with?”

Cousin: *Chuckling* “Well, I mean, that’s a real nice idea and all, but let’s be practical here. When you think about these people, and where they come from… I mean, it’s sweet that you want to help, but really…”

Sister: “[Cousin], by the time I was your age, I’d been arrested three times for protesting. You’ve never been out of g**d*** [Suburb] by yourself, and your own mom had to badger you into voting in the last election. Do not try to pull that bulls*** head-patting act on me. I’ve had teargas thrown at me. The fact that I used to be your favourite babysitter is the only thing that prevents me from throwing your a** out the door right this second. Is that clear?”

There’s a long pause.

Sister: “Would anyone like coffee?”

I am the oldest of seven children. For my parents, having so many children meant that taking vacations was challenging — both because of cost as well as simple logistics.

One summer, when I am sixteen or seventeen, my parents had the bright idea to go camping for a few days up in the mountains near our home. Please note that my parents are not campers. They have to borrow a tent and most of the items needed for camping. They borrow a six-man tent and figure that it will hold us given that my younger brothers and sisters are small. My father has a few cows and a horse on a hobby farm that he owns, and he decides we will pack the horse and use it to haul the camping equipment into the campsite.

The day dawns, and my parents pack us tightly into a truck being used to haul the horse trailer to the trailhead. We get the horse all packed up and set out: Mom, Dad, and seven children ranging in age from seventeen to two.  

Five minutes later, the entire pack slides off the horse and onto the ground. My dad repacks the horse, and we set off again.

About thirty minutes later, the horse sits down and won’t get up.  

The pack is just too heavy for the animal, so we have to take some of it off and distribute the camping gear amongst those of us who can haul it. My youngest sister (the two-year-old) obviously can’t hike, and she is passed around from back to back. My next youngest sister (who is five) starts getting tired, and soon the oldest of the kids are all packing camping gear AND two children, switching off from time to time. We probably end up hiking for about ten minutes and resting for about fifteen.  

We finally arrive at the place where we are to camp, completely exhausted. Amazingly, the tent goes up without too much trouble, and we all start exploring the area.

At this point, I see my dad pull out a rifle.  

Me: “What’s that for?”

Dad: “Well, there are bears around here.”  

Me: “Bears?! Where did you get the gun?”

Dad: “From your uncle.”

Mom: “You’ve never shot a gun in your life.”

Dad: “It’ll be fine. Plus, the horse will warn us if anything comes by.”

I went to bed that night with the realization that the only thing between me and death by carnivore was a thin tent, a tired horse, and an inexperienced rifleman.

We quickly discovered that the six-man tent was NOT big enough to accommodate us all. We were jammed into the tent like sardines with wiggly little bodies. I was pushed up against the side of the tent and found myself on a slight incline with my head going down. I spent the whole night that way.

But amazingly, I got more sleep than my dad did; I found out later that he spent all night long sitting up at night sounds with the rifle in both hands. (Years later, it sank in the potential disaster that might have resulted from a nervous man with a loaded rifle sitting in a tent full of little kids. Yikes!)  

Well, no bears attacked, and we woke up the next morning sore and tired and cranky. My mother tried to make pancakes over the fire, but they either stuck or burned, and my younger siblings whined about smoke getting in their eyes. My parents scrapped the plans to stay a few days. We hiked back out that morning and went to an amusement park.

My family never went camping again.

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Cruelty/Death

This is just a collection of my experiences with chickens throughout the years. It begins at age eight. Unbeknownst to me, my dad has always bought a live chicken to cook for dinner on Chinese New Year. I just have never seen the chicken before, since I am usually off playing with my cousins. This is the first time I see it, but my brother knows this and decides to mess with me. This is before noon.

Brother: “Hey, [My Name]! Look, Dad finally got you a pet!”

Me: “Woah, really? Oh, wow! A chicken!”

Brother: “Yeah. Cool, huh? Why don’t you name it?”

Me: “I’ll call him Tony!”

And so I spend the next few hours playing around with Tony and chasing him around the backyard. Come dinner time, my brother mentions something to me.

Brother: “Hey, have you noticed where Tony is?”

Me: “Oh, yeah! We forgot to feed him! Where is he?”

Brother: “On your plate.”

It takes me a few moments to realize what he means. When I do, I excuse myself from dinner and leave to go cry in my room while my brother busts a gut laughing. Rest in peace, Tony.

The next story takes place at age thirteen. I am now fully aware of what I have come to call the yearly chicken sacrifice. I make sure I don’t interact with the chicken before its time is up, and I make sure to not waste any of the meat so as to not let its death be in vain. My brother has realized I won’t fall for the joke again and has given up on messing with me. This is just pure bad timing.

My brother is helping my mom with the food. I’m probably goofing off.

Brother:  “Hey, can you tell Dad to come inside? It’s almost time to eat.”

Me: “Yeah, sure.” *Goes outside* “Dad, it’s—“

The scene before my eyes is flailing chicken legs and feathers flying everywhere as I see my dad drowning the chicken in our backyard sink. I compose myself enough to say, “It’s time to eat,” before running inside. My brother asks what’s wrong and after I explain what, he starts laughing like before, while I put on headphones and try to drown out my surroundings.

Now I’m sixteen. I have taken a vacation with my dad to China with a tour company, and we end up at a rustic farming village. The other tourists in our group are all old men, so my dad is having a blast while I have no one to interact with. I spot a nearby chicken wandering in and out of the building, so I just watch it. Eventually, I get curious and decide to approach it cautiously and pet it. Right as I befriend the chicken, the owner of the hostel notices me.

Owner: “Hey. What are you doing, girl?”

Me: “Oh, I just wanted to—“

Owner: “Oh, you want chicken for dinner? Sure! Free of charge, just for you!”

Me: “WAIT! WHAT? NO—“

The owner grabs the chicken and dangles it by the legs.

Owner: “Hey, [Chef]! Chicken soup tonight!”

My dad and the group of tourists cheered and thanked me for getting them an extra dish for dinner. That night I couldn’t bring myself to eat the soup. I mourned for the chicken and thought about how it might’ve lived a few more days if I just hadn’t gone to pet it.

Later, when my dad and I video chatted with my mom and brother back in the USA, my dad told the story of how I had inadvertently killed a chicken. Cue my brother laughing his butt off once again. Rest in peace, Tony, water chicken, and China chicken. I remember you all fondly, and a little traumatically.

When I was eleven and my brother was seven, our parents took us to the “magical” theme parks in Florida for summer vacation. One day of the trip, we were at one of the water parks. My dad had gone off to do some of the slides, and my mom had taken us to the lazy river. We knew we were going to get out at a certain exit to catch up with my dad later.

As it was June and extremely hot, the lazy river was packed with people. My brother had been annoying me and knew I was getting upset with him, so he slyly said:

Brother: “Catch me, sissy!”

And he swam off. I couldn’t grab him quickly enough and soon lost sight of him amongst all the people in the water.

The next two hours were sheer panic and misery for my mom and me. As we were at a water park, my parents weren’t carrying their phones, so Mom had no way of calling Dad to see if my brother had found him. She had me sit on the side of the lazy river for over an hour in the hot sun watching for my brother while she ran and talked to employees, trying to get help. She found out they didn’t carry walkie-talkies — the park thought employees would spend too much time talking to each other instead of working — and management seemed really unconcerned.

Manager: “Your son is probably having the time of his life. He’s probably on the slides. It’s not like someone could just take him out of the park.”

Mom: “My son has no concept of stranger danger. This is a kid who will hug strangers at the grocery store. He absolutely would leave the park with someone he didn’t know.”

Management dismissed her concerns.

Eventually, we found my dad… and my brother. It turned out he had gotten out of the lazy river at the correct spot and told Dad that Mom and I were still floating, so Dad thought we had told my brother he could get out and go on slides with Dad while we stayed in the water.

That was the most afraid I had ever seen my mom, and when she found my brother and realized he had been safe the whole time, she turned furious and really let him have it (verbally).

A passing mother heard my mom screaming and yelled at her for scaring my brother, and another mother came and yelled at her for yelling at my mother when she was just trying to parent.

To this day, eighteen years later, my brother still refuses to admit he did anything wrong. My mom still says that’s the most afraid she has ever been. She was truly afraid she’d never see my brother again. We don’t ever talk about that water park or its uncaring employees.

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, and I’m on the prowl for discounted chocolate. As is typical in corporate-owned stores, they don’t waste any time preparing for the next holiday: Easter.

I’m in the aisle where, in less than twenty-four hours, the Valentine’s Day chocolate has been consolidated to one half of the shelving, and the other is being prepared for incoming Easter.

Down the aisle, a young boy and his younger sibling are conversing.

Younger Sibling: “Peeps!”

Older Sibling: “Yeah, those are Peeps, but lemme tell you a secret….”

His voice seems to transform into the words of the wisest sage as he imparts wisdom.

Older Sibling: “Peeps don’t actually taste that good. What you really want is chocolate. That’s the good stuff.”

Youngest Sibling: “Ooooooohhhh.”

I bit my lip to stifle my laughter. Everyone has their own preferences, of course, but I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself at this kid who was mayyyybe ten years old imparting the wisdom of his many (?) years onto his younger family member for The Best Candy. He knows what’s what, and he won’t let his sibling suffer from disappointment.