I was the 11th child (the first having died in infancy), yet I still refer to my siblings as a “family of 10,” namely Lester, Anita, Paul, Jannetta, Carl, Mary Alice, Dorothy, David, Gladys, and myself, Carole. Even though I’m now 67, the siblings refer to me as “Baby Carole.”
I have to admit, being the youngest in “a family of 10” has had its advantages. I’ve always been doted on.
Actually, I almost suffocated the day I was born. The story I was told, as a child, was that Dr. Smith brought all of us to the farmhouse, in his little, black satchel. So you can imagine how hot and cramped my quarters were, until I was delivered into Mom’s arms.
My siblings have heard this story many years now, at least since I was able to talk, but it bears repeating here: I was not an accident! Mom told me this story when I was old enough to understand. Mom and Pop wanted one more baby. Once I came along, they realized they had finally perfected the mold. Thus, they didn’t have to call on Dr. Smith and his dinky, old satchel any more.
It was due to this perfected mold that I became Mom’s “favorite daughter.” Now, my older sisters, who have vied for this “favorite daughter” position over the years, would tell you this isn’t true. They lie.
Some of my earliest remembrances of their jealousy, are from on the farm, in the fields. I was placed in a box, at the end of a potato row, while potatoes were being planted. If you talk to my sisters, they will say this never happened. They lie! I even remember they threw ground and worms in the box I was sitting in, whenever Mom wasn’t looking. It took me many years to shake my fetish of eating worms.
I also recall those high wagons Pop used on the farm. Pop would take them to the fields when it was corn husking time. Mom tucked me in a corner of the wagon, on a blanket. The jealous siblings husked corn and threw it up into the wagon, trying to hit me.
At some point in my young life they overcame their jealousy. Anita and Jannetta told me they took me to the city, by bus, to “show me off.” I’ve checked some of my baby pictures. It’s true. I was a cute, blond, blue-eyed child. I just don’t recall when they stopped thinking I was cute.
I have to thank my sister, Mary Alice, for my sex education. I was about 11 years old when I heard my mother talking on the phone, “Sure, you can stop by and pick up a bushel of potatoes.”
Conversations like that usually didn’t bother me, until Mom got off the phone and said, “Go tell Pop, someone is coming shortly for a bushel of potatoes.” I was really excited. I thought perhaps the father would have his cute son, Larry, along. I ran to tell Pop about having potatoes ready, then quickly hopped on my bike and rode to the end of the dirt lane. I waited for the family car to turn in our lane. When I saw Larry in the car, I again hopped on my bike and followed their car down the hill. I wanted Larry to see how good I could ride a bike. The bike ride, down the hill, was the most eventful thing that ever happened in my young life. As soon as I got to our house, I ran upstairs to my sister Mary Alice’s bedroom. I quickly closed the door. With tears running down my cheeks, I told her, “I’m pregnant!”
Mary Alice was confused. “Who made you pregnant?”
“Larry. He just drove by in the car with is father. As soon as they went by, I got butterflies in my stomach and got pregnant.”
Mary Alice assured me, “Carole, you’re not pregnant. That’s not how you get pregnant.” What a relief. I went out to continue riding my bike.
Living on a farm is hard work. I’ve always inferred to others, within hearing distance of my siblings, how hard I worked. I’ll tell people I got up at 5 a.m. every morning to milk the cows. My siblings deny this story. They insist “Baby Carole” didn’t work at all. They insist Pop sold the cows before I was born. Recently, I’ve proven them wrong. I found an old photo of myself and my niece and nephew, taken near the pasture on the farm, when I was about eight years old. In the background of this photo is one gorgeous rear end of a cow.
I’ll admit to my readers, but not to the siblings, due to my “Baby Carole” status, I did not have to work “too” hard. But I did work! I churned butter. I fed the chicks, ducks and pigs. I was pretty good at slinging manure too! I even knew how to squirt milk at the cats and dogs from the cows I milked.
My family forgets, when I was growing up as a teen, one by one, they all left home for the service or marriage. Doesn’t it make sense, that if there is only one child at home, that child, namely Baby Carole, ends up with all the work?
Although the siblings didn’t believe I worked on the farm, they still doted on me, even my mother.
During my teen years, my mother decided to earn some extra money. She traveled to the city, by bus, and cleaned women’s houses. This venture enabled her to buy me some store-bought clothes, instead of mostly hand-me-downs.
I continued to be treated royally as my title “Baby Carole” deemed it.
Knowing my parents never could afford big birthday parties, other than a home-baked cake, Dorothy honored me with my first “sweet sixteen” party.
Of course, at 16, teens want to drive, but my father didn’t much believe in women driving. It was my sister, Jannetta, who took me for some driving time with her car. Later, she took me for my driver’s test.
It was my brother, David, who was in the service, who gave me the ultimate wish of every teen: the keys to his car. Alas, in my naivete, driving on a slick, wet road, I wrecked his car… Totally. He has never asked me to pay him back. It continued. After a divorce, he gave me a job, a piece of land to place a modular home on, took my kids and his six on a 2 week vacation and moved me three times without pay. That’s some brother!
I also had the privilege of going on vacation to Florida with my brother, Lester, and his family, as a 12 year old. This was my first experience out of state and seeing the ocean to boot.
As a young mother, I was treated well, too. I was given hand-me-downs in maternity and children’s clothes from my sisters.
Even brothers babied me while raising my children. My first home had only two bedrooms. As my family grew, I needed more rooms. My two brothers, Paul and Carl, built an addition to our home. All we had to do was buy the lumber and windows.
There was a lull in catering to me while all of us raised our own children. Eventually, my sisters and I held traditional birthday parties, six of them, together each year. No matter where we went, I was always introduced as “Baby Carole.”
The sisters went all out for my new marriage at 40. They did everything for our small family wedding. They made sure our parents’ home was spiffy for the wedding feast. They also made the foods for the family gathering. All I had to do was show up for my wedding day. It was great to know I was still “the baby.” I cherished every minute of it.
As with all good relationships, something went awry as I headed into retirement. If we go to a restaurant, the sisters want me to drop them off at the door. “Baby Carole can park the car. She’s young. She can walk.” If we’re in a museum, their over-stuffed purse creates a backache. “Give it to Baby Carole for awhile. She can handle it.” If there aren’t enough beds when we sleep over, I hear, “Put Baby Carole on the floor in a sleeping bag. She can get up easier than we can.” If we’re downstairs and someone wants something upstairs, “Baby Carole will you get it? You’re young. You can do it.”
On one of our excursions, we only had five seats in the car. Guess who they had lay, spread out on the laps of the three in the back seat? Baby Carole.
My status as “Baby Carole” has diminished somewhat as my brothers and sisters age. I don’t really mind “pay back.” It’s been a wonderful life, having a “family of 10” dote on me all these years. I will always cherish being “Baby Carole.”
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to everyday stories.
