Still Growing: An Autobiography Read Online Free

you’re so cute,” he wanted nothing to do with
that
. So he would just go into another room or go outside. He’d just disappear.
    Aunt Joanne Cameron
     
    She kept talking: “Kirk, this is so funny, it’s just you and me. No one else will ever see this picture.”
    I inwardly wanted to do it, but I didn’t want anyone to point and say, “Look! How cute!” or whatever dumb things adults might say. And what if the kids laughed at me?
    Aunt Joanne reassured me. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Kirk. I only want to take this picture. It will be fun.”
    “Okay,” I agreed, hesitantly.
    Aunt Joanne put the glasses on my face combed down the blue bangs.
    “Hurry,” I pushed.
    She backed up and readied the camera.
    I stood there stiff, like a soldier. I thought,
Take the stinkin’ picture so I can get out of this!
    Once the flash went off, I started pulling on the wig. “Okay. We’ve done it. I’m done.” (About 12 years later I donned a friend’s underwear on my head like a helmet—the leg holes for my eyes—and marched into a restaurant, where all eyes turned on me. Even at that age, I claimedto dislike undo attention unless it was on
my terms
. Unfortunately, celebrity brought attention on everyone else’s terms—like the time a guy approached me at the urinal, mid-stream, and asked for my autograph.)
Grandparents
     
    I only wanted affection on my terms as well, and my grandparents knew it. One day I was at Grandma Jeanne’s house, tormenting my sisters. Three times the girls ran inside to tattle on me. Grandma called me in each time and told me to leave them alone “or else.” Of course, I had to test her to see what “or else” meant. To my dismay, Grandma inflicted the ultimate punishment on me—a massive kissing attack that left my face wet and smelling like honeysuckle, her perfume. I don’t think I bothered the girls after that. (At least not for the rest of that day.)
    The other side of the family found Grandma Helen, giver of quirky gifts. Since she and Grandpa George were both schoolteachers, we could count on getting something educational. Once I got a book about ancient Egyptian artifacts, and another time a book called
The History of Ships
. Then there was the tantalizing life account of Fernando Ortega the Explorer—
without illustrations
.
    I really wanted to say, “Grandma, you missed a perfectly good opportunity to give me something great.” Instead, I exchanged a knowing look with my sisters. At least we were in it together. I’d turn and attempt to be genuine. “I love it, Grandma!” I’d say, in one of my finest acting performances. (Where was the Emmy-nominating committee then?) Grandma Jeanne always gave a card with money in it. Now
that
was a gift I could take to the bank.
    Grandma Helen kept a very proper house. We had nametags at our places for holiday meals above the fancy china. Ketchup was forbidden at the table because it “destroyed” her perfectly good food. You couldn’t have a glass of water until you were halfway through dinner because if you filled up on water, you couldn’t eat the food.
    Who fills up on water?
    We much preferred the more casual dining experiences at my other grandparents’. But boy, did Grandma Helen make the most amazingfour-layer Ghirardelli chocolate cake. We’d rather she made us that cake than get another book on
Thomas Edison: The Teen Years
.
    Grandpa George was a gymnast and had a set of great big rings on two long ropes hanging over the trampoline buried in the yard. (The top of it was at ground level.) He also tied a thick rope with knots in it. We’d grab that rope and climb to the top of the jungle gym to swing down like Tarzan on a vine. And he had a special talent: He could make delicious, rich fudge from scratch.
    My mom’s parents were lots of fun. Grandma Jeanne helped me conspire against the girls and made great dinners where ketchup was welcomed. Grandpa Frank was the quintessential grandfather. He sat us on his