Happy Acres Trailer Park began in a Random Writers’ Workshop. Memoir Journal invited our group to join the (In)Visible Memoirs Project, which explores the hidden stories of California's Central Valley. At first, I wanted to write about my childhood adventures overseas and my time at a boarding school in the Himalayas of Pakistan. I thought those stories would be exciting to share. Instead, I was encouraged to write about my direct connection to the Central Valley for their anthology, "(In)Visible Memoirs." Looking back, I’m glad I made that choice.

The washhouse sat on the east side of Happy Acres, in the middle of a grassy median. The old, whitewashed building always felt gloomy, dark, and humid, with the smells of bleach and moldy wood, and a window painted shut.

Brother liked building models more than friendships. He started with biplanes, then moved on to World War II planes like Spitfires and Wildcats. Eventually, he graduated from fighter jets with bombs to spacecraft. When he learned about the Apollo 11 mission, he went to the hobby store on Robert’s Lane, bought the Saturn V rocket, the Lunar Spacecraft, and the Lunar Module Eagle, and got to work.

I wasn't allowed to go to Anita’s house after school. I couldn't tell her why, because I didn't understand myself. What was wrong with Anita's house?

Mom wanted professional photographs of Brother and me for the grandparents for Christmas. She complained that our recent school pictures didn’t look like us and my eyes were closed. She was frustrated because she wrote a note in the order form to warn them about me, but they obviously didn’t read it.

Brother couldn’t play board games without cheating. He was a dice-tipper. He jumped extra spaces, moved battleships, and flicked spinners so hard they broke when he was losing. But if I complained about him, Mom stopped what she was doing and glared at me for interrupting her peace.

Elvis Presley lived across the street from the butterfly bush, next to the anonymous neighbor.

I was the worst nine-year-old dancer at the Maidie Du Fresne School of Ballet.

Brother had three tits. Two were on his skinny, white chest where they were supposed to be, but in the summertime, when he took off his t-shirt and turned sideways, he had a third, a witch’s tit, right smack below his armpit. 

“I got a new record at the TG&Y," said Marilyn. Grown-up, that's what she was. She wore a bra.

On Christmas Eve morning, we packed the Dodge with presents and drove north on Highway 99 to spend the holiday with our grandparents. We spent the first night in Oakland with the Turneys. The next day, we drove to Walnut Creek to see the Sheppards, which was not that far. Mom said it was convenient, like killing two birds with one stone.

I pulled my knee-highs up and my plaid skirt down, but my legs stayed cold as Popsicles. My lips were cracked, and my hair felt electric.

"There's a note in your lunch box for your teacher," Mom said. Pink sponge curlers bounced on her head. Before I stepped off the patio stairs, she locked the slider and shut the drapes behind me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"For the love of God," Mom hollered, trying to grab my snow cone. Sticky rainbow syrup splattered her white Bermuda shorts and dribbled down her legs.

I ran home from the last day of fourth grade, kicked off my shoes, hid my report, and changed into play clothes. Summer had finally arrived at Happy Acres Trailer Park, and I couldn’t wait to go outside and play.

"Where are we going?"

"Jackass Meadow.”

"Where?"

"Jackass Meadow."

I giggled and climbed into the backseat of the Dodge. Dad said “jackass” and didn’t even flinch! Who names a camping spot after a cuss word?

“Jackass, Jackass, JACKASS MEADOW.”

I was a healthy kid, probably because I never sat still long enough to get sick. I never broke a bone or sprained a wrist, and my tonsils and appendix were originals. I caught chickenpox when I was little, probably from Brother, which left a giant, moon crater scar beside my left eye.

“You've outdone yourself his time!” Mom snapped. She yanked a wad of khaki from her ironing pile and slapped it across a field of faded daisies. Matching inseams and creases, she spray-starched and burnished with her palms until Dad's work pants were flatter than tin foil. 

My family didn’t go to church on Sundays. Instead, we went on Sunday drives.

Penny wasn't home. Elvis said she went grocery shopping with her mom and didn't know when they'd be back. Then he told me to quit asking every fifteen minutes because it wouldn't make them come home any sooner.

The Recreation Center was a bike ride away from Happy Acres. Located next to the Kern River, the center’s massive, drab exterior looked more like a prison than a place for fun. But every kid I knew wanted to be there on a hot day for Summer Sessions.