Read Online My Extraordinary Ordinary Life by Sissy Spacek, Maryanne Vollers - Free Book Online

questions, such as “How big is the universe?” and “Why are we here?” Mother had the best answer to that one. “You’re here,” she said, “to make the world a better place because you’ve lived.”
    It’s hard to imagine now, but in those days people threw all their trash out of their cars onto the side of the road. It was like leaving your empty popcorn bag on the floor of the movie theater; nobody thought anything of it. It was out the window, out of sight and out of mind. One of the hidden benefits of this awful practice was that people would toss their returnable soda bottles out with the rest of the trash. My brothers and I became great scavengers of Coke bottles, which we would collect all over town and cash in for 2 cents apiece at Mr. Butler’s convenience store. It was just down the street from us, a little wood frame building with big rocks instead of steps. Mr. Butler was always kind to us, and he had the best selection of candy in town. Robbie, Ed, and I would load up on grape bubble gum and Red Hots and Slo Pokes and saltwater taffy, the kind that was flat and had stripes and was covered in wax paper.
    After we cashed in our bottles, my brothers would spend everything all at once and eat the candy on the spot. I would usually save a little of my share of the money and stash most of the candy in the top drawer of my dresser. Every once in a while I would reach up and pull that drawer out—I was too short to see inside—and I’d listen to the candy slide back and forth over the wooden boards. It was like money in the bank. Of course, eventually I’d lose my self-control and gorge on the candy until I made myself sick. But then I’d go back out and pick up some more bottles to bring to Mr. Butler’s store.
    I can still hear my mother whispering on the phone to one of her friends, “Oh, my goodness … it knocked him right out of his shoes?” It was a terrible blow to the whole town when Mr. Butler was hit by a truck and killed while crossing the road right in front of his store. After that, we would buy our candy and gum at the filling station owned by the family of our friend Joe Doyle (that’s pronounced Jo’dall) Reynolds. It was a neighborhood place, just a few blocks in the other direction from Mr. Butler’s store. But it didn’t feel the same.
    Before long our bottle collection business grew big enough to warrant some capital investment. Robbie, Ed, and I pooled our allowance money and bought a shiny red American Flyer wagon. It cost $12.95. Actually, I put in almost ten dollars, Robbie contributed maybe two and Ed, who was older and had plenty of places to spend his money, put in the rest. So I was the major investor. Which didn’t amount to much in their eyes. Before we took the wagon out on our inaugural bottle run, Ed and Robbie decided to take it for a trip down Billy Goat Hill.

     
    Billy Goat Hill held special fascination for daredevils of all ages. It was the steepest hill around and a favorite destination for local boys who loved to race one another to the bottom on anything with wheels—cars, bicycles, wagons, go-carts, even homemade skateboards. A narrow road wound up through a leafy little neighborhood and then dropped down suddenly through the woods, dipping and then curving abruptly to the left. That turn, which you couldn’t see from the top, caused real problems for novice racers. The steep incline provided speed and the dip launched the rider into the air. And if the dip didn’t send you flying off into the wooded marsh on either side of the road, the sharp turn at the bottom probably would. Legend had it that more than a few had met their fate on Billy Goat Hill.

     
    I was still too little to go to such a dangerous place, so Ed and Robbie tested the new red wagon by themselves. They limped home a few hours later; both the boys and the red wagon were scraped up and covered in mud. The boys healed quickly, but the wagon was never the same. Its axle was bent, and