Tag Archives: essay aboout life

My Own Coming of Age Story

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Most kids travel from childhood into the teen years after their thirteenth birthday.

Not me.

At that age I was still firmly under my mother’s control. If she thought she saw a zit of blackhead, I was treated to pinching and squeezing.

If I needed a new blouse, she bought it. Same with pants, shorts, shoes. Because she was old-fashioned and ultra-conservative, I dressed like an old lady.

If she said I had to attend Mass, I did. Take Communion or go to confession? Yep.

She was a terrible cook, but I had to eat everything she prepared in the amounts she deemed necessary. No wonder I was overweight.

My parents controlled everything I did, said, and perhaps even my thoughts until I got accepted to the University of Southern California and so would live on campus.

Imagine my ecstasy when I unpacked my belongings in my half of a dorm room! It was small, but it was mine.

From that moment on, I chose what time to get up and go to bed. What to wear, where to go, and thank goodness, what I ate. Those three years were the happiest, and at times, saddest, of my life.

On good days, when I hadn’t struggled with my classwork, I floated across campus. In my hip huggers, cowgirl hat and barefoot. Unless it was raining or cold. I decided when and where to study, who to share meals with, who I dated.

The sad days were the ones before I discovered lonely people like me, when I broke up with a boyfriend, when a class was harder than I expected. And yes, when my mother demanded I come home for the weekend.

My coming-of-age journey began at age eighteen and ended when I married at age 24.

It took that long because even though I was at college, my mother still tried to control my life. She used guilt to get me to call home, to come home. She cried when I didn’t call, saying I didn’t love her anymore.

It was about that time that I realized that, no, I didn’t love my parents. Probably never had. At first I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. Doesn’t everyone love their parents?

Around my senior year, I accepted the fact that most, likely, my parents never loved me. I was the disappointing daughter, the middle child, holding a spot between the cherished older brother and the spoiled younger sister.

Once you truly understand your place, you are instantly set free.

I no longer had to answer every beck and call. I no longer had to carry the guilt my mother tried to place on my back.

I could do what I wanted, wear modern-styled clothes (if I could afford them), and date even a young man who didn’t look like me, but who like me for who I was.

I love reading Young Adult stories in which the protagonist struggles to come of age. Mostly they are nothing like who I was at that age, but yet there are common themes that I could identify with.

Independence. Identity. Place in the World.

Coming of age isn’t easy, but once you’re on the other side, life is a million times better.

A Different Kind of Bravery

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By nature I am not a brave person. Put me in a room with unfamiliar people and I cannot speak. I don’t embrace change and am incredibly happy living my life.

Yet when I think back over the years, a number of events arise in which I had to fight against my nature and be brave.

As a young child I preferred my own company, so going to school was a frightening experience. As the years passed I did not get braver, but I did learn how to function within the system. And I did it on my own. No teacher, no school counselor helped me negotiate the ins and outs of school. Because I kept to myself, I did so without the benefit of friends.

So going off to college required a tremendous amount of bravery.  This was a new experience in a foreign environment. I was terrified. But as time passed I made a few friends.

Finding a job scared me. It meant entering unfamiliar places, approaching unfamiliar and often cold people, and facing repeated rejection. Once I did get hired, there was the problem of working in a new environment with strange people.

I would like to think that age has brought me confidence, but it hasn’t. What it has given me is the understanding of myself and the ability to move into new places despite the terror that such things create.

It also helps that I am blessed with a husband who encourages me to step outside my box and go out into the world. Because of him I travel, write, and sing. Because of him I get out of the house and join clubs, go to luncheons and meet up with friends.

Sometimes I wonder how different I might have been if there had been someone like him in my life from the first time I ever left the house as a child.

Because of my husband I am learning to be brave.

Identity Crisis

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            Who was I way back when?

            I was baptized Teresa Louise Haack, but called Terry because they called my older brother Billy. So even my nickname wasn’t really my own, but rather a copy of someone else’s.

            When I did something wrong, which was often, I’d be summoned as Terry Lou, or if it was really, really bad, by my entire name. Since I could tell the severity of my offense by the name my mother (it was always her!) used, I knew, generally, what punishment to expect.

            At school, every teacher addressed me as Teresa. I preferred Terry, but didn’t have the guts to say anything. Back in the fifties you just didn’t do that.

            I had a friend in first grade who called me Terry. I really liked her, but when my parents discovered the little girl’s race, I wasn’t allowed to call her friend.

            There were two girls in the neighborhood who I was sometimes allowed to play with. Their parents called me Teresa; the girls did also. I hated it.

            Teresa sounds all girly and conjures a picture of someone wearing frilly dresses and Mary Jane shoes. That wasn’t me at all. I wore a uniform jumper to school until seventh grade. Back then we didn’t know to wear shorts underneath, so on a windy day, my whatevers could be seen clear across the playground. Granny panties. White or almost white. No slip.

I got teased about that! In fact, one time in fourth grade when I was called to the teacher’s desk for a poor grade (not the first or the last), a boy slid out of his seat and lay down on the floor. I froze. If I stepped around him, he could see up my jumper. But he was in the middle, making himself as large as he could. That meant I’d have to straddle his body, giving him the view.

The teacher, a num whose name is forgotten, clicked her wooden thing at me, waved me forward with her hand, and when I tried to explain, said something like “Teresa Lousie Haack, get up here now.”

I had no choice. The boy laughed hilariously, but didn’t get in trouble. He proceeded to tell everyone that he’d seen my panties.

Teresa Louise Haack was the school’s pariah. After that, no one wanted anything to do with me.

When I transferred to the public middle school, I told my teachers that I wanted to be called Terry. They refused, saying that my legal name was Teresa and that’s what they’d call me and what I’d better put on my papers.

At home I was Terry, the tomboy. I dressed in t-shirts, shorts and pedal-pushers when they became popular. I skated in our garage, around and around and around. I rode my bike for miles around our house. I played baseball with the boys when my brother needed a player.

We set up a badminton net in the backyard, as well as croquet and a wiffle ball diamond. My dad found a used swing set for free, which he installed in the backyard. Yes, we had a really huge yard!

Terry was an athlete. I could hit a baseball further than my brother. I ran faster than him as well. I was so good at badminton that after we moved to California, Teresa played on the high school team.

Terry also played basketball, better than my brother. I could throw and catch a football better than most boys. Unfortunately, girls weren’t allowed on the boys’ teams, so Teresa had to sit on the sidelines, knowing that Terry was better than almost every boy on the field.

Every college application was for Teresa, as was my scholarship and grants. Most of my professors called me Teresa, but my roommates (I had several over the years) all knew me as Terry.

By now girls could wear pants to school. No more stupid dresses or skirt for me! I made my own pants from bright, colorful patterns, none of which would be considered girlie.

Even though I seldom went home, I still heard my full name whenever I disappointed my parents. Thank goodness, Terry Lou had disappeared.

So at home I was the shy, reserved, isolated Teresa, but when away at college, I was learning how to be a fun-loving Terry.

My two distinct personalities often clashed. At home sometimes I’d forget to be invisible, while at college I’d fail to ask to be called Terry.

Teresa struggled with academics: Terry did not.

Teresa sometimes got poor grades and had to drop classes: Terry got straight As even though she had to study until early morning.

Teresa joined a sorority. Terry dropped out.

After college graduation, I couldn’t find work nearby, so I had to move back home. I was back to being Teresa/Terry.

Teresa wasn’t allowed to drive the car unless my brother didn’t need it. Terry took her younger sister on scenic drives through the countryside and to movies. Teresa applied to jobs and was rejected over and over. You see, Teresa was over-qualified due to her degree in Russian Languages and Literature.

Terry wasn’t dignified enough to work in an office filing papers (my only skill!)

Teresa got hired by the federal government. I was a field worker, so Teresa was the one who knocked on doors. After a while, I found that I liked having a formal “work” identity very different from the Terry who bowled in two different leagues.

The work person went by Terry in the office. The one who bought a car and rented her first apartment was Teresa.

The person who wrote checks and completed forms at work was Teresa. Terry went on her first backpacking trip (with ancient, heavy equipment that someone else had to carry up the mountain). She also went up to the mountains, supposedly on a college ski trip, but nearly gave herself frostbite because Terry didn’t buy warm enough boots.

Teresa was the careful, cautious part of my persona: Terry was the risktaker.

Throughout my teaching career, forms were signed by Teresa but my coworkers called me Terry. Teresa led meetings and gave presentations to the faculty of the combined middle school and high school teachers. Terry took her classes to the computer lab.

Teresa was the formal person, Terry the enthusiastic one.

Terry was what my husband-to-be called me, but during our wedding ceremony, the priest asked Teresa to recite her vows.

Even today, at my ripe old age, I carry both monikers. When querying agents for one of my books, I am Teresa. I want them to know that I am female writing about female issues. Yet when I participate in an in-person pitch session, I introduce myself as Terry.

Terry smiles and acts friendly. Terry speaks enthusiastically about her work. But my nametag always says Teresa. Oh, well.

Over the years I learned to accept my different persons, my different names. My kids know me as Terry, although they still call me Mom (they’re all over forty!)

Church friends only call me Terry. Same with my husband’s family. My brother, however, only addresses me as Teresa, no matter how many times I’ve corrected him (It’s a dominance thing, a power thing, for him.)

I am still haunted by the echoes of my past. When I am forced to state my complete name, I have no choice but to say Teresa Louise Connelly. It’s the same one I used to write checks and sign credit card charges. Oh, and tax documents.

I finally got Kaiser to call me Terry. When Teresa Connelly would be summoned to the doctor’s office, my skin would prickle and I’d want to look around for my parents. Terry is a strong, independent woman, something Teresa never became.

Everyone, or almost everyone, has carried multiple versions of themselves over the extent of their lives. But, I am willing to bet, that most don’t look over their shoulders, expecting a blow or a slap or a kick or a punch when their childhood name pops up.

I am Terry Connely. No Terry Lou or Teresa Louise, jut Terry.

And I like it that way.

Opening My Eyes

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            My world was quite limited for a good, long time. My stay-at-home mom monitored everything I ate, did, and yes, pooped. She lectured me on posture, behavior and disciplined with a heavy hand. She expected me, even when quite small, to assume household duties.

            But not my siblings. My brother, by virtue of being male, was not supposed to spend time doing chores, but rather studying. He was expected to do well in school in order to get a good paying job.

            My younger sister was allowed to be a kid, playing kids’ games and acting like an immature child. She had petit mal seizures that came on unexpectedly. She’d be in the midst of a sentence, freeze with clasped hands, eyes glazed, then unfreeze and continue on as if nothing had happened.

            It freaked me out but my mom latched onto my sister’s condition, believing it was due to having her later on in life. My mom blamed herself, her own mental illness during pregnancy. I was seven years older, aware enough that my sister was treated special, excused from all responsibility for her behavior and for helping around the house.

            My brother somehow, learned to read before beginning first grade. Considering that there were no books in our house except for the occasional magazine Mom bought for herself, that was an incredible feat. It solidified, in my mother’s mind, how gifted my brother was, and that he would go on to do wondrous things.

            My sister benefited from borrowed and gifted books that family bequeathed us once they understood our situation. I don’t recall how she learned to read, but she did.

            Me, on the other hand, did not. By the time I was kindergarten age, I didn’t know letters, numbers, shapes and the names of most of the colors. Looking back, I can’t accept blame. There were no books in our house and no one ever sat down with me and taught me any of the needed skills for success in school.

            My parents saw no future for me other than marriage, and so made no effort to teach me a thing. Except how to be submissive, shy and quietly seething.

            I never hear discussion about schooling for me, but when my brother entered first grade, my mom drove me for miles to a preschool. This was my introduction to exactly how stupid I was.

            Until that time, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. But when your classmates recite the alphabet in unison and you can’t recognize a single letter, not even the ones spelling your name, it doesn’t take a genius to understand your deficits.

            I tried my best. While the other kids met in reading groups, I sat alone at my desk tracing letters and numbers, learning to cut with scissors and coloring shapes. Sometimes a teacher would stand by my desk, but usually all that any adult did was walk by and toss more worksheets my way.

            By the time that year ended, I had learned the basics. My classmates, however, were reading primers.

            I did learn that I was a social outcast, even at that young age. After all, no one wanted to befriend an idiot, and that’s how they treated me. Like I had a contagious disease.

            I struggled through first and second grades. I am not sure how or why I got promoted. It might have been out of sympathy or maybe because that way the Catholic school would continue to receive tuition money. I did finally begin to read basic words, but not much beyond the Dick and Jane books that were popular at the time.

            Before third grade began, the principal asked to see my parents and to bring me with them. My mom stayed home with my siblings while my dad, a very stern and cold man, drove me into Dayton for the meeting.

            The principal must have known when we were to arrive, for she was standing outside the school when we parked. I remember being terrified when her black robes billowed behind her as she floated down the steps. Her habit gleamed bright white in the August sun. Her glasses reflected the sunlight, making it impossible to see her eyes. She was a frightening image for a child who was used to being ridiculed.

            I didn’t know what to expect, and from the way my dad reacted, he didn’t either. The nun bent down to the open window, rested a hand on the door frame, leaned in, and in a no-nonsense voice, informed my dad that I could not return until I had glasses.

            No one in my family that I ever saw wore glasses. I’d seen people wearing them, but didn’t understand their purpose. Except for sunglasses.

            I am not sure why, but my mom didn’t take me to a local optometrist, but rather one that was several bus rides away, into Dayton itself. I don’t recall the visit, but looking back, it probably involved reading different sized letters, just like is done now.

            A few weeks later we returned to the optometrist’s and then left with a pair of glasses on my face.

            I’d never truly seen a leaf or birds flying in the sky. I’d never seen how straight trees were, buildings were, telephone poles were. Or how flat streets and sidewalks were.

            It wasn’t until many years later that I understood that I had astigmatism that distorted my impression of the world.

            I also could not see long distance, which meant that when school began, wearing my glasses, for the first time I saw writing on the chalk board. Think of all I had missed! The letters, words, phrases. The numbers, the calculations, the solutions. Instructions in science and social studies. Anything written on that board hadn’t existed until then.

            And, now with glasses, I could consistently distinguish the differences between letters, the lines of letters were straight and I could track from one line to the next.

            I began to read, slowly at first.

            It wasn’t until my brother, now in grade five (which meant I was in fourth) had to do research for a report that I had entered a library.

I didn’t know such places existed. Imagine the look on my face when I entered the building and saw shelves and shelves full of books. Everywhere I looked, blue and red and green bindings lined the shelves. Some books faced out, revealing intriguing covers.

Because I had no idea where to begin, and because my mother stayed out in the car, and because my brother took off and left me, I stood, mesmerized, until a person I came to know as librarian came to my rescue.

She asked what I was interested in, and I told her Indians (sorry, but that’s the term we used back then). She asked why and I shared that my mother insisted she was part Indian.

The librarian took me to the nonfiction section where books on that topic were shelved. I was allowed only two books since this was my first library card.

At first, I simply perused the black-and-white drawings. But I wanted to know more, to learn what the books had to offer.

When I was allowed reading time, which was only when my chores were complete, I’d bend over the books, running my fingers along the lines of letters, trying to sound out the words.

Phonics ruled teaching back then. I never understood the difference between long and short vowels and why some words sounded different even though spelled in a similar fashion.

The library books freed me from phonics. I began to learn words, whole words. Words that imparted knowledge. Words that opened up the world to me.

Words could take me anywhere, could allow me to learn anything, at any time.

Because my brother was allowed to check out more and more books, my mom took us back to the library every few weeks. I took advantage of his permission to read by checking out as many books as I could.

I went from reading nonfiction to fiction, primarily books with horses on the cover.

From there I grabbed whatever appealed to me.

We lived out in the country. Imagine my surprise when a huge bus (which now I understand was more like today’s RVs) came down our street and parked a few houses away.

Imagine my surprise when my mom let us go check it out. And then what my eyes must have looked like when I was allowed inside and saw books galore. Being brought right to my house.

Glasses opened up the natural world for me, but the library saved me from stupidity and ignorance. The combination of being able to see and having interesting things to read instilled in me a love of books and an imagination that took me to places and stories I fabricated and tried to write down.

Once I learned to love reading, to love the feel of a book, the smell of a book, the heft of a book, there was no holding me back.

I went from not really being a student to being one of the best in my class. My grades went from pathetic to being perfect. By the time I entered high school I was allowed in the college-prep track even though, back then, a lot or girls married while still in school.

I credit the library for developing a lifelong love of the written word. Those that others have put on paper, as well as my own.

I am so proud of Dolly Parton who understands the importance of books and so donates millions of books to underserved children all over the world.

Whenever I see a Little Library in someone’s front yard, I smile, because it means that the neighborhood is offering free materials to not just kids, but to other adults as well.

I frequent my public library, taking advantage of all that it has to offer, especially if circulation has anything to do with it remaining open.

We often don’t stop to honor those that help us along the way. This is my tribute to libraries, for without the library, I might never have developed a love of learning, which I then imparted to my children, and which now is being given to my grandchildren.

Yeah, for libraries!

The Belt

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            As a kid, I hated the belt. I didn’t own one, but I dreaded it being slapped against my backside. And considering that I was a sulky, petulant kid, I frequently felt its sting.

            There was a good reason that I didn’t wear belts. When you are obese, the belt it the las thing you’d ever want to put on your body.

            Consider the rolls of fat that encircle the waists of overweight people. A belt would either have to fit between the rolls, creating mounds of flesh above and below, or sit on top of the stomach. Both would emphasize the amount of fat. Not a pretty picture.

            My tops were more like dresses as they had to get wider the further south they went. And dresses were actually modified tents for the same reason. In either case, belts were unnecessary.

            I never owned a pair of shorts or pants that utilized a belt. Not until I was much older, anyway.

            Consider the waistband. If it requires a belt, it most likely has no elastic. The fabric is reinforced and somewhat stiff. A belt slides through loops until it passes through the buckle.

            Now on an obese person, the waistband of pants fits, as before, between the roll of the stomach and the bulge of lower abdomen. It hurts, to say the least.

            Add a belt and buckle. Every time you bend over, the buckle presses into the stomach. The pressure of that fat bends the buckle outward, often at a twenty-five-degree angle or more. Not only is it uncomfortable, it looks ridiculous.

            While my school mates wore uniforms that had a tailored waist, I had to wear the old hand-me-down uniforms that were faded blue, which was embarrassing, but those old ones hung tent-like. Plus they were in my size while the new ones were not.

            Imagine being the fourth grader who is so fat that she has to wear someone else’s faded tent to school? I was marked as being poor and fat, a deadly combination.

            So until I became a teenager and had more control over what I was/was not eating, my only experience with a belt was as a device for punishment.

            As many teens, angst hit me full-force. The sulky child became a depressed, withdrawn teen. I spent hours in my bedroom, whenever my sister was somewhere basking in the glory of my mother’s adulation.

            I lost my appetite for anything my mom cooked, primarily because she relied on potatoes, deep fried foods, beans cooked with bacon or fats, and other such high-calorie combinations. And, emotionally I was a wreck. I hated being at home where I could end up in trouble for doing nothing or something. I seethed with unspent anger, at the parents, my brother and my sister. I had difficulty reining in my desires to lash out, so it just boiled and roiled inside.

            Food didn’t taste good and what I was forced to eat sat heavy in my stomach.

            I began to lose weight, which troubled my mom who believed that fat children had greater odds of surviving, which didn’t make sense as she was, and had always been, thin.

            When I compared myself to her, I felt a sense of betrayal and confusion. There was a double-standard there before I ever knew the term. It was fine for her to have a trim, beautiful body, but not me.

            My sister was allowed to be thin, but not me.

            It was almost as if my mother didn’t want competition from me, and so she kept me ugly on purpose.

            That’s how I felt.

            In time, I could wear clothing with belt-loops, but I still saw myself as fat. It wasn’t until I left home for college that I believed myself thin enough to walk about in short, fitting skirts with belts.

            My mother still made many of my clothes, and so I had tent-style dresses and elasticized waists, which I was force to pack when I left home. I didn’t wear them, however and my mom never knew. She wasn’t on campus to see.

            This was not my first act of rebellion, but it solidified my understanding of my own power to say no.

            No to being spanked with a belt. No to being the misunderstood middle child who’d been repeatedly told she was worthless. No to being the fat kid, the bullied kid. No to being the mindless person that my parents wanted me to be.

            I bought myself a belt as a trophy. And wore it proudly.

            Most people probably think that a belt is a fashion accessory. They most likely have no idea that it is also a weapon. A weapon of torture as well as a weapon that separates the obese from the rest of society.

            The next time you see a fat kid without a belt, don’t tsk-tsk and shake your head.

            Instead think about the reasons that child isn’t wearing one. And if you do that, your perception of that child and many others will instantly change.

            The belt may be a fashion statement in your eyes, but in the child’s it’s a source of fear and humiliation.

Grandma’s Gift

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            When I was a little girl, probably five or six years of age, someone gave me an old, cheap plastic doll. It’s arms and legs moved and I could rotate its head a bit to the right or left. Its hair was painted auburn and its lips a light shade of red. It was nothing fancy, but it was my first doll.

We were quite poor, so I appreciated the plastic doll most likely more than a rich kid would have. In fact, a rich girl would probably have tossed it in the trash.

But not me. I was proud of the doll and so carried it everywhere.

            At the time we lived in Dayton, Ohio, in a housing development that I later understood was projects reserved for the very poor. Our house was quite small. I seem to recall only two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a front room. There was a screened-in porch out back that held a wringer washing machine. That thing terrified me, because my mom repeatedly warned me of the dangers of getting my hand stuck in the rollers. Nevertheless, she made me feed the damp clothes into the noisily grinding machine.

            At that time my older brother was the bain of my existence. He teased me, pushed me around, took things from me and ridiculed my pudgy body. Despite my cries of protest, my parents did nothing to stop him.

As a small child, I already understood the power he held over me and the lack of stature I had within the family.

For some reason, my brother hated my doll. He frequently stole it from me, then would dangle it above my head until my cries grew so loud as to bring my mother into the scene. He was told to give it to me, which he did, but even though he repeated that same action daily, he was never told to stop.

            My mother’s parents were extremely poor. They lived in a tiny rented house in Galipolis, Ohio. Because it was such a long drive from our house, we visited them only once a year.

While we had little, they had even less. We had furnace for heat, while they had a huge coal-burning furnace in their front room. We had running water in the bathroom and kitchen, while they had an outhouse (which terrified me) and a pump in the kitchen that poured out the coldest, most refreshing water I’d ever tasted.

            After my grandmother gave me the doll, I brought it with me every time we returned for a visit. And, every time, during the car ride, my brother would take it away from me and hold it up against the window, out of my reach. I’d cry. He’d refuse to give it back, then I’d cry louder.

I never fought back physically as he was bigger and stronger.

            When we arrived at my grandparent’s house one time, after getting hugs from Grandma, I went outside on my own to play with my doll. This was not unusual. Even at home I played by myself. I enjoyed my own company, coloring, drawing, and once we lived somewhere with a swing set, swinging for hours.

My brother often followed me outside. He’d sneak up behind me, then do something to hurt me. It might be a violent push that sent me to the ground, scuffing knees and hands.

This time, he only chased me around my grandparent’s back yard. In a way, it was better than being pushed, but my legs were shorter than his and so I moved much slower. I knew I would lose eventually because I always did.

As soon he trapped me against the side of the house, he stole the doll, which I had expected. However, I didn’t think he’d ever really damage the doll as the risks to him would then become a possibility.

Well, with an evil glint, after throwing my doll on the ground, he raised his right foot and stomped on it. Over and over until the arms, legs and body were shattered pieces of plastic. I howled, long and loud.

My grandma came to investigate. She was normally so quiet that I was always surprised when I’d spot her in a room. When she did speak, it was in a whisper that only the person closest to her could hear.

So when she stormed out of her screened porch and marched up to where I stood wailing, I was shocked. And even more so when Grandma asked what had happened, then listened as I told her the tale.

Then, to my even greater surprise, she chastised my brother and told him to go sit on the porch. She took me by the hand, walked me inside and proceeded to wipe off my face. Gave me a cup of cold water. And held me close, brushing my hair off my reddened face.

When we left that night, of course there was no doll to take home. I cried all the way home.

Months passed. In time I forgot about my doll as I had moved on to other things. I colored obsessively, filling page after page of coloring books that relatives gave me, getting better at staying within the lines.

A full year passed with nothing changing in my life. My brother still teased, pushed, pulled, pinched and ridiculed. My parents still did little to stop the abuse.

When summer came, we returned to my grandparent’s house. As always, Grandma greeted me at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But then a most magical thing happened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled something from behind her back.

Imagine my surprise to see my doll, fully restored.

To be precise, only the doll’s head was intact. My grandma had created a hand sewn body made of beige cloth. It had sewn lines to indicate fingers and toes. Better yet, it now had clothes where before it was naked!

She’d made underpants, a slip and a dress.

It was beautiful!

I hugged it, tears in my eyes. I whispered thanks, then sat in an old rocker, my doll cradled in my arms.

What happened next surprised me. Grandma turned to my brother and in a firm voice, told him that he had better, never take that doll from me or he’d have to answer to her, and she would not be gentle.

My grandma had given me a precious gift. It was more than doll and clothes.

She made me feel special. But most importantly, loved.

I still have that doll. It is now more than 68 years old. It occupies a place of honor in my house. Whenever I see it, it speaks to me of the first person who loved me as I am.

A Fool

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            My parents wouldn’t let me attend the college of my choice. I’d applied to and been accepted at Ohio State University. My grandma had agreed to let me live with her, in exchange for light duties at her house. It would be a short bus ride, doable even in the winter.

            My parents, being what we now call “helicopter” parents, didn’t want me leaving the San Francisco Bay Area where we now live.

            That left San Francisco State, a good choice for a would-be teacher. They also disapproved of that, as they refused to allow me to live on campus or commute into the city.

            My brother and I both received State scholarships that would pay 100% of our tuition, to any college in the state. So I could have gone to SF State at no cost, but that didn’t matter.

            My brother applied for USC, down in Los Angeles. I was told I could apply there as well, and if he got in, then I could go.

            That’s how I ended up at USC, a rich-kids’ school. I was completely out of my league. My first roommate was so rich that she only wore clothing items once. She’d pile them up, then on the weekend her mother would appear with a rack, yes, an actual rack, of items still in plastic bags.

            My clothes were mostly made by my mother, although I’d learned how to sew and had made bell-bottoms and one-yard skirts, both in style with what were then called hippies.

            Academically I was fine. As a math major, as long as I stayed in my department, I aced my classes. I found Russian easy, but not any of the mandatory sciences, social studies and English courses.

            Socially, I was a misfit. A painfully shy teen with large black-framed glasses just doesn’t seem to interesting to vibrant, do-everything classmates.

            Although my brother was also socially awkward, he fit in with the engineering students who were just like him. He even got into a fraternity, composed of others like him.

            I found them endearing.

            The guys accepted me as a little sister. Every Friday night I gathered around a tiny TV and watched Star Trek with them. We drank, ate and talked about the plausibility of such things happening. It was great fun.

            One of the “brothers” took an interest in me. George was a sweet guy. He took me out to eat, to movies, and to many of the fraternity’s parties. I felt a bond with him that no teen had ever given me before.

            After a night of heavy petting, I told George that perhaps we should hold off on going any further until we were married.

            He hadn’t proposed, mind you. I just assumed he would and I was prepared to accept.

            He broke my heart that night. George was non-practicing Jewish while I was a devout Catholic. In my mind, it wouldn’t matter and my faith would be our family’s faith. George didn’t agree.

            Our relationship ended amicably.

            My brother knew I was good at languages. One of his brothers needed help with Spanish and my brother offered my services without consulting me first.

The guy was a creep. There was something about “Jim” that made me extremely uncomfortable. He’d never touched me or said much of anything to me, but I didn’t like being in the same room with him.

I agreed to tutor him.

The first time we met, I assumed we’d work in the dining room. Nope. He insisted in studying in his room, which he shared with another guy, claiming that he wanted privacy.

Nothing happened that night except for him scooting closer and closer to me as we sat on the edge of the bed.

I didn’t want to go back, but my brother insisted.

Reluctantly I agreed on a second meeting, on the condition that we’d be in the dining room.

Jim refused, taking my hand and dragging me into the bedroom. I should have left right then, but that would have caused a scene.

Throughout our session, more than once, Jim leaned so close to me that his warm breath tickled my neck. I’d moved away, but then he’d sidle over. When he grew tired of Spanish, he pulled me down on his bed.

Thankfully nothing happened. That night.

I refused to return.

What I didn’t know was that now I had a reputation of “putting out”.

I learned this from another fraternity brother, Paul. He was socially awkward like me. He was overweight like me. He was extremely smart, taking challenging classes, like me.

Paul took me to the opera and theater, my first time to ever experience a performance on a big stage.

We’d spend hours talking, sometimes until the early morning. At no time did Paul kiss me or attempt to kiss me.

I liked him, but more of as a friend. I assumed it was the same for him. Paul was the one who told me about the rumors. He said he enjoyed being with me despite what was being said.

After that I stayed away from the fraternity.

One summer I applied for an on-campus job that paid pretty well. I’d be able to stay in the Soroptimist House where I’d been living.

One afternoon I was outside on the balcony sunbathing, when a familiar voice called me. I looked over the railing, and there was Jim. He informed me that my brother had asked him to keep an eye out for me, to make sure I was safe.

I told Jim that I was fine, turned away, gathered my stuff and went inside.

Jim returned the next day and the next. I insisted I didn’t want or need his help. I told him to leave and not come back.

After that I didn’t see Jim for a long time.

One afternoon as I walked back from the Law Library,  a building that I found peaceful and still, I was smiling and enjoying the weather.

A red convertible pulled up next to me. It belonged to Jim, who was now married. I continued walking and he continued following.

He insisted he and his wife wanted to share their wedding photos. That seemed fairly safe since she would be there, so I got in the car. Big mistake.

As soon as we were in the apartment, Jim locked and bolted the door.

The sofa-bed was open with clean sheets on it, as if he’d been expecting company.

I knew something was wrong and that I should leave, but the door was locked.

As an abused child, I knew about being trapped and that there was no way out except to just go along with the scenario.

Jim sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. The album was on the bed. He showed a few pictures, and then he made his move.

At first it was just kissing, but then his hands went under my t shirt and then into my shorts. He pushed me backwards and fell on top of me.

I knew nothing about sex, had never seen a penis, and had little about rape, yet instinctively knew that something awful was about to happen.

Jim undressed me, then removed his shirt. He wore the most gruesome smile as he pulled down his pants. He bragged about his size and how good it would make me feel.

His fingers entered me.

Jim shot up, a look of shock on his face.

He said he didn’t know I was a virgin because of my reputation.

Things happened very quickly after that.

He got dressed, told me to get dressed.

While I was quickly putting my clothes on, he stripped the bed and then folded it back up. He then unlocked and unbolted the door and told me to leave.

His parting shot, however, was that if I ever told anyone, he would deny having stolen my virginity.

I ran to the next building and ducked into the lavatory. I slid to the floor and huddled there until someone wanted in.

For quite a while I wondered if that constituted rape. If I had seduced him, as he claimed. I understood that he had taken something precious away from me, but that if I told anyone, no one would believe me due to the reputation I had at the fraternity.

For my remainder years at USC, I kept a lookout for Jim.

I sometimes saw that red convertible, then would run down a closed-off section of campus.

One time, when back at home, my family took a trip to Napa County to visit wineries.

On the way there, my brother announced he had invited Jim and wife.

I panicked. My chest tightened and my eyes pooled with tears.

I announced that I would stay in the car. My dad, wisely said, it was too hot. True, but it meant that I had to see Jim.

Finally I told the truth, that he had raped me.

I got the response that many women, even today, get: that I must have done something to deserve it.

My mother said I was lying as no friend of my brother’s would do that.

So, as a supposed liar, I had to walk into the winery with Jim.

He gave me what I now know was a leer, a look that acknowledged what he had done and that reaffirmed that I could tell no one.

Back then I felt like a fool.

Now I know I was abused, this time not by my parents, but by Jim.

The Family Pet

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            When you never go anywhere and you’re dirt poor and there’s no television, the idea of owning a pet doesn’t enter your mind.

            Twice a year we’d visit relatives. No one on my mother’s side had a pet. My dad’s stepfather owned a farm. He had a mule that brayed quite loudly, even from across the pasture. There were a ton of chickens, but they stayed in the barn. I was too young to question whether they were for eating or for egg-laying.

            One of my dad’s stepsisters had a horse. To me, at age five or six, the horse seemed gargantuan. My aunt did offer to ride with me, but my mother refused.

            What I remember most about that horse was that it loved to roll in the mud! One time when we were visiting, my aunt walked her horse out where we were. One half was its normal dark brown. The other side was caked in mud! I thought that was the funniest thing I’d even seen!

            Before my grandparents bought the farm, they’d lived in Dayton. I don’t remember much about the house except that you entered through a screened-in porch.

            My uncle was in the navy. While he was overseas, he’d bought a beautifully colored parrot.

            When we arrived, the bird was in a huge cage, swinging from a beam in the porch. I was amazed, not just at the colors, but at the noises it made. I’d never heard a bird so loud and so screechy.

            And then it began swearing! I knew most of the words as both my parents threw swear words around like others threw baseballs. Apparently, however, the unfamiliar words were not for me to hear, so I was quickly ushered inside the house. The door was slammed shut shortly after I was inside.

            None of those animals inspired me to want a pet.

            That changed when the local five and dime sold turtles. This was long before anyone knew they carried diseases or that they shouldn’t have been in the country.

            But, my parents let me get one. And a cute little plastic bowl, complete with a ramp so it could get out of the water.

            I was thrilled. My very own pet! It didn’t bother me that my brother had one as well and that they shared that little bowl.

            I fed it diligently. I kept it’s bowl clean of poop. Sometimes I’d let it walk on the table. I never grew tired of watching and caring for it.

            Until one afternoon, when I returned from school, both turtles were gone.

            Two people had been in the house: my mother and my younger sister. I never suspected my mother for she had approved of pet ownership.

My sister, however, was my prime suspect because we never got along. I was jealous of her freedoms that, despite being seven years older, I didn’t have. I’m not sure why she’d be jealous of me, for she had the good looks, the thin body, the nicer clothes. But she must have harbored enough venom to free my turtle.

I looked all over the front room for it. I checked in the sofa’s cushions, under tables, and finally got down on my stomach to search under the sofa.

The turtle was there, but dead. It looked more like a desiccated starfish than anything that had once been alive.

I was devastated. Sort of. The truth was that I’d grown tired of a pet that was incapable of showing love.

For the longest time, no animals lived in our house.

My mother was terrified of cats, declaring that they sucked the air out of babies’ mouths. At the time, I believed her, but much later, when I did some research, I discovered that there was no way that a cat could seal off the air.

We had frequent thunderstorms and tornado warnings. When we had advance warning, we’d gather in the crawlspace. It smelled like damp dirt and had cobwebs hanging from the rafters. It was dark, but because my dad had strung one cord down through the floor, we could listen to the radio.

We’d hunker down there until the broadcaster said it was safe to come out.

After one such storm, when my brother and I finally got approval from my mom to go outside, we decided to wash down our bikes. They’d been out in that storm, and were now covered with dirt and leaves.

I had just begun cleaning my bike when I heard an unfamiliar chirping. It was coming from the large bushes that grew along the side of the house.

I decided to find the bird.

I pushed aside a branch here, a branch there until a small green bird was revealed. I’d never seen a green bird before, so I didn’t know if it was wild or someone’s pet.

I got my brother, who didn’t believe me until he saw it for himself. He told me to stand guard, then went inside to tell our mom.

She never appeared, but handed my brother a shoebox.

It was surprisingly easy to capture the bird and put it in the box.

Later on I learned that it was a parakeet.

Mom let us keep it. It lived in the box for a couple of days while she made call after call. Eventually she found a relative who’s bird had died and was no longer interested in having any more.

When the weekend arrived, we drove well over an hour to their house. They did, indeed, have a cage, but demanded that we stay for a while and visit.

They had a daughter my age. For some reason, my mom let me go upstairs to the girl’s room. This was the first, and then the last, time that I wasn’t confined to a sofa or chair.

I was amazed at her room! She had bunkbeds, something I’d never heard of, so that a friend could sleep over. She had tons of dolls and all kinds of toys and games. We played with everything. It was the most fun I had ever had!

When we got home, the bird was put inside. In time, we got toys, a type of paper for the perches, and different kinds of seed.

The bird was friendly, could say a few words, and was easily trained to do a few things. My mom named it Petey, even though we had no clue at to its gender.

Petey moved with us to a bigger house closer to downtown Dayton.

All was well until Christmas. My brother got an erector set, which was great fun. We both enjoyed building every design that was in the pamphlet.

There was a motor that made things move. My favorite was the elevator that could climb high into the tower. My brother liked the Ferris wheel, however.

That, too was fun. We’d put small things in the little seats and watch them go around and around.

Meanwhile Petey had demonstrated how very intelligent she was, by learning how to open her cage door! She’d let herself out, fly around the kitchen, then return to the top of her cage, where she’d stay until night. Petey would put herself to bed, with a little help from someone who’d shut her door.

My brother and father decided it would be great fun to put Petey in the Ferris wheel.

She’d sit there as her chair went around and around. Petey could have flown off, but she stayed put, seeming to enjoy the ride.

Until my brother got the idea to speed it up! Petey stayed put at first, but when the wheel was spinning quite fast, Petey got spooked and flew into the kitchen, where she settled on top of the cabinets.

From then on, Petey never sat on a finger, never talked, never allowed any person to get too close.

I was furious.

My dad loved tropical fish. When we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio, he set up one tank after another. I loved watching them, but it wasn’t until we moved to California that I got my first tank.

I filled it with goldfish because they were cheap, plus I loved their pretty color.

I added more and more tanks, until I had about six. I studied different types of fish, what they ate and what types would live in harmony. By the time I moved into my first apartment, I had close to ten tanks!

I loved the burble of the filtration system and found that watching the fish swim about calmed me down. I needed calming, for my parents were still attempting to control my life.

It wasn’t too long before I bought a pair of parakeets. Their pretty chirping blended nicely with the bubbling tanks.

My “pets” brought great joy to my life.

The last family pet we had was a beagle name Lady Coco. My mom hadn’t wanted a dog, so she was furious when my dad brought it home. He intended it to be a hunting dog, so he built a doghouse which he placed at the end of our yard.

The puppy was scared and lonely, so she cried and howled until someone rescued her. My mom couldn’t stand the plaintive sounds, so she brought the dog inside, ruining her for hunting.

I loved Lady Coco. She cuddled with me, let me pet her, slept on my bed and let me walk her every day when I got home from school. When we moved to California, she rod in the family car.

By then I was well into my teen years and filled with a great deal of  anger and angst. Lady Coco let me cry into her fur. She was my sounding board, for she never judged me, no matter what I told her.

I was devastated when she died.

It wasn’t until after I married that another dog entered my life. Over the next fifteen or so years, our family adopted a variety of dogs, none of them purebred, all of them strays. Some were better behaved then others, but we loved them all and mourned their passing.

When our son was about five, he fell in love with a stray cat at church. Just like with the dogs, we were never without a cat until the past year.

I’d also brought parakeets into our marriage and four tanks of fish.

As the fish died, I didn’t replace them. Money was tight, and tropical fish had gotten more and more expensive. Plus when I returned to work, there was no time to maintain the tanks properly.

Same with the birds.

It’s funny how pets enrich your lives. They give you a reason for being. They fill your house with love and loving sounds. Some are capable of loving back, while others are simply company.

My life had been filled with a variety of pets. They were there when I needed comforting. Now, since my life is one of love and support, I no longer need the calming a pet provides or the confidant that listens to my deepest, most painful thoughts.

I can love them, care for them and simply enjoy them.

Except for when my cat jumps on my puzzle table and pushes a nearly complete puzzle onto the floor!

Vacation Memories

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            Before the software existed that allow us to import photos and add written descriptions, cataloguing vacation photos was often inconsistently done. Sometimes pictures would be sealed under a thin clear film with no words to show where there were taken or even who was in them.

            After too many page turnings, the adhesive would fail and the photos would slip out.

            The glue would yellow, leaching into the pictures, fading out faces and places alike.

            Even so, I’d hang on to the albums, for they were what connected me to that past.

            After a while, however, I’d quit looking at the albums. Work and parenting demands took center court, chewing up time that I used to spend reminiscing.

            When our kids grew up, we handed over their albums, a passing of memories, so to speak. None of them seemed overjoyed at the prospect of storing those aged tomes. I have a feeling that they all ended up in the garbage. But that’s okay.

            These days I import photos into online albums, clustering them by place and theme. I research descriptions of where I’d been, so as to ensure that my information is accurate.

            When finished, all I have to do is click a button, pay over money, and then within a few weeks a glossy keepsake arrives in the mail.

            We do pull out the first albums as they remind us of the trips we’ve been on, the places we’ve visited and the things we saw.

            Initially I only took photos of “things,” never us. But then I read somewhere that our kids and grandkids need to see us as we were then, not necessarily as we are now.

            This is especially true as my husband and I quickly approach eighty.

            The first commercially prepared album was done in our sixties. We looked very different then. Both of us carried quite a bit more weight. Our hair still had some original color to it and my husband’s covered a tad more of his scalp.

            Our clothes were looser, to cover our bellies, sort of.

            We had to ask someone to take our picture if we wanted one with the two of us. Otherwise, my husband would be in two or three, me in one. I liked taking his pictures and hated the way I looked in mine.

            As time passed, we show up together in more and more albums. We got brave enough to ask for help and got less embarrassed about how we looked.

            The photos were seldom good. They might be off-kilter or out-of-focus. They might have been in shadow or in light so bright that the sun glinted in my glasses. There might be deep shadows obliterating half our faces. The background that we’d chosen might not be visible.

            So many things can go wrong!

            But, now when I create albums, we’re there, standing next to penguins in the Falkland Islands, pretending to ride a camel in Morocco, leaning against the railing of the ship at a particularly lovely port.

            I am glad that we decided to take more pictures of us. I want our family to see us, at this age, going places and doing things. Enjoying life, to the best of our ability. Eating fine meals, getting dressed for dinner, wearing sun hats to protect our faces.

            These are the important memories, not just the ones of ancient Mesa cliff dwellings or unusual rock formations or penguins dashing into the water.

            Perhaps no one in our family will want the albums, but for now, they are a living legend of who we are, where we’ve been and what we looked like at the time of that voyage. They’ll look at those pictures and remember that we walked among penguins, saw a snake charmer in Fez, and watched glaciers cave in Alaska.

A Time for Hope

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The holiday season is upon us. For many of us, it’s a time to enjoy family, share good food and a few laughs, decorate the house and give gifts to people we love.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so blessed. They live in shelters, broken-down RVs, or with an abuser who keeps tabs on everything they do. Too many have no money in the bank, no way to plan or save for a better life. Food is scarce, but thanks to pantries and kitchens that pop up this time of year, they can get a nice, warm meal. Perhaps the only thing that gives them hope.

            All too often we forget to say thanks to all those who have helped us over the years. They might have paid your college tuition, bought you a used, functioning car, took you shopping at a grocery store or at a well-known thrift store to but winter clothes.

They buy pet food so that your dog or cat can eat.

They donate clean, washed clothes to charities.

They offer rides to church and then sit and pray with you. They take you to doctor’s appointments when you’re too ill to drive yourself. They cook meals, clean your residence and look after your children when you are at whatever job you’ve been able to find.

In so many ways, people reach out and offer hope to the hopeless, joy to the joyless and kindness to those who have only been shown hate.

I am grateful to everyone who has blessed my life, who helped me work toward a career that I loved, who babysat my kids and who brought over homemade cookies and fudge.

I am lucky to have friends, both long-lasting and casual, who smile when they see me.

My husband and children have filled me with joy so many times that it’s impossible to count.

My wish for you is that you also feel the joy.