Tag Archives: essay about a memorable experience

Fire!

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We knew we would soon be moving from Ohio to California.

Our dad was an avid Cincinnati Reds fan, but had never attended a game in person. My brother played on a team, the worst team in the league. I was the better player, but back in the 60’s, girls weren’t permitted on boys’ teams, and there were no teams for girls. This irked me, to say the least.

Since my brother and I loved the sport, and we knew this was our last chance to see our beloved Reds play, we decided to earn enough money to take our family to a game.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Riddenhoure, had several fruit trees in her backyard that were overloaded with fruit. With our parent’s permission, Mrs. Riddenhoure allowed us to pick as much fruit as we could, knowing we intended to sell everything.

Our mother gave us a basket of tomatoes and another of green bell peppers.

We put everything in our rusty wagon and headed up the gravel road, knocking on doors. Each time we’d sold our load, we’d return home, pick more fruit, then head out once again.

This was hard work. Pulling a full wagon up hill was not easy. It bumped and rattled along, frequently coming to an abrupt halt when stones blocked the wheels. After we’d visited all the neighbors’ homes uphill, we headed downhill.

If you think going down was easy, you’re wrong. Imagine trying to keep a heavy load from crashing into the backs of your legs, or walking while bent over, gripping the and of the wagon, attempting to keep it from breaking loose and taking off, on its own.

We had no concept of how much tickets would cost, but after selling out, we’d return home and count the proceeds. After a couple of days doing this, our dad declared that there was enough to pay for both of my parents, plus my brother and I. Our sister stayed with another family, probably a good decision as she was only seven and held no interest in any sport.

Off we went to Cincinnati, a long drive from our rural home in Beavercreek. At first, we took single-lane country roads, then two-lane roads, then eventually a highway. (This was before freeways had been built.)

Since it took so long, I worried that we would miss the game, but, no, we arrived in plenty of time.

Our seats were on the second deck, along the third base side. I was in awe of the stadium. The lights, the signs, the excitement in the air stimulated me so much that I was trembling from joy.

I was intrigued by the perfectly mowed grass, the smooth infield dirt, the seemingly huge pitchers’ mound, and the umpires in their black uniforms.

On the ride home, my dad talked about our team, how well they played, the fact that they won. I couldn’t recall a single detail, other than the colors of the uniforms.

After we finally got back home, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep because I was over stimulated.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened as I was only a naive fourteen-year-old, but a storm moved in. Later my mom told me that the weather person on the radio (which she had on in the car) had predicted a massive thunderstorm coming our way.

Anyway, as I was comfortable under my covers, a loud crack of thunder shook the house. I was used to thunderstorms as they happened frequently, but nevertheless, each one terrified me. Well, having this one so close, shook me to the core.

Minutes after the crack, my mom opened the bedroom door and told me to get up, get dressed, in that no-nonsense tone of voice. I changed quickly, for I sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

As I entered the front room, my mom handed me the leash, and told me to take the dog to Mrs. Riddenhoure’s house. The neighbor didn’t allow dogs inside, so I sat on the step to her kitchen, unaware of what was happening outside, until daybreak.

I smelled smoke, heard additional bursts of thunder and rain beating the roof of the garage.

My brother came for me, telling me it was okay to come outside.

By that time the excitement was nearly over. Later I learned that the volunteer firemen had arrived within minutes of my dad’s call. Hoses still snaked across our front lawn, now empty and useless. Steam arose from the ashes of our garage and across the fragments of roof still standing.

Before we’d gone to the game, my dad was in the process of installing a new, more powerful, TV antenna. It looked finished to me, but apparently, he had yet to complete the last step, the most important one in a thunderstorm-prone area: grounding the antenna.

Well after the firemen had left, a man from down the hill arrived with a photo he’d taken: an image of a ball of fire descending from the sky/

That’s what had hit the antenna. The firemen, when they saw this, returned. They attempted to follow the path the lightning had taken, as it traveled inside our house.

Every window had aluminum siding. The lightning was attracted to the metal, finding it in every room on the east side of the house. After setting the garage on fire, the lighting had erupted from one side of each window, then created a hole on the opposite side, so as to continue its journey north.

It burst free out of the north side of the house, sending the boards flying and leaving behind a gaping hole.

Now my bedroom was on the east side. If I had gotten out of bed to look out the window, the lightning would have hit me, setting me on fire. It was thanks to my mother that the four of us made it safely out of the house.

What remained was piles of ash and molten remnants of bicycles, tools, and all kinds of detritus stored there. Sifting through the ash, my mom discovered that most of her canned foods had survived. We depended upon them to get us through the winter, so that was a blessing.

The only other salvageable item was the manger from the nativity set.

How did that ceramic Jesus survive, intact, with no scorch marks?

When we moved to California, Baby Jesus rode with us in the car, wrapped carefully so as not to be damaged. Once we had a place to live (we were homeless for a bit), every Christmas, it was with awe that we held that manger, placed it inside the creche, and then told everyone why it was so precious to us.

I had two regrets: one, that I had missed all the excitement dur to my confinement in the garage, with the dog, and, two, that many years later, when my parents were both deceased, that my dad’s second wife disposed of the manger without consulting me.

Fascination with Trees

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I can’t recall a time when I was not drawn to trees. They amaze me.

Day after day they change.

Imagine something that grows taller and wider at such an incrementally slow pace that it is invisible to the eye.

They change with the seasons. Some burst into new life when the sun begins to shine in spring. Tiny green buds sprout forth, signaling the wonders that are to come. Those buds become leaves. All kinds of leaves, in all shapes and sizes and colors.

When I was young, I collected leaves, especially the ones from maple trees. Such broad leaves! So green in spring and summer, but when fall arrived, they morphed into shades from red to orange to brown. I loved them all.

I miss maple trees. They grew in the woods behind our house in Ohio, but not here in California where I now live. I was disappointed to discover that I would most likely never see them again.

It wasn’t just their leaves that I loved, but also their seed pods. They were shaped like wings and if you tossed them as high above your head as you could manage, they would twirl down to the ground. I did this over and over, season after season, never growing tired of the display even well into my teen years when I should have moved on to other things.

In Ohio all trees shed their leaves in the fall and remain bare throughout the cold winters. Even when quite young I understood that winter was a time of rest, a time to store up energy to be ready to burst into action at the first sign of spring.

It was the same for me. In the winter I huddled inside where it was warm, venturing outside only when bundled from head to toe. Some days my breath froze, rising to rest on my eyebrows and hair. My teeth chattered and I thought my fingers and toes would crack and fall off.

We moved to California after my ninth grade year. The seasons here are not as differentiated as in Ohio. What we call winter is nothing to people who live in the Midwest, North or East, for there it snows and temperatures can drop well below freezing.

I’ve lived in California so long that now I think it’s cold if it’s below sixty.

Because our seasons are not as sharply delineated, not all trees go through the autumnal changes. Looking out my window right now, in mid-February, I some trees are just beginning to grow buds, some have sprouted their leaves.

Fir trees, meanwhile, stay green throughout the year.

Flowers have begun blooming, primarily roses, which seemed to never stop during the winter.

Trees that produce fruit amaze me. They are so generous, so thoughtful, even when their human caretakers are less then vigilant. Day after day apples and pears and oranges and other wonderful things ripen, all for our consumption.

Some fruits require a little work to get inside to the meat, while some don’t.

I love fruit that you can bite into and have your mouth filled with sweetness, the juice spilling onto your chin. Every time I eat an apple or pear, I am thankful that I am blessed with having such a marvelous thing to eat. On the other hand, I won’t eat peaches because I can’t stand the fuzzy outer wrapper. If someone is kind enough to peal them for me, then I’m happy. Same with mangoes.

Whenever when walking around my neighborhood,  and I see fruit growing on trees, I want to reach up, pull off just one and take a bite. But I don’t. I don’t know how needy the owners are. Perhaps that apple is their only sustenance of the day. Perhaps the orange is their only access to vitamin C. I would not want to steal that treasure from them. So I walk on.

In our neighborhood there are not as many trees as when we first moved in fifty years ago. Some have died. Some have been taken down by their owners. Some removed by the city because their roots were growing into the pipes or raising sidewalks to a dangerous level.

I miss all the once grand, sprawling trees that hung out over the road creating a marvelous canopy! So beautiful. Now gone. The young trees that were planted as replacements are just now beginning to grow taller and wider, reaching out over the street.

We have the pleasure of driving through forests on whenever we our way get into the mountains. I love to look at the trees, how magically they grow out of rock and cling to the sides of granite cliffs as if they were meant to be there. When the sun shines on them they are a wonderfully deep green.  They sing with life! And when you get close enough you can take in their rich aroma, like sticking your head in a cedar chest from long ago.

When they are covered with snow it is a picture straight from Christmas cards. I imagine myself riding on a horse-drawn sleigh under their boughs and having dollops of snow fall on my head as I lean back laughing. I have never done this, but nevertheless I can place myself in the scene.

When I was young I did not wear glasses. Trees frightened me because I thought each and every one would fall on my head, killing me. In fourth grade my teachers demanded that I get glasses. I remember the bus ride home, after getting my first pair of glasses, looking out the window and seeing that the leaning trees no longer leaned! It was a miracle.

Trees defy the passage of time as they remind us of all they have to offer.

I hope that I will never lose my ability to appreciate the wonderful gift that each tree is.

A Walk in Nature

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            This morning my friend and I met out near the Hayward Shoreline for an early morning walk. The temperature was a crisp 43 degrees, but there was no wind.

            The path was dry, thanks to several days with no rain.

            The sky was a bit overcast, a thin layer of clouds creating an overall appearance of grayness. Not doom, thank goodness, but a feeling of dread. Fitting for our conversation began with a rehashing of all the political damage being done by the administration’s lackeys.

            We shared our concerns about the environment, health, Medicare, and worries about all the government employees facing uncertain times. Imagine being told to resign via email when the job market is tight. When your particular skills might not translate into a public-sector job.

            Tiny birds flew away when the crunching of gravel startled them. They didn’t go far: just enough to keep an eye on us.

            Storm damage was visible here and there. Scattered gravel from the extremely high winds we’d had the week before. The trail washed out wherever it traversed flat land. Near the bay, driftwood lay as if thrown by a giant, lining the edges of the trail like a low-lying fence, narrowing the width of the trail to about a foot.

            The tide was out, but the usual shore birds were no where to be seen. We crossed the first of two wooden bridges, just in time to see a pair of ducks swim by. They seemed at peace, gliding along without a care in the world.

            We watched them for a bit, enjoying the waves that surrounded them as they swam, their reflections in the relatively still water.

            We’d been coming to this spot for several years now.

            When the pandemic hit in 2020, we’d been hiking in a local park. The trails were steep, going up and down rolling hills bordered by tall trees, that in spring and summer, gave needed relief from the sun. And because the paths were wide, at no time did we violate the “six-foot separation” recommendation.

            But we’re both five years older. Our bodies can no longer take the brutal climbs.

            So when my knee began giving me problems and my friend’s feet hurt as well, we switched to the shoreline park. The trail is completely flat, dirt and fine gravel the entire loop.

            It’s hard to hear the crunch of gravel as we walk, for we keep up a steady stream of conversation the entire time. We jump from topic to topic, sometimes sharing stories about family, then jumping back to politics, then moving on to pool happenings.

            I used to be able to walk the entire loop, about ninety minutes altogether, but since I injured my knee, on top of having long Covid, most days I can only make it to the end of the second bridge before turning back.

            How to tell that a person is a good friend? She’s supported me, walked with me, no matter how little I can do.

            At some point the sun broke through the clouds. Our shadows now preceded us, a small reminder of how insignificant we really are in the grand scheme of the universe. We might have big ideas, but only have the ability to tackle one small issue at a time.

            Sometimes we can smell the bay, a distinct fishy odor, but not today. Sometimes we feel a slight breeze caressing our cheeks and necks, but not today. It was almost as if nature was taking a break, giving us a chance to simply enjoy being together.

            Just before we reached the final turn, I spotted a large white bird, standing tall. It was the biggest egret I’ve ever seen. I wanted to take its photo, but a fence stood between us, a fitting reminder that nature also gets a bit of privacy.

Deadlines

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            Over forty years ago a good friend taught me how to make various flowers for decorating cakes. Hers were always perfect: mine not so much. What made it special was working side-by-side as she demonstrated, then talked me through it.

            After every session I’d go home with containers of different kinds and different colors of flowers, plus tips and bags and even spare icing so I could make some more. When my kids’ birthdays arrived, I experimented with cartoon characters, truck shapes, and even a swimming pool since our older son was doing well on his swim team.

            From a distance, my flowers and vines and leaves looked pretty good. Only someone like my friend, who was quite talented, would see the flaws.

            My younger sister had been in and out of quite a few relationships. She’d married one older man, but he was looking for in-house babysitting. After a few months, that marriage ended.

            There was a second marriage to a seemingly nice guy, but apparently when no one was around he was violent and abusive. That marriage also fell apart, and for good reasons.

            By the time she married for the third time, I was pretty experienced at cake decorating. My mom volunteered my services, at no cost, of course. My family failed to tell me what flavor of cake and filling, nor what color scheme for flowers. Or even if there were to be flowers.

            The only instruction I had was to make a three-tiered cake. I thought that was interesting, as my parents had few friends and no relatives other than myself and my brother lived nearby.

            A week before the ceremony, I baked the three cake layers. Once they had cooled, I covered them and stored them in the freezer, as my friend had taught me to do.

            At that time, my kids were in elementary school, plus I was teaching part time. So, in between my real job and caring for my family, I spent evenings making flower after flower. Since I had no idea how many I’d need, I made tons.

            Two days before the wedding I removed the cakes from the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator.

            I made a buttercream frosting, white, then stored it in the fridge as well.

            The day before I covered each layer with the frosting, making sure the middle layers were thick.

            I covered the bottom layer with green vines and leaves. I stacked on the second layer and covered it with vines and leaves, then did the same with the third.

            I still had tons to do and was panicking about not finishing in time, when someone knocked on my door. I was expecting company, so I was surprised, and truthfully, annoyed, to see my pastor on the front step.

            He claimed he was dropping by for “a visit.” As he’s talking, I’m trying to listen, but mentally all I’m seeing are the ticking hands of a clock.

            He finally got to the real point of his visit. I’d half-heartedly applied to be on the new-to-be-formed Parish Council. I really didn’t want the position, but church friends thought I was a good candidate.

            He said that I wasn’t a “good candidate” and that I wasn’t approved. I thanked him, then stood and headed toward the front door. Of course he followed, talking all the way, piling on one excuse after another.

            Truth be told, I was relieved even though it hurt to be rejected.

The most important thing, at the point in my day, was to get him out of the house so I could finish the cake before I had to pick up my kids from school.

I might have been a bit rude, but he’d made his point. It should have been obvious that I had an unfinished cake on the dining room table. How could you miss a three-layer cake?

I was up against a deadline.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, I told him goodbye, shut and locked the door, then returned to work.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the cake was complete. To me, it looked pretty good. I had used the best flowers which I arranged in a pleasing design. A happy couple was imbedded in the top layer.

It wasn’t my responsibility to get it to the reception, which was important as I had no intention of going.

The most important details were complete: a finished cake sat on the table, and despite my fears, it looked beautiful.

I never heard from my sister if she was pleased, but that’s another story.

Missing Gift

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            We didn’t have a lot of money when our family was growing up. We’d skimp and save in order to replace a broken washer, or purchase off-brand foods that were usually bits and pieces of canned fruit, broken noodles, dented cans. We only bought what was essential and always, always on sale.

            When our oldest son was about to graduate from eighth grade, we thought he should have a reliable watch to see him through high school. I checked every ad, looking for the best deal on a good watch.

            I finally found one during the pre-Christmas sales. It wasn’t too expensive, it was a well-known brand, and better yet, it was on sale at a price we could afford.

            My husband entertained the kids while I supposedly went out shopping. In actuality, I snuck around the side of the house, past a large sliding glass door, then crawled in through a window in our bedroom. I had to stay completely silent, so no radio blaring, and keeping the cutting of wrapping paper and the application of scotch tape as quiet as possible.

            We heated the house with a wood-burning stove in the family room instead of using the furnace, so it was quite cold in the bedroom. I wore a heavy coat, stocking cap, and long-sleeved sweatshirts.

            At the end of a specified period of time, I’d hide the gifts in our closets, climb out through the window, slink around the side of the house and open the garage door. I’d always have packages to carry in, items I’d left in the trunk of the car for just that purpose.

            After the kids had fallen asleep, my husband and I carried all the wrapped gifts out from our bedroom and place them under the tree.

            According to tradition, the kids couldn’t get out of bed until my husband went into the front room, turned on all the lights and pronounced that Santa had been there.

            With a great amount of shrieking and laughter, we gathered around our tree and opened gifts, one-by-one. Mounds of wrapping paper were soon all over the floor, accompanied by ribbons and bows, all of which we’d recycle for next year.

            I kept track, and all gifts but one were accounted for: the watch.

            As the kids built Lego structures or played with new toys, I scoured the house, searching through all my usual hiding spots. The watch was nowhere to be found.

            There was one possible place left, one that I didn’t cherish searching: the large garbage can outside.

            This event took place before formal state-wide recycling took place, which meant that everything would be in the can! Food scraps, greasy food coverings, tin cans, crumpled aluminum foil, newspapers, and even lawn cuttings.

            I put on a pair of my husband’s yard gloves and began sorting, moving things one way, then the other, alternating sides, digging deeper and deeper into the much.

            My heart was pounding, harder and harder, as disappointment took over. I wasn’t going to find the watch, our son wouldn’t have a nice gift to take him into the future.

            Imagine my relief when the rectangular box finally appeared!

            And it was unsoiled, a true miracle.

            I tucked it under my sweatshirt and carried it inside and down the hall. I hastily wrapped it, then hid it behind the tree when no one was looking.

            When our son discovered it, unwrapped it, opened the box, his face lit up!

Unexpected Reunion

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            There’s something sweet about running into friends you haven’t seen in twenty years. A magnetic pull draws your eyes on each other, there’s the tilting of heads and wondering, is that…? And then you think about it some more, glancing at her face, looking for a tidbit of recognition.

            What’s incredible is the joy you feel when you remember Judy, how kindly she treated you, how she welcomed you into her group of friends.

            Going way back in time, I was hired to teach a Special Day Class at an elementary in Newark, California. This would be my first job as a special education instructor, with just six credits behind me. I’d been teaching for over a decade by then, but always with “regular” education students.

            I knew how to deliver instruction to them, but had only research and whatever I’d gleaned from the two college-level courses I’d taken.

            My students were fourth and fifth graders. All needy, all with severe learning disabilities that impacted academic work. But out on the playground, they were “normal” kids wanting to have “normal” friends.

            Think back to your school years. Nine and ten years olds can be mean. They target the weak and different. They exclude anyone who might impact their own social status. They won’t eat lunch with them, include them in playground games, and don’t like it when “those” kids enter their classroom for shared lessons.

            I could deal with that. I taught my students about bullies, taught them how to ask to join, taught them how to act in public.

            I integrated them into “regular” classrooms whenever possible, something every special education student has a right to do.

            What I didn’t expect was to be ostracized by my peers, those teaching the same age students that sat in my classroom.

            A very definite clique existed. There was a group of about five teachers who sat in the same seats during lunch and meetings. They spoke only to group members. They shared curriculum ideas only with group members.

            When gatherings evidence for a state-mandated review, they highlighted the achievements of their students, and even though I submitted my students’ work, none of it showed up in the finished binder.

            They planned fieldtrips for all fourth graders, but didn’t include mine. Same with the fifth graders. At the end of the school year their classes organized a picnic at the local park. As in every other way, my students weren’t included. In fact, if I hadn’t overheard them talking, I wouldn’t have known about it.

            I didn’t feel welcome.

            The lower grades were clustered on the east side of the campus. I could look out my classroom window and see them coming and going. I could hear the joyous sounds of the children and wish that my students could experience that same joy.

            Since I was an outcast during lunch and meetings, I often found myself seated near the lower-grade teachers. They were warm and welcoming. When I needed help, unlike the clique, they were there for me.

            They welcomed my students into their classes and treated them as equals.

            They became my friends.

            When our principal announced his retirement, at the same time, my Director of Special Education offered me a position at the high school, something I’d wanted for years.  I declined, not wanting to leave those lower-grade friends.

            A few weeks later, the new principal was introduced. She was a member of the clique, the one who refused to include my students’ work in the binder, the one who only looked at me with disdain, the one who didn’t want my students integrated with hers.

            I contacted the Director and accepted the transfer. But I told no one.

            I didn’t want a fake goodbye party or cards or a cake. I didn’t want to be treated to a lunch. Why should I? Only one of the upper grade teachers ever “saw” me or my students.

            So when the year ended, the last meetings had been held, when most teachers had cleaned up and gone home, I packed my things on a weekend, and left. Period.

            Today my friend Judy told me that my friends had wondered what had happened to me, why I left without saying goodbye.

            She was sad when I told her. She said that none of them knew what had happened, how my students were ostracized and how rudely I’d been treated.

            What’s wonderful is that we reconnected immediately. Before today’s lunch ended, we’d exchange phone numbers and promise to get together.

            As I was driving home, my eyes filled with tears. I am looking forward to seeing them, catching up and being included in a social circle that I thought had long ago forgotten who I was.

            What’s weird is that I know her husband through a writers’ group, but I had never connected his last name with someone from my past.

            Reunions can be sweet, and this one certainly was.

The End

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            I love music. Have loved it since I was quite young. I seldom sang where someone could here me, primarily because my family told me I couldn’t sing.

            My bedroom was the only place I felt comfortable singing, always in a soft voice. Unfortunately, I shared the room with my younger sister. That meant that I could only sing when she wasn’t in the room. And because she knew how to annoy me, she’d pop in whenever she heard the door close.

            We had a backyard, though. I started going outside whenever the dog was there, to keep her company (she was like a therapy dog long before there were such things). That worked only as long as it wasn’t raining or foggy, and since the house was up on Skyline Boulevard in San Bruno, it was often in fog.

            I took to walking the dog, carrying a small radio. I’d sing as we strolled up and down hills. One day, lost in song, I didn’t see the loose dog charging mine. I picked up Lady Coco and cradled her to my chest as the evil monster leapt up, over and over, trying to kill her.

            Because I was miserable at home, I had to get out of the house every day, usually at least twice a day, to give myself to calm down, to let the tears dry up, to settle my stomach. Even though Coco had been close to being killed, I wanted, no needed, to walk her.

            I left the radio behind and carried a wooden baseball bat. My music wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t sing.

            I traded my sanity for safety. I never regretted the choice.

            I didn’t sing again for many years. Well, until I bought my first car and found radio stations I liked. As long as I was alone (I frequently was forced to drive my sister places), I could sing.

            I never took a music class in high school or college. I never joined the church choir. I never sang on camping trips. And when my husband gave me a guitar for Christmas one year, I never accompanied myself.

            My first real teaching job was at a Catholic Elementary school. Teachers attended many workshops and seminars, dealing with a wide range of topics. Most were sort of okay. Not earth-shattering.

            Then we all went to the Cathedral in Oakland for three full days of music, services and workshops. Well known writers attended, singing tracks on their albums. Oh, how I loved those sessions!

            Music came back, full blast. I began singing, at church, with my students, to music in my car and at home. (I was now married, to a wonderful man who encouraged me to try everything.)

            Our church formed a small choir to sing at our Mass. I sat near the pianist, singing along. A friend convinced me to join. I did, but sang in a whisper, terrified that I’d hit a gazillion bad notes.

            The numbers of participants varied widely. Sometimes there might be six, others just two. Then one Mass it was just me. The time had come for me to raise my voice and sing.

            I’m not sure how I summoned the courage, but I did. Not just for that one Mass, but for many to come. I was often a soloist, leading the congregation in the psalm (standing up front at the podium).

            I did okay.

            Then that choir director was replaced with a very, very young overconfident, full of himself director. He did an excellent job encouraging people to join. He taught us how to really “read” music, to follow the symbols for dynamics, to blend voices.

            All was going well until we held a session at a choir member’s house. I was scheduled to be the cantor at Sunday’s Mass. During a break, I approached the director to go over the psalm. He informed me that I couldn’t sing, that I had to get rid of the vibration in my voice.

            I felt me cheeks get hot, packed my bag and left.

            I didn’t return to the choir until that director was replaced with a smiling, pleasant, encouraging young man.

            He made me feel welcomed and valued. I returned to cantoring the psalm and was often the only choir member (during the pandemic when we held Mass in the school parking lot.)

            He left for a new job.

            The new director brought a soloist with an incredible voice. She only seemed to know about four songs, the words were never projected for the congregation to see, and he made no attempt to form a choir.

            He left suddenly a few months ago. The new director, another young man, this one a graduate in Music, started a choir. I joined shortly after.

            A week ago he asked me to cantor the psalm. Just the thought of singing up there, in front of the congregation made my head hurt. He encouraged me, met me privately to go over the psalm.

            Sunday came. I practice out in the garage, going over and over the psalm. I knew I wasn’t ready, I knew I wasn’t hitting the right notes, and I knew I was too scared to do it.

            When I arrived at church, I should have said something, I should have declined (there were two seasoned cantors there who could have taken over) but I didn’t.

            Two of my friends recorded my “performance”. I didn’t have to listen as I knew every off-key note I’d hit.

            The humiliation was so great, so painful, that I could barely walk out of church.

            The intent was to add me to the rotating list of cantors. When rehearsal comes up Friday, I will announce boldly, clearly, without hesitation that I will never, ever cantor again.

            I will sing with the choir, where I feel both comfortable and confidant, but my days of being a cantor have come to an abrupt end.

The Crowd Around Me

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I transferred to USC at the end of my freshman year of college, completing a number of requisites at the local community college. I’d wanted to got to Ohio State where I’d live with my grandma. She needed help: I needed a place to stay. But my parents wouldn’t let me although I never understood why.

Even though we lived just south of San Francisco, they shook their heads when I asked to enroll at San Francisco State. At that time, freshmen had to live on campus. The university was in a safe neighborhood, but that didn’t matter. For some bizarre reason, my parents felt it was a hotbed of rape.

My brother and I had both applied to USC, both were accepted, and both got state scholarships that covered my entire tuition. Because he was going there, that was the only college my parents accepted.

At that time, back in 1970, the football team was a powerhouse, winning game after game, going to the Rose Bowl my first year there. Students got in free, or almost free. My brother’s friends invited me to tag along.

I was sued to Tommy Trojan riding in on his white horse, the song, the yell, the roar of the crowd, but everything was amplified in that stadium.

USC won, but I couldn’t tell you the score all these years later. I do recall my jubilation and the excited voices as we streamed out and headed toward the car.

My junior year the team, once again, made it to the Rose Bowl. This time I didn’t go with my brother’s friends, but with a young man I’d met in my dorm.

We didn’t have assigned seats that year, so we joined the crowd building outside the stadium.

Fencing had been installed, closing off all points of entry. As my friend and I walked from our car to where we’d wait, we were pulled by the flood of humanity. There was an electrical feel of excitement, almost as if someone had dropped live wires in our midst.

There was yelling, cheering, and pushing. And more pushing. At first, we didn’t mind as we were up against the fence, practically ensuring good seats.

We’d arrived hours before the game. Pasadena can get hot even in January, and it was that day. I stupidly hadn’t worn a hat, but I was still a teenager, likely to do stupid things.

It was also before people carried water bottles everywhere, so with the sun streaming and the suffocating crowds, I began feeling a bit off. There was nothing to be done except stand and wait.

The crowd got restless and began screaming to be let in. Police officers were deployed to where I was, on the opposite side of the fence. The protests grew louder, and profanities flew.

Around twelve-thirty, only thirty minutes began kickoff, a surge began behind me. Elbows pressed into my back as I was shoved against the fence.

I grabbed the metal wires, hoping to stay on my feet. My right cheek was smashed against the bars, forcing my head as far left as if could go.

My friend tried to shield me, but someone squeezed in between us. I could just make out the top of my friend’s head, but with my arms pressed against metal, I couldn’t reach out for his hand.

The crowd continued pushing, making it hard from me to breathe. I opened my mouth wide to try to take in air, but it didn’t help. I began feeling lightheaded and yelled my friend’s name, but he couldn’t hear.

A larger wave, a crush of people, surged, lifting me off my feet. I thought I was going to die, even though this was before we’d heard of people dying by stampede.

I let go when I felt the fence move. As it collapsed, the crowd forced me to step on the twisted metal.

As soon as I was on stadium grounds, the crowd roared past me. I found a bit of shelter close to the building. Tears poured down my face because I was frightened, I still couldn’t breathe, and I understood that I almost died.

My friend found me, thank goodness, and together we entered the stadium. The best seats were gone by now, but we didn’t care. From where we sat, we were able to see the game.

Most importantly, we realized what a terrifying experience that had been.

USC won.

Haircut Woes

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            When our kids were young, we didn’t have a lot of money. I was a stay-at-home mom until our youngest turned two. By that time, I was interested in teaching preschool. I enrolled in classes at the community college that would lead to that goal.

            I learned a lot about designing appropriate curriculum, classroom management and organization. I got hired by the local recreation department to teach two classes per day, five days a week. For a whopping $2.50 an hour.

            My husband worked for the federal government making a good salary, but with all the expenses of owning a house and raising three kids, we had to cut corners wherever we could.

            I’d buy powdered milk and mix it into a half-gallon of milk, just to expand it. I’d water down juices and buy pretend cheese slices and ice milk to give the kids a treat.

            When I needed a haircut, I’d go to the beauty school. The free cuts were upstairs, theoretically under the constant supervision of instructors. Well, that was a lie. More than once too much would be chopped off or things would be lopsided or the perm wouldn’t take. I’d look funny until the next cut.

            Then I’d have a new, weird look.

            I got tired of unevenly cut hair, short on one side, longer on the other, so I moved one level up where things improved. Somewhat.

            The supervision was more consistent, the cuts more uniform, the perms looser. I did have to pay a nominal fee, which I didn’t mind as at least my hair was getting taken care of.

            At my job, I decided that preschool should have an educational component. With my nominal salary, I bought resource materials, put lessons in place, and saw my students learning at an astonishing rate. Parents wrote letters to my boss (I didn’t tell them to do that!) and soon I got a raise to $2.75. Yippee!

            Because our kids were bigger, they ate more, needed more. Thrift store clothing was harder to find. School supplies had to be new. Uniforms as well. Shoes, well, most of the time they could be handed down.

            Generic food items appeared on shelves, in yellow labels so you’d know you were getting below-standard shapes and sizes of pears, noodles, juices.

            My kids were playing soccer, a sport I knew nothing about. I studied the rules of the game. Went to referee school, then started working at least four games per weekend. Each game paid ten dollars.

            There was a lot of construction in the area. I’d take my kids out to the sites. We’d walk about, looking for cans to recycle. Sometimes we’d find money. One time I saw a bill sticking out of the dirt, dug it out: twenty dollars! We stopped at the grocery store on the way home.

            Meanwhile I composed an instruction manual for Tot Time teachers, a complete resource that covered all aspects of curriculum, from song and dance, to arts and crafts, to physical activity.

            My boss was impressed. Had it copied and given to all Tot Time teachers, then gave me a raise. I now made over three dollars an hour!

            I decided that the time had come to move to the main floor of the beauty school, to the side where more skilled students trained. There was less supervision. Sometimes the students cut my hair sort of like I wanted, but most of the time they got creative. I’d never know what my hair would look like.

            I don’t like surprises. Not birthday parties, not drop-in visitors, and definitely not hairstyles.

            I’d dreamed of being a teacher since I began school. School was the only safe place for me. My teachers were generally kind, but usually they ignored me because I was behind academically. I thought, hoped, that someday I could provide a safe haven for kids like me.

            There was no money for me to go to a four-year college. I kept plugging along, taking classes at the community college, working at Tot Time, refereeing soccer games and searching construction sites for money.

            After years of watching students cut my hair, I had a general sense of what to do. My husband gave me a set of hair cutting tools for Christmas. I began cutting everyone’s hair, saving quite a bit of money.

            The boys were easy as they wanted very short hair. My husband didn’t care what his looked like, but I was shaky every time because he couldn’t look odd going to work. My daughter was different.

            She only wanted her bangs trimmed. I’d hold the scissors even, in one hand. With the other I’d press her hair to her forehead. I’d cut slowly and carefully, but every time, her bands would slope to one side. It was a such a disaster that she’d cry.

            I understood how she felt.

            In a way, my dad was right about a woman’s hair. People paid attention to how a woman looked. Men, not so much.

            When I entered high school, I was tired of my long hair. I wanted it cut to shoulder-length. He didn’t say I couldn’t, so my mom took me to a salon and had it done.

            My dad came home from work, took one look, then berated me for hours. Days. Calling me every foul name he could think of. My dictionary got a lot of use because I was unfamiliar with the words. All were hurtful and incorrect. That’s not what I was.

            The one positive was that I understood how important it is to have a popular style, a proper cut. It was one thing for me to get a free or cheap cut, but my kids deserved better.

            Fortunately, thanks to my sister-in-law, I was now working toward an elementary teaching credential and had been hired as an assistant in a Kindergarten. I made a whopping $5,000 a year!

            With the additional resources, I quit scouring construction sites, but I still working soccer games. We still scrimped wherever we could, eating a lot of chicken and hamburger. One area where I quit cutting costs was with hair.

            After too many disastrous cuts, I began taking all the kids to one of those low-cost salons. They were happier and my stress-level went down. Because I was working in a formal educational setting, I had to quit going to the beauty school. I needed consistency.

            My take-away is that your hair style is important. It has to satisfy you outwardly, which translates to inner happiness. A poor cut is upsetting in so many ways, but the most troubling is that it is with you until the next cut.

            I hate to admit it, but there was some truth to my dad’s opinion. How you look on the outside matters. It’s what people notice the first time they meet you, and if it’s a negative reaction, that’s how they continue to see you. For years.

            As a parent I did what I could to provide for my family. There was food on the table, they had clean clothes and shoes that fit. They attended good schools and participated in various activities. I took them to parks for play and exploration, worked with them on academics so they’d do better in school, and made sure they could swim.

            Having their hair cut by professionals was one of the best decisions I ever made. It made them feel good about themselves, which made me feel good about myself. In the end, everyone was happy.

            You can’t put a price on that.

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!