Tag Archives: 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.

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.

Mountains

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            So many times, obstacles arise in our lives that at first appearance, seem insurmountable. There’s a temptation to give up, to walk way with downcast shoulders. But after a few steps, we turn around and take another look.

            A stronghold appears, low enough to give us a boost, just enough to get started. We rush back, reach and grab, pull ourselves up. And when we bend our heads back, we see another and another. Bit by tiny bit, the top gets closer.

            When I was a young teen, my primary goal was to move away from my dysfunctional family. I’d dream up a plan, but then millions of obstacles filled my mind, all convincing me that escape was impossible.

            Until my family moved to California.

            You couldn’t go online to research thangs back in the mid-sixties, but my new high school showed me a way out. Prominently displayed outside the counselor’s office was a notice about state scholarships for deserving, low-income students.

            That possibility opened my eyes, lightened my heart, and put a bounce in my steps. All I had to do was maintain my straight-A grade point average to qualify. I knew I could do that, and if faced with a challenging class or grumpy teacher, I’d double down, study harder.

            Every night after finishing my many household chores, I’d remove myself to my room and study, as late as I could. It did disrupt my sleep, but the window for escape kept me energized throughout the school day.

            When it was time to apply, my counselor, on my request, submitted the paperwork. She cautioned me that I most likely won’t get the scholarship, telling me that I wasn’t “college-material”.

            When the letter came, congratulating me on being a recipient, imagine how thrilled I was!  It would pay full tuition to any college in California. I would still need money for room and board, books and other necessities.

            There was a complication, however. My parents would only let me attend whatever college my brother chose. He’d be there to protect me, watch over me. Considering our rocky relationship, that’s the last thing I needed or wanted.

            Since neither of my parents had gone beyond high school, they had no concept of how large a college campus was, how easy it would be for me to avoid my brother.

            A huge obstacle overcome.

            Over my next fifty years of life, I’ve attacked every roadblock presented, with determination despite struggles. Each time I succeeded made me stronger, made me who I am today: wife, mother, published author and more.

            I’m sure more mountains will arise before me, but I will fight, climb, crawl, claw my way up and over.

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!

A Walk in the Past

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When I was in elementary school, every year we were given an assignment to write about our family’s Christmas traditions. We had none. No menorah to light or stockings to hang and no fireplace. We were Catholic, but not consistently practicing ones.

No advent candles marked the coming of Christmas. No extra trips to church; not even for confession. No special foods, except for a sickly-sweet date-based treat that my Grandma Rieske made.

My dad would buy a real tree and store it in the garage, in a bucket of water, until the time was right for decorating.  He always went alone. I never understood why I couldn’t go: choosing a tree seemed like it would be fun. But that’s not how my family functioned.

When it was time to decorate, my dad would stretch out the strings of lights all over the floor. He’d cuss and yell, often and loudly, because the wires would always be tangled despite being carefully stored away the prior year.

He’d plug them in, and if a string didn’t light, he would painstakingly replace a bulb, plug it back in. If it didn’t work, he’d remove the new bulb, put it in a different slot, and so on, until he’d get the thing to work.

At first it was fun to watch, but then he’d get angrier and angrier as time went on. I’d disappear.

Once he had lights, he was the one who strung them on the tree. According to him, he was the only one who could ensure proper placement.

One time my mom put the lights on when he was at work. Oh, that was a huge mistake! He threw a temper tantrum fit for a toddler.

My siblings and I were allowed to hang the ornaments, but only under his supervision. The sizes, shapes and colors had to be balanced, not clustered.

Our ornaments were cheap, easily breakable things. Nothing special about them, no heirlooms, no gifts from family.  Nothing fancy, either, just solid colors that were quickly fading.

Tinsel came next. There was an art to placing these strands of foil.

My dad was in charge of the process. He’d lie on his back, under the tree, and slowly, methodically, worked outward, would place one strand at a time, exactly one-inch space between each. 

The tinsel also had to drape evenly over the branch, so that the edges were in perfect alignment.

Night after night, my dad would slide under the tree, placing the tinsel so carefully that, when finished, it was a shimmering silver wave.

He’d work hi way up the trunk, always from inside out. He’d stop periodically to check of his work.  If he didn’t like something, he’d pull off all the tinsel from that section and start again.

None of us were allowed to drape a single tinsel on the tree.

It changed when we moved to California. My brother and I were both teens, in high school, and showing reasonable intelligence. Plus my dad was having difficulty finding full time work, and often drove for hours to and from a printing office that hired him for a day.

I don’t think he allowed us to take over out of trust, but rather because he lacked time and energy. He did, however, inspect our work. Anything found to be substandard had to be redone.

Only after the last bit of tinsel was applied were strings of garland added. There was an art for garland hanging.

You began in the back, tucking an end around a lower branch. As you circumnavigated the tree, the garland must travel in a wave-like pattern, rising and falling as with the tide. The distance between each wave had to be precise.

Interestingly enough, he had no rules about the color, so our garland strings were in many different colors over the years.

Another “tradition” concerned the manager. It could be displayed at any time after Thanksgiving. The entire entourage would be present, even though we all knew that the angels and shepherds didn’t arrive until Christ was born. The wise men bowed in supplication weeks before the baby appeared. The “star” was lit every night, pointing the way.

Even after my younger sister no longer believed in Santa, after we were in bed, Christmas Eve, my father unwrapped the baby Jesus and placed him before Mary and Joseph. I was the one who would go straight to the manger in the morning and announce that the Christ child had arrived.

My siblings headed for the gifts.

Gift opening took up an entire morning. We never had more than three gifts each, but my mother insisted that each gift be opened with the same precision and care that she put into the wrapping.

My dad handed out the gifts. My brother opened his first, then me, then my sister. Mom came next, and then my dad. Paper was gently removed, folded, and stacked.  Ribbon remnants and bows received the same treatment. “Leftovers” were packed away for the next year.

There were behavioral expectations. We had to show proper appreciation for each gift, meaning that there were oohes and aahes all morning long. Even if you didn’t like the gift, or had not asked for it, you had to fake appreciation and gratitude. Any sign of ungraciousness, and you were sent away while the rest of the family finished. Sometimes you’d get the rest of your gifts later that day, but not always.

You also had to sit perfectly still while someone else opened their gift.

We seldom had large meals. When you’re poor, you eat a lot of beans and potatoes, but on Christmas we enjoyed ham, scalloped potatoes, baked beans, rolls, and a homemade pie for dessert.

During the summer of my thirteenth year, when we still lived in Ohio, a surprise thunderstorm arose in the early morning. It was a viscous, thunderous affair, rattling not just windows, but the entire house.

There was a huge explosion that made me sit up in bed. My mother, not my dad, was the one who searched the house to make sure we were all okay. As she passed the room I shared with my sister, she told us to stay in bed, then closed the door.

Later on, we learned that lightning had struck the antenna attached to our garage.  My dad knew it had to be grounded, but had not had time to do so. When the lightning hit, our house exploded in a ball of fire.

After the volunteer firemen left, and the ashes had cooled, we discovered that the garage had suffered the most. One whole side was gone, and everything inside was melted metals and ash.

My mother insisted we sift through the remains. I didn’t want to, but I did so because it was expected.

It fascinated me how some things were whole while others were decimated.

My bike was unscathed, but my brother’s, which sat right next to mine, was a melted ruin. My mother’s canned foods sat proudly on their shelf, next to a crystal radio set that was a charred mess. 

The most surprising find was the Christmas manager. The manger itself was nothing but ash. Mary, Joseph, the angels, shepherds and wise men survived, but were badly charred. The baby Jesus, which had been wrapped, like all the other figures, in flimsy tissue paper, was unscathed. Not one burn mark.  All the fingers were there, as was the halo. 

If you didn’t know it had been in a fire, you’d think it had just come from the store.

Years late as I recall that morning, it gives me goose bumps. How could that figurine, cheaply made of a ceramic cast, have survived the intense heat of the blaze, when all the rest of the manger set was destroyed?

Standing in the still smoldering ruins of our garage, as I stared at the figurine cradled in my mother’s hands, I felt an electrical charge run up my back. An awareness stole over me, an awareness that just as baby Jesus was saved from the fire, so would I be spared from the never-ending torture that was my life.

I was convinced that as long as I believed in Him, I was promised life eternal. 

In my church we don’t usually talk about “being saved” or “accepting Jesus as my savior,” but I felt as if I had been pulled back from a precipice, and that I was, indeed, saved.

From those humble Christmas traditions, I did takeaway some important lessons. I developed respect for the gift and the giver. I understood pride in accomplishment. I discovered that Christmas was not about material possessions, but about the power of the Lord to pull us through fire and travesty.

Even though my relationship with my parents continued to be tense until they both passed away, I eventually understood that they wanted us to give homage where homage was due, to honor God and family, and to take time to enjoy the true meaning of Christmas.

Eating Out

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I’ve always loved eating out. When I was a kid, it was something we rarely did.

Low-income families don’t have money for unnecessary expenditures. Meals were either at home or not at all. Or, if we were lucky, my mom might prepare picnic foods that could be easily transported, it would go into the car along with the dog, and off we’d go, looking for a nice park with a tad of shade.

The first time I remember eating at a counter was at a drug store in Dayton, Ohio. My mom and I had taken the bus into town in order to see an eye doctor. After finding out that I needed glasses, my mom decided to treat me.

There were colorful balloons floating above the register. The clerk asked which one I wanted. It was tough choosing. Red? Blue? Green? I don’t recall which I selected, but once I’d decided, the clerk popped the balloon. Inside was a coupon for a free banana split.

My eyes grew wide as the clerk layered ice cream and toppings on the split banana, then topped it off with tons of whupped cream and three cherries. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever had.

The following week we returned after picking up my new glasses. Balloons still floated. I still got to choose. I told the clerk I was wishing for another banana split. I crossed my fingers as she punctured the balloon.

I didn’t get that split, but instead won a milkshake! Oh, it was difficult choosing the flavor as I’d never had one of those before.

One time my family was traveling to Kansas. When it was time for dinner, my dad stopped at a large restaurant. It was so big inside and so noisy, that I was awestruck. We each got a tray, then slid it along rails, looking at the foods on the other side of a glass barrier.

My dad carefully monitored what we got. I remember jello, bread, and soup. Those weren’t all that I wanted, but I had to be satisfied.

Much later I realized it was cafeteria style, meaning that we were charged for each item.

My dad was a semi-professiional bowler who traveled all over the Midwest in order to participate in tournaments. Most of the time he went alone, but sometimes the whole family would go. We’d always bring our own food, but there was one time when we stopped at a Bob’s Big Boy.

The large statue of a boy standing on the roof imposed me so much so that every time since, when I’ve seen that same boy, I’m filled with warmth.

It’s weird that I remember those few times that my family didn’t eat a homemade meal. But when it’s special, when it’s unique, impressions are made that aren’t easily forgotten.

Once I started working and earning my own money, I did eat out a few times, usually at fast food chains. Not the healthiest choices, but they were choices I made, not ones forced upon me.

As a parent, I tried to treat my kids to meals every now and then. If I had enough money, I’d join them, but if not, I’d enjoy watching them devour burgers and fries, tacos and beans.

My husband and I love date days in which we see a movie and enjoy a lunch out. Sometimes it’s chili dogs and fries, sometimes a deli sandwich, and if we’ve got a coupon, a nice meal at a sit-down restaurant.

I don’t recall those meals, not like the ones from my childhood. What lingers is the joy, the time together, the essence of the meal.

Eating out is something that I still look forward to, something I truly enjoy.

There will come a time when I won’t be able to leave home, wherever that may be. I’ll be infirm, perhaps both mentally and physically, not able to understand or digest restaurant foods.

Meanwhile I continue to look forward to sitting at a table not at my home, eating foods prepared in a kitchen that’s not mine, shared with someone I love.

Not-so-Clear Lake

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            Prior to moving to California, vacations meant visiting family. Once a year we’d drive to Galipolis to see my mother’s relatives, many of whom lived in small houses without running water and indoor plumbing.

            Sometimes we’d visit my Aunt Lucy who lived, all alone, in a large house with backyard gardens with lush, green grass and more varieties of flowers than I’d ever seen before. There was Aunt Rachel whose home sat at the top of a hill, a wonderful, perfect slope for rolling downhill.

            My Aunt Ginny led the life of a traveler, moving from place to place. The most interesting home was up near Lake Michigan, nestled in the woods. It had no-anything. If I had to pee during the night, it meant walking into the woods to the outhouse where I imagined all kinds of creepy-crawlers. But…the lake!

            They relocated to Tennessee, a large white house with a wraparound porch. They had chickens that laid eggs! I was excited to go to the coup and gather them every morning. It was hot and humid and they didn’t own a single fan. Instead my cousins and I spent time in the shade of the porch. Until I discovered some type of insect sticking halfway into my arm! Boy, did I make a fuss, which caused all the adults to come running.

            Once it was removed, I wanted to leave. Now.

            One time we drove all the way to Kansas to see someone my mother befriended when she was in the Army. I don’t recall the woman’s name, but I will never forget the altars dedicated to Mary all over her house.

            My dad’s parents moved often. I loved the farm where they had a donkey, a gaggle of clucking chickens and a horse that loved to roll around in dirt. But, there were also wasps, and when one stung my finger and I had trouble breathing, I never wanted to go back there.

            Shortly afterward, they sold the farm and moved to Cincinnati. It was a modern house, with air, a bar in the basement stocked with all kinds of sodas, and a pool. The summer before we moved, my grandma invited me to spend a week with her. I had a marvelous time! Until I spent too much time in the pool and got so badly sunburnt that my mom wouldn’t let me return.

            While we had family in Ohio, my dad dreamt of moving to California, and when my mother’s doctor said we should move somewhere less damp due to her severe asthma, my parents wasted no time selling everything, packing up the car and heading west.

            Once we settled in a tiny rental house in South San Francisco, we began Sunday explorations. Using a map from the car insurance company, we drove all over, from up north to the Russian River, to east out to Lake Pinecrest, and south, well past San Jose. My mom would pack a picnic lunch, and off we’d go.

            I had become a temperamental teen. I’d always been sulky, primarily due to what I perceived as my low status in the family.

My mother doted on my older brother, feeling she had to protect him from our father’s ire. While Dad was an athlete, able to confidently play almost any sport, my brother was not. My dad was good with his hands, able to tear apart car engines, fix issues with the house, and build any type of shelving my mother wanted. My brother had not aptitude or interest in those things. To put it mildly, my brother was not the son my dad wanted.

Just as I was not the daughter. I disliked girly things, preferring pants and sports. I loved being outside, no matter the weather. I didn’t read fashion magazines and paid no attention to what the cool kids wore.

My sister was completely opposite. She was emotional and moody, just like my mom. She cared little about school, preferring the dangerous kids, the ones who sold and did drugs. My mother came to her rescue many times, including getting her out of juvenile hall after she’d been caught passing drugs through the fence of her elementary school.

Moving to California, I hoped, would change my life. I’d make friends. I’d go to movies and school dances. I’d play on sports teams and have a boyfriend. I’d make money, somehow, and buy myself a radio. And, I’d go to college. Anywhere away from home.

Back to vacations.

Sometimes our Sunday trips were short drives down to Woodside Park. We’d find a semi-isolated table, unload our gear, and spend hours lounging about.

My dad heard about Clear Lake, and so one day we drove up there to check it out. I don’t recall how long it took to get there, but by the time we arrived, things were tense in the car.

My parents were fighting, once again. About how long it was taking, about wanting to turn around, about anything and everything. My brother was poking and pinching me and on the other side, my sister was kicking my legs.

When we arrived, we had to find a place to park. It was tough because the folks who knew, had staked out every table and flat piece of ground.

Eventually my dad parked and said get out.

There was a beach, shade, and someone was vacating a table. Perfect.

We changed into our swimsuits, then waded into the water. It was so cold it made it hard for me to breathe. I could almost swim, my strongest stroke being the elementary backstroke. However, when something brushed my legs, I freaked out.

My dad had to rescue me, talking me back to shore.

On a drive around the lake, my dad saw a sign for cabins. They were small, cheap, and right on the lake. He went inside the office and made a reservation.

I loved that cabin! Because the porch hung over the water, it was relatively cool inside. My dad and brother went out fishing in the mornings, meaning I could entertain myself gathering shells, throwing rocks, sitting and enjoying the sounds of the water lapping the small dock that jutted into the lake.

When my brother stayed behind, we were allowed to jump off the dock. The water was shallow, so there was no chance of drowning. We’d jump in, climb out, jump again and again and again until we were exhausted.

My dad caught lots of catfish. Every night we’d eat out on the porch, waving off the aggressive bees that wanted our food. Thankfully I never got stung, for at that time, no one knew how very allergic I was.

We returned the next summer. The lake was not clear. There was a thin veil of green algae covering the part of the lake near our cabin. This was before anyone knew of the dangers of algae bloom.

My parents still let us jump off the dock. Whichever one of us went first would tread water, using our hands to sweep away the algae. The other would jump, then we’d repeat.

By the end of each swimming outing, our suits were covered in green dots. My mom would rinse them in the kitchen sink, then hand them on the porch to dry. After lunch we’d go back, doing the same thing over and over.

That was the last time we vacationed anywhere. I didn’t know a lot about finances, but I understood that my dad was unable to find steady work as a printer. No longer were papers made by moving tiny letters, which was my dad’s skill. Since he didn’t know how to work presses, his talents were no longer needed.

It’s now sixty years later and I still recall the algae, the fun jumping off the dock, the endless meals of catfish, and sharing the bed with my sister who stole the sheet every night.

Clear Lake remains, in my mind, that murky, green waters that entertained me so thoroughly back when I was a teen.

First Concert

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            I loved music from the time I was small.

            My dad controlled the radio, so we mostly listened to country western, as it was called in 1950s Ohio. I didn’t like the twang and nasal voices, but something about the words called to me.

            They sang about heart break, loneliness and loss, things I knew about even back then.

            Sometime when I was in high school I saved enough money to buy a small radio. It picked up very few stations, but because it was mine, I chose what to listen to. I fell in love with rock and roll.    

            The stories were happier, the music bouncy and joyous, It made me feel good inside, even on my most miserable days.

            Joining choir was not a possibility as my goal was college, and every class had to lead to getting accepted. Choir was not the elective to make that happen. Plus I’d been told by my brother and father, repeatedly, that I couldn’t sing.

            My college, USC, frequently hosted musicians. I couldn’t afford to go, plus I had no one who’d go with me. The walk across campus late at night wasn’t safe due to the neighborhood.

            When James Taylor was coming, I decided to buy two tickets, then try to find someone to buy the extra, so as to accompany me. I asked a couple of girls I knew, sort of, but they refused. There was a boy who shared a few classes with me, and since he’d been polite, I asked him.

            He thought it was a date, so he was happy to go, for free!

            James Taylor put on an excellent show. He was charismatic, comfortable, welcoming. He sang his repertoire of released songs, and a few more.

            At times he encouraged the audience to sing along.

            I had a marvelous time. My “date”, not so much as he didn’t like James Taylor. He only accepted because I had paid for the tickets.

            That one concert deeply influenced my love of stage. While it took years before I was able to go see more of my favorite groups, I have loved every concert I’ve seen.

            There’s something magical in the air as the crowd waits for the show to begin. It’s amplified when the performer takes the stage. The energy level builds, the audience sways to the beat, and when it ends, there’s a massive letting go.

            I am so glad that I saw James Taylor, even though it was with someone I barely knew. It showed me a world that I never imagined, allowed me to fall in love with it, and still love it today.