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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.

First Impressions

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            As soon as I knew we were leaving Ohio, possibly for California, I began researching what’s called The Golden State. Relying on library materials, I learned about the State and Federal Parks, Disneyland, the beaches and mountains. The endless sunshine, a relief from the frigid Midwest.

            What most excited me was the lure of the community college system, something which Ohio lacked back in 1964.

            I would be able to attend college, fulfilling a dream escape, for practically nothing. Tuition was free for residents, and by the time I graduated from  high school in 1967, I planned to enroll in the local community college. My primary costs would be books and supplies. My biggest problem would be transportation as my older brother had first dubs on the family car.

            I didn’t know all that when my parents sold our house in Beavercreek, Ohio, packed the family’s belongings in the back of the station wagon, then stuffed all five of us plus the dog inside.

            When we drove passed field after field of corn, at first I was interested, but soon grew board. I’d researched the Mississippi River, so I had a vague notion of how wide it was, I also knew it was called “muddy”, but didn’t truly understand mud until we stood along its shore. Mud and more mud, extending way out toward the center of the bridge that crossed from Tennessee into Missouri.

            I was terrified of that bridge. I’d never crossed one so high or so long and worried that it might collapse, dumping us in the rolling river, or perhaps bury us in the mud.

            I kept my fingers crossed until we were on the other side.

            The next big adventure took place in Colorado. We stayed in a motel within site of Pike’s Peak. The owners told us there was a way to get to the top, but as soon as my dad learned there was a fee, we didn’t go. I resented that for a long time even though I intrinsically understood that we had very little money.

            In the morning we drove parallel to the Rocky Mountains. There were many tourist stops along the way, but we bypassed them all, until we can to the Royal Gorge. It was, indeed, a gorge. I had no concept of depth, but when looking down below, the train tracks seemed miniature. This was reinforced when a freight train rumbled by. It was smaller than the tiniest gauge trains my dad had collected.

            There was a pedestrian bridge to the other side. My family wanted to walk it, but I flat out refused. I was afraid of heights, and the thought of taking one step onto the bridge made me nauseous. After much pleading and threats of punishment, I stood my ground. Because my parents wouldn’t let me stay behind, no one could cross the bridge.

            On we went, traveling higher and higher into the mountains. Dark clouds formed overhead. It sprinkled, then turned into a downpour. The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up, so our vision was blurred.

            At some point we came to an abrupt halt. Several vehicles were stopped ahead of us. My dad got out to investigate: a mudslide was blocking both lanes.

            Oh, that made him angry! My dad had budgeted exactly how far we could get in a day, figured out the cheapest hotels, and even where we might get meals.

            Being stuck in the Rockies didn’t fit his plans.

            When a truck made it over the mudslide, my dad decided we could as well. He revved the engine, put the car in gear, then up we went. Until we sunk into the mud.

            We were stuck until a large tow truck arrived from the west. It pulled us through, after collecting a fee. Unfortunately, there was damage to the car. I don’t recall what, but the parts had to be ordered. So we made an unplanned stop at an airconditioned motel that had a color TV!

            Crossing the desert was another adventure. I understood hot and humid, but nothing I’d ever experienced prepared me for how very hot Arizona is.

            Our car had no AC, so it was either roast with the windows up, or die with them down. I remember that we wound them down, suffered, wound them back up and suffered some more.

            I recall practically nothing about the dessert except that someone had told my dad to buy lots of water. Good thing, as the car broke down. It was miserable waiting in the car for help, and there was no shade in which to seek relief.

            I now know that I should have seen a variety of cacti, which, if I had been older than fourteen, would have been interesting.

            The most striking memory I have is when we passed through a Reservation. The houses were either made of logs and dirt or metal Army huts. They were far from each other and I saw no power lines. I couldn’t imagine living in that heat without electricity!

            Around lunch time was came to a store/restaurant that advertised its burgers. My dad pulled off the freeway and parked. I wanted to go inside! It was supposed to have AC!

            But there were “Indians” milling about on the front porch. And the way my dad said the word, it was as if something distasteful was spewing out.

            I’d known my parents were prejudiced against African-Americans since I was small. I had no idea that their hatred also went toward Indigenous People.

            When we drove away, a range of emotions overcame me. I was disgusted with the hatred, angry at not being able to visit what was called an Outpost, and starving. Tears filled my eyes as for many miles.

            Crossing Death Valley was something else that I’d yearned to do, even though I was afraid that we might get stuck and die. I never expected the steep descent, the miles and miles of nothing but dry dirt, then the ascent on the other side.

            We were there in August, so none of the cacti were in bloom. What a shame!

            California was a huge disappointment. We stopped in Bakersfield at a small strip motel that promised AC. The room was small. We’d just begun getting ready for bed when my mother screamed, yelled, threw such a temper tantrum about something that only she had seen. Next thing we were back in the car, my dad filing a complaint in the office.

            Bugs. That’s what she’d seen. I think bedbugs, which is kind of funny since I later learned in Biology that we carry around our own, personal infestation of bugs!

            My uncle lived somewhere in Orange County. Driving north in the early morning, a dense, foul-smelling fog enveloped us. My dad turned on the radio. That’s when we learned it wasn’t fog, but smog, a phenomenon that was new to us.

            Something else unexpected happened on our arrival in California: an earthquake. My uncle’s house jerked, throwing me to the floor. It rocked and rolled, and even from down on the rug, I could see telephone poles swaying.

            It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like minutes.

            We got to go to Knott’s Berry Farm (boring because we couldn’t afford any rides) and Disneyland. My favorite ride was the cars that went nowhere. I got to be the “driver”, and even though I soon figured out we were on a track, I didn’t care. The sense of being in charge, of having a bit of freedom, filled me like nothing else ever had.

            My dad had heard of work in Sacramento, so we drove up there and quickly found a house to rent. I loved the house as the bedroom I shared with my sister faced the street. I hated the house because it was not air-conditioned. I also hated being assigned the job of weeding the gardens.  

            It seemed as if spiders and a variety of ugly bugs crawled up my arms every time I snipped or pulled. It made me queasy inside.

            It was also hard to sleep. The house was near an Air Force Base, and so planes flew overhead. Large, loud, planes that I assumed carried bombs.

            Swathes of planes. Hundreds, in a nonstop flight.

            I pictured one of them falling on our house. Maybe dropping its bombs. Maybe bursting into flame.

            I was really glad when we packed up and moved to South San Francisco.

            Our rental house was tiny. My sister and I had to have bunkbeds. If I reached my hands from bed to opposite wall, I could touch both at the same time.

            Good things happened there, however. I could walk to my new high school. I loved the sense of freedom that it gave me. For the first time in my life I was not constantly under the watchful eyes of my siblings or my parents.

            I went out for sports. Never was any good, but it bought me time after school. I joined clubs. I never fit in, but when they met after school, once again, it meant I didn’t have to hurry home. My classes were incredibly easy. So easy, in fact, that I became a straight-A student! Pretty good for a kid who didn’t learn to read until fourth grade and whom my parents and teachers back in Ohio thought was stupid.

            I began dreaming of college, sending away for brochures for any that seemed promising. In my junior year I applied for scholarships. I signed up to take a test of Union symbols, thinking it would be easy. I found out I had no aptitude for memorizing every Union symbol in the US.

            I didn’t get a scholarship, but I was given a gold-leafed dictionary, a prized possession.

            Then the state of California came through, offering me a full-ride to any college in the state.

            I was so proud, so happy. I chose colleges that would allow me to move away from home, to get away from my oppressive and abusive environment.

            I wanted SF State, but my parents refused to let me live on campus. Their reasoning was that SF was a dangerous city.

            They did let me go to USC, only because my brother would be there to “protect” me.

            If only they’d know that that college was in the middle of a ghetto, they would have said no. But by the time I’d been accepted and assigned a dorm, it was too late.

            It’s interesting how first impressions are sometimes true, often not.

            The corn fields were fascinating until there weren’t. The same with the Rockies and then the desert.

            California greeted us with foul air and a good shaking, but later sent me off to college, away from my many years of being abused.

            I quickly fell in love with my new home state. There was so much to see and do, and since most parks were free at that time, we got to see quite a few.

            My impression of my state is one of joy, amazement, and definitely, love. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

A Fool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I found them endearing.

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

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

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

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

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

            Our relationship ended amicably.

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

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

I agreed to tutor him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully nothing happened. That night.

I refused to return.

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

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

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

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

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

After that I stayed away from the fraternity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers entered me.

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

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

Things happened very quickly after that.

He got dressed, told me to get dressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back then I felt like a fool.

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

Vacation Memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            So many things can go wrong!

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

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

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

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

Being Alone

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            I loved being alone.

            Whenever my father was home, someone was being punished: my mother, most likely, myself, but also my brother. He never yelled at my sister.

            I never understood why he didn’t slap her about or smack her with his belt or lecture her on her many faults. Granted she was seven years younger than me and had petit mal seizures, but since he didn’t go after her, she’d become a brat.

            I felt sorry for my brother. He was exceptionally bright, a model student, but he had zero athletic skills. He tried to be an athlete, joining one baseball team after another where he never got to play because his lack of skills would have been detrimental to the team. He joined a football team in middle school, but the only purpose he served was to be pounded by the other team’s offensive line.

            He took out his frustrations on me. When our mom wasn’t looking, he’d pinch, kick or slap me until he left marks where they couldn’t be seen.

            It wasn’t until college that the torture stopped, probably because we were both out of the house, alone, no longer under the critical eyes of our parents.

            He was the only son and so he never had to share a room. Me, on the other hand, only had one-half of a room once my sister was out of the crib.

            The lack of privacy bothered me. Sometimes, if my sister was out and about (she had friends whereas I did not) I could hide in my room and listen to my favorite music on my little transistor radio. When I was alone, I imagined it always being that way, that I wasn’t sharing a room, had never shared a room, would never share one in the future.

            I knew it was only my imagination, but it released the pressure in me that built during the times in between.

            College dorm rooms provided no privacy at all. So tiny that only two steps separated my half of the room from my roommates, I was aware of everything she did. I overheard every phone conversation, had to step over her mess, and when her many friends came over, I even lost the privacy of my bed.

            And when I returned home during breaks, I felt unwelcome in the room which now completely belonged to my sister. She had taken over the master bedroom so as to have her own bathroom. There was a bed for me, but she had filled the closet and every drawer with her things.

            After college graduation I set two goals for myself: to buy a car then to rent an apartment.

            I needed the car so as to find a job. My brother had priority using the family car, my mother second. If I needed to go to an interview, my brother drove me if it was on his way, my mother drove as well, but often applied for the same position, at the same time, or my dad would take me. When my dad drove, he’d go inside the business, and if he didn’t like what he saw, he’d grab my arm and pull me out.

            I don’t recall how it happened, but I got a job at a chain furniture store. Someone must have driven me there for the interview, then driven me to and from work. Because I was not told to pay rent at home, I was able to save money for a down payment on a car.

            Even then, I wasn’t permitted to choose the one I really wanted. I was twenty-one, but apparently not smart enough to pick out a reliable car. I ended up with the ugliest Ford Pinto imaginable, only because that was the car my dad approved.

            I now had wheels of my own. When I wasn’t working, I’d take off for the morning. We lived not too far from a reservoir, a forested lake with a paved road that traversed one side. I’d pack myself a lunch, then set off, listening to the radio to my choice of music. I’d sing along, loving the solitude, the ability to do what I wanted, when I wanted.

            Being alone was beautiful.

            Once I’d saved up more money, I found a studio apartment that I could afford. My parents let me take one of the twin beds and a chest of drawers. Using my discount at the furniture store, I sought the damaged goods that weren’t so damaged that they were unusable.

            I didn’t mind the scuffs and dents. What I loved was being alone.

            I ate what and when I wanted, watched whatever I wanted on my tiny TV, went to bed when I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was completely in charge of my life. Of my decisions.

            It drove my mother nuts.

            She thought she could come over without being invited, without permission. Sometimes I pretended to not be home when she rang the bell downstairs. I could feel my blood pressure rising every time this happened: if she discovered I was there and not letting her in, I would have been in big trouble.

            It wasn’t too long after gaining my independence that I got a new job at the IRS. And then only about two years before I transferred to the local IRS office where I met my soon-to-be husband.

            Granted, for the past 48 years I’ve never technically been alone. In our early years my husband did spend some time at other offices where he’d have to live in hotels, but once we had kids, he never went away again.

            My husband is not demanding, no clingy, not possessive. I’ve never had to ask permission to travel on my own, to attend conferences in far off cities, or to take off across the country to visit family and friends.

            Even when we’re both home, there’s no expectation that I be in the same room with him. I can be alone in the front room which serves as my office while he’s in the family room watching TV. We can see each other, talk to each other, yet still be apart.

            The most powerful company I’ve had with me throughout my entire life is God. With Him I am never truly alone.

            He’s walked with me in my darkest days, He’s been with me during my happiest times and He’s guided me when my mind was awash with turmoil.

            It wasn’t until recently, however, that I realized that I am never alone.

            At all times I carry the memories of family and friends, the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done. More than anything, I carry His love.

            Being alone is wonderful, but so is knowing that my shoulders are laden with the wonderful things I’ve done and the people I know.

A Halloween Memory

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            The only part of Halloween that I ever liked was the endless pursuit of free candy. From the time my brother and I were in middle school, we roamed miles from home. We walked on streets whose names I never knew, knocking on the doors of anyone with lights still on. It took us hours, and at times our pillow case sacks were heavy that we had no option but to go home, empty them out, then head out again.

            I hated wearing costumes. Perhaps because I wore glasses, masks blocked my sight. I detested makeup and most of all, despised trying to come up with something to wear that could become a costume. My fallback was that of a hobo as all I had to do to play the part was put on my well-worn overalls.

            When I was thirteen my middle school decided that for Halloween, all students had to dress in costume. I immediately panicked. It was bad enough to traverse my neighborhood under cover of darkness, but now I would have to parade about campus under the horrific glare of fluorescent lights.

            I stewed over this for days.

I was a painfully shy, the girl who never raised her hand to ask or answer questions in class. I slithered down in my desk seat, my nose skimming the top of my desk, believing that if I couldn’t see the teacher, she couldn’t see me.

Dressing up at school had the potential to sink me even lower on the social scale, especially if I appeared in an unpopular or outmoded costume.

            When the day arrived, the only thing I could come up with was my mother’s WAC (Women’s Army Corp) uniform from World War II. It fit a bit snug, but I figured I could tolerate anything for the length of the festivities.

            In the morning I squeezed into the uniform, then trudged off to the bus stop. I was used to belittling looks, so the shrugs and smirks had little impact.

However, what seemed like a good idea in the morning, quickly became a terrifying experience at school.

            My teacher, thrilled to see the old uniform, made me stand in front of the class and share my mother’s story. Unfortunately, I knew little about her service.

I pronounced that she enlisted because her family was poor, a fact. That she chose the WACs because her older brother was in the Army, also true. I did know, only because of the few black-and-white photos she shared, that she was stationed in Florida where she learned to work on trucks.

            I figured that when my time was done, I could slink back into my desk. Not so. To make matters worse, my teacher sent me up and down the hall, into every single classroom, upstairs and down.

I was so terrified that I squeaked out only a few words, and wouldn’t have even got them out if it weren’t for the prompting of every teacher.

As the day progressed, the uniform seemed to get tighter and the heavy wool brought out as much sweat as a humid summer day. Perspiration pooled under my arms and down my face. It soaked the collar and the waistband of the skirt.

When lunch came, I was allowed to change clothes.

            It was such a horrible experience that I did not go out trick-or-treating that night and for several years after.

Bearing the Weight

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Growing up in a dysfunctional family

I didn’t want to marry.

Ever.

While my dad never hit my mom

That I saw

He dominated her.

Controlled where she went

The money she spent

The meals she cooked.

They screamed obscenities

At each other

Daily

The anger rubbed off on me

Both parents calling me vile names

I cried.

I swore that I would never be trapped

In a hate-filled relationship

With any man

Thinking about marriage

Weighed me down

Sinking into the floor

My shoulders ached at the thought

Of a man not letting me

Be me

I dated some.

Saw nothing of interest

Not even a spark

Until I transferred to a different office

And a blue-eyed man

Smiled.

He didn’t talk much,

But he showed patience

Helping me learn

When he asked me out

My stomach flipped

Could this be?

I yearned for his touch,

A sweet kiss

He didn’t disappoint.

My vision of the future

Changed to include his

Warmth

When he proposed, I rejoiced.

Before I would have run,

But not this time

Marriage is a weight,

But not always one of

Pain.

He taught me to bear love,

To cherish times together,

To rejoice.

Many years later

I gladly carry marriage

And will until death.

The burden is worth it.

Money Woes

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            Money was a problem when our kids were young. We had our house, chosen in a price category so that I could be a stay-at-home mom. We never missed a payment as that was a priority, but there were times when the refrigerator was a tad empty.

            No one went hungry unless they chose to abstain from whatever was put on the table. Our meals most often consisted of chicken, ground beef and chuck roasts. Pasta, rice and potatoes rounded out the meal. Oh! And canned vegetables.

            Part of the problem was that I wasn’t much of a cook. I had a trusty cookbook that relied on canned soups. The recipes were easy to follow and tasted good. On top of that, they were hearty.

            When boxed Hamburger Helper came out, they became a staple in our diet. Self-contained meals, simple directions and required adding very little.

            My kids didn’t wear new clothes until they were about eight or nine. I was an expert thrift store shopper. I found nearly new onesies, shirts, shorts and pants. Dresses and slips. Coats, sweaters and light jackets. Even rain boots.

            They usually had brand-new shoes, unless the hand-me-downs were like new. When they began school, uniforms were new, a huge expense.

            I also sewed much of their wardrobes, especially shorts, dresses and anything made out of cotton. The machine was old and not very good. Before I left for college, I bought the cheapest model Sears had. That way, even away from home, I could make me new clothes.

            At some point I upgraded, which was a wise decision. The new machine gave greater variety of stitches, which came in handy for seams and hems. It also had a terrific buttonhole maker. My daughter has that machine now.

            We always had two cars. Mine was the Ford Pinto my dad made me buy when I really wanted a fancy Mercury sports-type model. Mike had an obnoxious orange Taurus. We drove them until repairs were useless.

            We replaced those vehicles with other used cars. Repeated repairs kept them running. I drove the kids to school and ran errands. Mike commuted to work.

            We joked that we had bought the mechanic a boat, a luxury car and a vacation cabin. Many times, we’d pay for one car, then turn in the other the next day.

            When my kids were a bit older, I got a job teaching preschool for the local recreation department. I think I earned just over two dollars an hour. The biggest advantage of the job was that I only paid half the normal fees for any class offered.

            My kids learned to swim at the Plunge. They did gymnastics and my daughter took pottery.

            That salary helped keep milk in the fridge and fruit in the house. It paid for camping trips so we’d have vacations. And it gave me something to do other than be a mom.

            Teaching preschool led to a career as an elementary teacher and then later a high school teacher.

            I remember taking the kids scavenging for aluminum cans. We’d go to construction sites and walk the grounds. We found a lot of cans, and when we were really lucky, dropped dollars. One time I picked up a crumpled bill to discover that it was a twenty! That was a lot of money.

            Money might have been a problem, but we were happy.