Tag Archives: moving to a new place

First Impressions

Posted on by
Reply

            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 Change in Pace

Posted on by
Reply

Life takes on unexpected turns when you move from one state to another. Imagine growing up in the rural Midwest, then one summer finding yourself in fast-paced California! Not only is the weather drastically different, but the style in which people speak and think is faster than you are used to. You are lost and a bit confused by all the changes.

I made the move from slow-paced life in Beavercreek, Ohio to fast-paced life in the San Francisco Bay Area at the end of my freshman year in high school. It was not an easy adjustment.

            Beavercreek was a primarily rural community. While our home was in a planned ranch-style neighborhood, we were surrounded by family-run farms. Country roads meandered from one farm to another, often not revealing the new farm until going around a turn or climbing up what passed for hills.

Two-lane highways connected country roads to the bigger cities. The closest to us was Dayton, a confusing metropolis of tall buildings and tons of cars. Many of the streets were much wider than in our tiny community, so wide that cars could park on each side and still leave four lanes for travelers.

The one thing that we didn’t have there was freeways except for when you got far enough away from town.

            Because of the rural lifestyle, things moved slowly. There was an understood etiquette to conversations.  All conversations had to be nurtured, just like a farmer watching her tomatoes grow.

You began with a discussion about the weather, then moved on to price of goods. After that you could bring up current events and the health of both families. Along with the pace of conversation, there were rules about food and drink.

When someone entered a home, drinks were offered and chairs provided. Food was often given, but not always. If a tray of cookies came out, for example, you could take just one. No more even when the tray was put in front of you a second time.

Once company was comfortable, legs were crossed and everyone relaxed. Nods and smiles occurred at appropriate times.

Those were the rules. Only after all that could you get to the actual point, the real reason for the visit.

            I grew up believing that this was the way everywhere. That it was rude to simply state the primary concern without the initial song and dance. Relationships had to be nurtured to be valued, and friendships were maintained by following the prescribed course of affairs.

Talking slow was imperative. This was how I grew up and so this was how I spoke. I politely listened to what was said, internally pondered my response, and only after taking time to construct well-chosen phrases did I respond. No need to rush.

            I was comfortable in that life. There was never a reason to hurry. Things would get done in their own time and place. So what if the lawn didn’t get watered today. There was always tomorrow. You didn’t see the neighbor in the morning? Go visit in the afternoon.

When you did visit, plan on staying for an hour or two. Play games. Build forts. Climb on the swing sets. Play a game of kickball or softball or toss a football around. Hang outside in the shade in the summer or gather together under a blanket in the winter.

            Race from one place to another? Unheard of, even as kids. Sure we rode bikes up and down the country roads, but always with caution, looking out for tractors, trucks and random pieces of rock. Besides, we really had nowhere to go except to the corner market and it was a long way away, so why hurry? The candy would still be there.

Life moved at a scheduled pace that almost nothing could disrupt.

            In the summer of 1964, my parents sold our house and most of our belongings, packed up the station wagon with what little we were allowed to keep and hit the road. Even though money was short, we took a leisurely drive, stopping to admire roadside memorials, hanging bridges, canyons and mountains. We hurried through the desert until some flaw in the engine slowed us down.

            Imagine the shock upon arrival in California. Smog enveloped the freeway and filled the care with a nasty smell. Traffic was miserable. Most of the time going north we looked at brake lights that came on then went off, on then off as we crept along.

When we finally got to our uncle’s home in Orange County then an earthquake rocked the world. Literally. Trees swayed. Roads buckled. We knew about tornadoes, but had never felt anything quite so terrifying. Almost as one, my family fell to our knees and cried while my cousins laughed.

In a way it was appropriate to begin life in California with an earthquake as it symbolized a dramatic beginning to a huge change in life.

            We left southern California and rented a home near Sacramento. It was miserably hot, the house was not air-conditioned and we knew no one.

There was a strip mall a short walk away along an extremely busy road. If we had the money, my mom would walk there with us and buy us each a cone. It was so hot, however, that the ice cream would melt before we could finish it off.

California was a bustling place in which it seemed as if everyone was in a hurry. There were places to go and things to do and no time to think about it. Make up your mind and act. It didn’t matter what decision you made, just make one. No leisurely discussions. No warming up to the topic. No weighing your options. Choose now without sitting back and reflecting on it.

            I was not prepared for this life and so adjusted poorly. I made no friends up in Sacramento, so it made no difference to me when we moved to the flats of South San Francisco. This rental was a miniature house. The bedroom I shared with my sister was so narrow that we had to have bunk beds and share one small dresser. Turned sideways, if you extended your arms, one touched the bed, the other the dresser.

I enrolled in high school expecting to take the same types of classes that I had taken in Beavercreek.  Back there it was easy to choose classes: there were two tracks, occupational and academic. There was limited list of options. I’d write down what I wanted without bothering to peruse course descriptions. I simply complete the bloody form and was done with it.

In California I had many options to choose from. Several kinds of English and math. A variety of science and history classes. Lots of languages to choose from, but not the Latin which I had taken in Ohio.

            In Ohio we had no lockers except in the gym. In California we had to walk up and down the rows until we found an unclaimed locker. With the counselor tagging along. There was no time to walk up and down and weigh the benefits of this one over that one. Pick one and move on to the next task.

In Ohio the teachers handed out the textbooks. In California we had to stand in line at the bookroom with our class schedules in hand. The needed books were handed to you in one huge pile. You weren’t allowed to flip through the pages to make sure you got books that weren’t ragged or marked up.

Next we had to buy gym clothes. Back “home” as we said for many years, gym clothes were purchased at a store. Not here. We stood at another window and gave the sizes needed. Handed over the money. No thinking about room for growth or checking to make sure there were no holes or loose threads. Just do it and get out of the way.

            I thought enrolling in school was hurried, but nothing compared to how conversations moved. People talked so fast that I seldom understood what they were saying. They didn’t wait for a response, either. If you said, nothing, they’d move on.

More than once I was left standing with my mouth hanging open and words still wanting to come out…with no one there to hear.

It didn’t take me long to internalize that conversational niceties were unnecessary in California. You said what was most important and then moved on. It was difficult for me to do because my social mind doesn’t work that way, so I made very few friends. Not just that first year, but over my many years of living here.

            The fast pace affected all areas of life. When looking for a rental home, we found that if we dallied in order to find the absolutely best home, the first one would be gone when we went back. Once my parents figured this out, they chose the next decent home at first sight.

While it made do, it was an old, smelly cramped house on a narrow dead-end street. One benefit was that it was within walking distance to school. Another was that it had a big backyard, big enough for us to toss a ball around. Thankfully we only lived there about a year.

            I missed the meandering country roads. In California people drove fast all the time, even in neighborhoods where children were playing in the street. They’d slow at stop signs, but just barely. When making a turn, they’d creep to the intersection, appear to take a quick look, then be off.

Lane changes required tremendous skill, timing and guts. Thankfully most streets were laid out in straight paths and led logically from one place to another. If they hadn’t been, I’m not sure my parents would ever have let me learn how to drive.

            There were positives about our new home.

In Ohio we had to drive miles to get to a movie theater. In California we had several theaters close to home. In Ohio we worried about snow and ice, tornadoes in the summer and torrential downpours in the spring and fall. Here we had sunny days practically all year long.

In Ohio the nearest store was four miles away, and it was just a little country market. To get to a supermarket, we had to drive into Dayton, which meant making it a day trip. Here we could go north or south, east or west and within a few blocks find a shopping area.

In Ohio, our little Beavercreek did not have a downtown. South San Francisco did. In Beavercreek there were few sidewalks and lots of dirt lots for parking. In California you parked along the side of the street or in huge lots. In Ohio you drove from store to store, but here you walked.

            I missed Ohio. The open fields, the rambling roads, my few friends. But life in California had so much to offer that I quickly let go of all that tied me to my country roots. I fell in love with California’s natural beauty, quick access to beaches, and the nearly endless stretch of hills and cities. In less than a year I was so in love with the Golden State that I realized that I would never go back to that slow pace of life.

I had become a California girl.