Freckles Rule, Boys Drool - Memories of Me Monday

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "What is the most outrageous thing you did as a teenager?"

Heh.  I really don't want to go there. Yet.  Not to mention, I did so many outrageous things as a teenager that I simply can't decide which one to write about!  So I'm going to take creative liberty and write about the most outrageous thing I did before I became a teenager.

If you've been following my "Memories of Me Monday" posts you already know that I was very shy as a child.  So shy that my older brother, Mike, was able to tell his friends that I only had half a tongue, which was why I never talked, and they believed him. 

That's why what I did one day at the age of nine really can be called outrageous.  How did I have the nerve??  Why would I have ever thought to do something like that??

But first, let me set the scene:

Just up the street from us, in a large corner house, was a family with six or seven boys, all in a row, all mean, and then finally, a girl, perhaps a year younger than me.  They were the Snedigers.  Like I said, they had a LOT of boys, all older than me, and all mean, hateful creatures.  One or more were probably pals with my brother, though I really don't remember for sure.

I do remember that they were all mean to me.  On the schoolbus or around our neighborhood, whenever they saw me, the taunting began.  At nine years old I had realized that pretty much every kid got teased about something, but I still thought I had more than my fair share of things to be teased about, that I somehow was still less OK than other kids. 

First of all, I was a girl.  That was the Snediger boys favorite topic: "little girl," "girly," "baby," and "crybaby" were among the names I was called.  As you've probably already guessed, I refused to answer back.  I just kept silent.

Secondly, I never spoke when they were around.  Ever.  Fuel to that fire was my brother's claim that I only had half a tongue.  It was endless, the things they tried, to get me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue so they could get a good look at it.  No way would I do that.  Instead I endured what seemed like very long bus rides to school, on the days that I was their target.  Thankfully, this didn't happen every day.  In fact, I think I may have been their last resort tease.  If the Snediger brothers and their friends hadn't found someone to pick on before I climbed on the bus, then I was It.  The best days were when they were already fixated on someone else.

Finally, I had freckles.  Boy-howdy, that was like a goldmine to those boys.  "Freckle-faced strawberry" was something I heard a lot, thanks to the Kool-Aid flavor of the same name.  But more hurtful was just the stuff they made up, like that I had some dread disease that produced the spots on my face, and that everyone should stay away from me or they'd end up spotted, too.

Yeah, those Snediger boys had the goods on me. I remember being relieved when the school year ended and summer began.  It would be three months before I had to ride the bus again and, by then, maybe the Snedigers would have moved away.  Meanwhile, I planned to avoid them all summer.

It couldn't have been more than three weeks later that I saw the youngest Snediger kid, the girl, out riding her bike.  I was in our front yard, just wandering around in the tall grass, swinging a stick at the heads of dandelions.  I think I may have been a bit bored.  Then I saw the girl on her bike; she'd just exited the driveway of her family's home, and was heading down the street toward me.

I have no idea now what was in my head that day, as I strolled toward the street edge of our lawn, my eyes on the girl.  As she reached our driveway, I reached the street.  Our eyes locked as she pedaled closer, until her front tire was just about to pass in front of me.

With one swift motion I thrust my stick between the spokes of that front tire.  As the wheel continued its forward rotation the stick jammed against the frame and the bike flipped completely over, and so did the girl.

She let out a short, sharp scream and then landed with a dull thud in the street.  I just stood there, the stick still in my hand, for about two beats of my heart.

Then I ran.

From the living room window I saw her pick up her bike, get back on, and ride toward home, wobbling a bit.  She looked back, once, at my house.  My heart was in my throat.  What had I done?  And how badly were those brothers of hers going to beat me when she told them about it?

I was terrified.

I was also horrified that I'd done something so mean and hateful, to someone younger than me, and who had never once been mean to me.  Her brothers had, yes, but she hadn't.

Looking back with an adult's intelligence I have to wonder if what I did came from months of pent-up anger against the teasing I'd endured, and that I finally saw my chance at retaliation.  If I couldn't get my revenge directly against the brothers, I'd take it out on their little sister.

Or, maybe I just have a mean streak.

FOR NEXT WEEK: "Which of the following would you characterize as your taste: sour-crunchy, sweet-sugar,  or sugar-fats?"

Happy Lasagne to Me! Memories of Me Monday

 

 {May 1958 - My First Birthday}

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "Describe at least one family tradition that you remember from childhood. Do you have a favorite tradition?"

EASY!  Definitely, birthdays.

On our birthdays we ruled the day.  My favorite part was not even the gifts . . .

. . . my favorite part was dinner!

The birthday person got to choose what we'd have for dinner that day.  My dad always wanted my  mom's special meat loaf and scalloped potatoes.  He still requests that.  Strangely, I don't remember what I chose for each of my own birthday dinners but I do remember, as I got older, that I usually requested my mom's lasagne.  MmmmmMMM!

Lasagna was a big deal, a special meal, at our house.  It's labor-intensive, as anyone who has ever made it knows.  Especially if you make your own sauce like my mom did (none of that bottled stuff!).  Then the layering of the noodles, cheeses and sauce, and the topping it off with yet more cheese.  Then it had to be baked for an hour or so.  Finally, it came to the table bubbling and fragrant and accompanied by a huge green salad and garlic bread.  Wow!  In my mind it even eclipsed the cake.

 

{My 9th birthday}

Our birthday cake was always homemade, too, by my mom.  It was usually a round, two-layer cake, carefully frosted, and with the appropriate number of candles.  It's funny, but I don't remember what kind of cake I usually had, though I'm sure I requested chocolate as often as any other flavor, but I sure remember that lasagne! Thanks, Mom!

FOR NEXT WEEK: "What is the most outrageous thing you did as a teenager?"

Uh oh.

Life Lessons from my Siblings - Memories of Me Monday

{back, left to right: Steve, Lisa, Denise, Mike; front, left to right: Debbie, Kristen, Karen, circa 1994}

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER:  "Talk about, describe, the oddest or most unique person in your family tree." 

This made me laugh.  How would I ever pick just one??  There's just no way. Even among just myself, my two brothers, and my four sisters, you're going to find some of the oddest and most unique people you could ever hope to meet. And we're all so different from each other that I can't for the life of me figure out how we ended up in the same family.

Politically diverse, opinionated, competitive, independent, and at once both rebellious and loyal, we argue over who has the better claim on Dad (I do), we each think we're Mom's favorite (pssst: she secretly told me that I am), and every one of us would rather fight than switch.  We're our parents' greatest joys, and their worst nightmares. Family get-togethers can be calm and loving or erupt into screaming fights with someone jumping up and down on the couch or slamming a door, but most of the time they're somewhere in-between: boisterous, rowdy and loud!

Over the years I've learned a lot from each of my sibs. I've watched them go through tough times and good times, lose jobs, find new ones, get into trouble, cause trouble, help each other out of trouble, change careers, change direction, better themselves, move to different states (in one case, to a different country), marry, divorce, start businesses, buy homes and cars, and raise kids.  It's been a wild ride at times, but no matter what, we've always come through for each other, and always will.

For each of my brothers and sisters, I've listed just one of the many little life lessons I've learned from them.  Here they are, in birth order:

#1 Mike:  If you're a square peg living in round-hole world, then be the coolest & hippest square-peg the round-holed world has ever seen.

#3 Steve:  Surround yourself with people you love and who love you, and cook great big meals for them.

#4 Denise:  Casual, throw-a-meal-together entertaining is just as much fun for guests as the formal three-full-days-of-preparation kind, and it's a lot more fun for the hostess.

#5 Lisa:  No matter your age you can always look fabulous and have gorgeous feet.

#6 Kristen:  Let your emotions out; you'll feel better and  everyone around you will know exactly where they stand.

#7 Karen:  There's nothing so terrible that can't be made better by spending a quiet afternoon with knitting needles, yarn, and one or more cats.

I wonder what my siblings have learned from me?


FOR NEXT WEEK:  "Were you in a band, drill team, pep squad in high school?  Describe your experience."

My Secret to Good Health - Memories of Me Monday

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER:  "What is your secret or recipe for good health?"

When I was in the 6th grade I joined a diet club to lose weight (I've always had the vaguely held idea that if you stayed slim you stayed healthy). Actually, my two best friends, Judy Rich and Jill Brunson and I created the club ourselves.  We were the only members.  We planned to meet once a week at Jill's house.  During our first meeting we weighed ourselves and wrote the date and our weights in a little notebook.  I had a tiny calorie-counting book that I'd bought at the dimestore that we carefully studied, picking out the foods with the least calories and planning to only eat those foods.  But when you're an active 11-year old girl it's a little hard to just eat lettuce and radishes, especially when you don't even like radishes!

The club didn't last long.  We went on to create other clubs, the three of us, including a plant club where we all purchased tiny seedlings and measured their growth each week, a writing club (we were all working on novels), and a music club, where we kept track of the songs we heard on the radio each day, and how many times we heard them (a practice Judy and I continued for several years even after this club went the way of the others).

Truth be told, however, my "secret" to good health was my parents.  The food we ate was predominantly freshly prepared and homemade.  Spaghetti sauce was made from scratch, as was mac 'n cheese (no blue box full of preservatives), beef stew, fried chicken, sloppy joes, enchilada casserole, meat loaf, and creamed tuna on toast.  Sometimes we kids got hamburgers while my mom and dad each enjoyed a steak.  My mom was too thrifty to cook steak for us; it was too expensive, and we were surely too young to appreciate it.  Now and then when my mom was too busy to cook we ate Campbell's Pork 'n Beans and boiled hot dogs, a meal we called "weiners and beaners,"  or Campbell's tomato soup & grilled cheese sandwiches.

As for vegetables, we kids mainly got served canned peas, canned peas & carrots, canned green beans (my most despised veggie), or canned corn; once in a while we got creamed corn.  Potatoes were baked in the oven and had a hard, sometimes crispy skin (which we kids wouldn't eat); sometimes they were mashed or boiled.  My parents ate cauliflower, broccoli, spinach, and lima beans, but my mom seldom bothered trying to serve them to us - I expect she figured why waste good food and money when we were sure to refuse to eat them?  I don't think I ever saw a brussel's sprout, fresh spinach (instead of frozen), kale, mustard greens, any kind of squash, or even knew that peas grew inside a pod until I was an adult.

Salads were iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and radishes, with Thousand Island dressing.  Grocery stores hadn't yet begun offering the vast variety of leafy greens you see now.  Arugula?  We'd have thought that was some kind of exotic, foreign dish!

My mom did go through some phases with our family meals.  There was the time period when she was grinding all her own wheat in the basement of our home in Minnesota.  I think that only lasted a few years, but she baked bread my entire childhood (at the time I had no idea how lucky I was).  Then there was the "Spam phase."  We got spam-burgers, spam and eggs, spam casseroles, and spam loaf.  I liked it best fried 'til crispy with eggs (to this day I get the occasional craving for Spam 'n eggs).  Another time she experimented with a soy meat substitute that I remember as being the consistency of mealy ground meat.  It wasn't bad tasting, but it was hard to get my siblings and I to even try anything new, let alone accept it as part of our "normal" family meal routine.  As soon as we knew it wasn't really beef, we rebelled against it.

My dad cooked, too, but he was mainly a breakfast kind of guy.  He was the one who made Spam 'n eggs most often, usually on weekends.  He also like to fry up slices of bologna.  He was our designated pancake-maker, and he was the one who most often wrestled with our heavy waffle iron, forcing it to give up perfectly crisped waffles.  He fried eggs and scrambled eggs and, when he didn't feel like cooking, got out the Cheerios and Corn Flakes and poured us each a bowl with sliced bananas and whole milk.

My mom packed our lunches for school, too, not to mention my Dad's lunch that he took to work every weekday for over 50 years. Our sandwiches were nearly always on my mom's homemade bread (which we didn't appreciate then, but sure do now); tuna w/mayo and a bit of lettuce, or peanut butter and jelly or, less often, bologna.  There was always a piece of fruit, an apple, orange, or banana, and two homemade cookies, usually chocolate chip.  I remember having a lunchbox off and on during my school years, with a thermos of milk, but I remember a lot more years of just using a brown paper bag and buying a carton of milk in the cafeteria.  In Minnesota, in the 60's, I can remember that milk costing just one penny!

We may not have had fancy meals, but we had well-balanced meals. Mom kept up with the current info on what constituted a well-balanced diet, and she made sure we were fed appropriately.  Apart from the usual childhood illnesses (measles, mumps, and chicken pox), and the occasional bout of 'flu, I was hardly ever sick.

Thanks to my "secret" to good health.  Thanks, Mom and Dad!

FOR NEXT WEEK: "Talk about, describe, the oddest or most unique person in your family tree."  Uh oh!

Girl Jockey

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER:  "What did you want to be when you grew up?  Why?"

THIS!!

Because I loved horses (don't all young girls?)....

But then I grew too tall so I decided to be a writer.

But writing didn't pay so I eventually became a computer programmer/systems analyst.

I made a lot of money, but writing computer programs almost completely destroyed my creativity.

I've spent the last two years trying to get it back.

I'm almost there.

Maybe I'll dig up that half-finished novel and ... well ...

... finish it?!



FOR NEXT WEEK:  "What is your secret or recipe for good health?"

 

Every Life Should Have Nine Cats

1971 - Patches the Cat gives birth in my bedroom; me, Lisa, Denise, and Steve

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "What is your favorite animal, and why?"

If you know me at all, you already know my answer to this question:

TIGERS!!

Yep.  Really.  They are my favorite animal because they are SO cool, so regal and gorgeous, and they are the only Big Cats that actually LIKE water (there are white tigers at Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo, CA., that dive underwater!) but, since I can't have a tiger as a pet I, have settled for my second favorite - CATS!  Orange-striped cats, to be exact - just like tigers!  And the pair of orange-striped cats that currently live with me also like water.

{I do have to mention that my fondness for orange-striped cats also came about because of a very special cat that was part of our family from about 1992 to 2000.  OJ.  However, because I'm spending this first year of Memories of Me posts concentrating on my childhood years (up to age 18), I'll defer writing about OJ, or Jack and Scout, until I'm ready to write about my adult years.}

I haven't always had orange cats.  Growing up in the 70's I had a grey-and-white cat named Sam.  Sam was a tomcat back when it was OK to be a tomcat.  Sam roamed the neighborhood every night, got in fights, and came home bloody and with torn ears.  Sam stole pork chops right off the family dining table.  Sam fathered numerous litters of kittens among our neighborhood's female cats.  Sam only liked me.  My mom didn't like Sam, she was scared of him, and rightfully so since he'd growl at her if she came into my room and tried to move him from my bed.   I loved that crazy cat.

One evening Sam went out for the night, as usual, but when morning came around he hadn't come home.  I never saw him again.  I didn't put up "Lost Cat" posters around the neighborhood, or spend a lot of time looking for him.  I think I just knew he'd probably fought his last fight, or didn't quite make it across the street ahead of a car.  I understood that cats, especially male cats, lived violent lives.  I had always secretly admired his bravery, independence, and adventurous spirit, even while I worried about his safety.

Another cat that we had was Patches.  She was a small female tortoise-shell cat and, as I've already mentioned, there wasn't much spaying or neutering going on back then so, naturally, Patches got pregnant.  She had her kittens on my bedroom floor.  We kids all gathered around to watch.  Being city kids this was our first experience at seeing animals give birth, and it was fascinating.  Patches had five kittens.  Four were tabbies or solid color but one, a female, was a pretty little calico - her coat had a snow-white background with patches of orange, black, and brown.  She was a real beauty.  The kittens eventually went to the local animal shelter, to be adopted out, but my mom has always expressed regret that she didn't keep that little calico, she was that pretty.

It's interesting to think about how far we've come, as a society, in the treatment of animals, just in my own lifetime.  When I was a kid it was not considered irresponsible to let your cats - and dogs, in many cases - to roam the neighborhood.  Nor was spaying and neutering an integral part of animal guardianship.  I don't know whether there were relatively fewer homeless animals then or not, or whether animal shelters are as overcrowded as they are now.  It was also an accepted part of life that animals often died from being struck by automobiles, poisonings, or fights. 

I'm very glad things have changed so much, and most people now consider themselves "guardians" of their animals, instead of "owners."

Are you wondering whether my life has had nine cats?

Let's see:

1. Sam
2. Patches
3. Callie
4. Bo
5. OJ
6. Leah
7. Tony
8. Jack
9. Scout

YEP!  And the plan is to have {at least} nine more.

FOR NEXT WEEK:  "What did you want to be when you grew up?  Why?"

I Wore a Monkey Suit - Memories of Me Monday

The very corner market I frequented as a kid in the late 60's and early 70's; It's still on the same corner, in Redondo Beach, just with yet a different name. {Photo taken in 2001}

Today's Memory Jogger:  "What do you remember about shopping with your mother?  What particular store did you frequent?  What was your favorite store?  Did you shop differently with your mom than with your friends?" 

This cracks me up.  Of COURSE, I shopped differently with my mom than with my friends!

Back in the "day" there was not the ever-present hysteria about kidnapping (although I do remember the same dire warnings at Halloween about poisoned candy and razor blades in apples) and so we kids got to walk to the corner store in our Redondo Beach neighborhood pretty much whenever we had a bit of change saved up from collecting soda pop bottles (no cans then) and turning them in for a nickel a piece.  Ahh, those were the days!  My brothers and I, or my friends and I, would walk the 4 or 5 blocks to Paul's or Phil's or John's (it changed owners & names a number of times just in the 5 years we lived in the neighborhood) and shoot the works on Hostess fruit pies, 50/50 ice cream bars, peanut butter cups, Abba-Zabbas, Big Hunks, Sixlets, candy buttons, and eensy wax pop bottles filled with brightly-colored sugar-water.  There was penny candy, too, that actually cost a penny, or even two-for-a-penny; taffy, bubble gum, lemon drops, and jawbreakers.

Saturdays always found the corner store full of kids, turning in pop bottles, buying candy & drinks, as well as loitering outside.  It was a kind of gathering place for the days when you didn't see your buddies at school.  And every weekday there was a rush to Phil's for after-school candy.  If you didn't have any money you could often score a share of whatever someone else bought.  The store proprietor seemed to like us, too, there was never an "Only Two Students Allowed at One Time" or a "Leave Your Backpacks Outside" sign posted on the door (of course, we didn't have backpacks, we carried our schoolbooks in a pile in our arms).

Sure, every now and then there might be a scuffle in the aisle between two or more boys, or outside, but they were short-lived and mainly consisted of an exchange of rude words and then a push or shove.  And a few times kids were caught stealing which was a huge scandal.  The absolute worst thing you could do was embarrass your parents!

I remember going shopping with my mom a lot.  With 5 kids in our family (at that time) someone always needed something, not to mention grocery shopping every week.  And Back-to-School shopping was always a big deal.  Seems we mainly went to the May Company for that; I'm sure we bought our gym uniforms there, for junior high.  Now, those I remember VERY well.  They were all-white, one piece outfits with short sleeves, an elastic waist, buttons up the front, and shorts with elastic hems.  Yeah, can you imagine?  Our shorts ballooned up around our upper thighs and hips, but they were modest!  We called them our monkey suits.  We also wore white socks and white tennis shoes.  I think the boys got to wear blue shorts with white t-shirts, white socks and white shoes, but I'm not 100% certain.  Boys always got the better deal!

I liked shopping with my mom.  I was always impressed with how she seemed to know just where to go to find whatever was on her list for that day; I couldn't figure out how she did that.  We always had two or three of my younger siblings with us, too, and I would help entertain them if they got restless.  My sister, Lisa, who was the youngest at that time, would often throw a fit if she couldn't have whatever she wanted; she could be especially bad when we were shopping for clothes.  She wanted everything pink, frilly, ribbony, silky, and short.  My mom bought practical clothes but Lisa hated practical, she wanted to dress like a movie star or a princess.  My mom made most of our clothes, too, so we would usually be shopping for stuff like socks or shoes, or coats, but Lisa would want the store-bought dresses (no pants, even as playclothes!) and the frilly blouses and short-shorts.

Some people never change!

The rest of us kids didn't care that much about what we wore.  My mom has always said about me, "I could buy anything and bring it home (or sew it) and Debbie would just wear it."

I haven't changed either, I guess!

I do remember that one of my other sibs was tough to buy for, too, but in a different way.  My older brother, Mike.  He hated, absolutely hated, to go shopping especially for clothes, and most especially for back-to-school clothes.  By the time was in his teens he wasn't keen on even going to school, let alone spending time at a department store trying stuff on to wear to school.  He resisted like crazy, and got into frequent arguments with my mom.

One time that I remember quite clearly, because I've never forgotten his reply to my mom's insistence that he go with her to the store and try on some jeans so that she would be able to buy the appropriate size, and because he was "down to just one pair that still fit."

Mike said, "So? I can only wear one pair at a time!"

When I was 12 or 13 there was a new fashion fad that my BFF, Judy, and I were totally into and desperate to own: "Hot Pants."  These were short shorts in blue denim with different colored waistbands and pockets and they were soooo boss!  Of course, neither of our mothers would buy them for us because they were too short, immodest, and simply not appropriate.  But everyone had them!  This was around 1970 and the Love Generation of the 60's still had a hold on the fashion industry, and Hot Pants reflected the Flower Child/Free Love attitude, not to mention that we thought they'd be grovvy worn with the peasant-style blouses we had already learned to sew for ourselves.  So Judy and I concocted a Plan.

We each saved our allowances and our babysitting money and when we had enough we walked to the shopping center and each bought ourselves a pair of the coveted shorts. They cost $3.99.  Then, and this is what floors me now: we wore them to a church picnic! The picnic was being held at El Nido Park, in Redondo Beach, which was walking distance from our homes, so after the picnic started we slipped off unnoticed, ran home, and changed out of our mom-approved long pants into our Hot Pants, then returned to the picnic all puffed up like peacocks & strutting around in our short-shorts.  Boy, we thought we were something!

Funny thing is: I don't remember our parents' reactions at all. I definitely don't remember getting sent back home to change, so I'm thinking maybe they just looked the other way and let us have our little moment. I was not made to return the shorts either, and I remember wearing them again that summer.  They may well have been the first item of clothing I bought with my own money, but it wouldn't be the last.  Within a few years I was buying a lot of my own clothes, and sometimes fabric for items that I sewed (like my drill team "Friday" uniform in high school), and taking great pride in it knowing my parents hands were full providing for the needs of five kids.

Judy and I went "shopping" quite a lot.  It was something we really enjoyed.  We often walked (sometimes barefoot in the summer!) to our favorite stores, Sav-On and the "Dime Store," to browse, buy a small item like a new writing tablet, a set of colored pencils, or embroidery thread, and then walk back home (unless we stopped at Winchell's Donut shop which I'll write about another time as it's an entire blog posting on its own).  We also walked a longer distance to a shopping center where there was a Woolworth's that had a lunch counter.  We loved to sit on the red vinyl stools and order Cokes and pretend we were older girls who ate out all the time.  We'd try to talk all sophisticated and stuff.

Then we'd buy 5 candy bars for a quarter and go to the 50 cent movies. Usually a Disney flick.  Suitable for kids.

NEXT WEEK'S MEMORY JOGGER: "Do you have a special school memory?"

Yes, I do.  Read about it next week!

Will do Math for Books - Memories of Me Monday

My three favorite books of all-time:  "To Kill a Mockingbird," by Harper Lee, "Island of the Blue Dolphins," by Scott O'Dell, and "The Giver," by Lois Lowrey (not sure why "The Giver" didn't make it into the photo - must've been a technical difficulty because of course I own {multiple copies of} the book).

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "What are your favorite books?  Describe the best book you have ever read, and also the worst book."

Here are more of my faves from when I was a kid:

Most of these books I've read multiple times; many of them I still re-read every few years.  For a lot of them I have some very specific memories.

When I was in the 5th & 6th grades the Bookmobile used to come to my elementary school every other week.  Not sure why; after all, we did have a school library, but perhaps it carried books that our library didn't.  At any rate, I loved climbing aboard the library-on-wheels and choosing a book from amongst its shelves.  That's where I first found "Brighty of the Grand Canyon," by Marguerite Henry.  She was a favorite author already since she wrote the "Misty of Chincoteague" and that whole series of stories about the famed ponies on Chincoteague Island.  Brighty was not a pony, but a winsome and dear little burro who lived in the Grand Canyon.

I first read "Where the Red Fern Grows," by Wilson Rawls around the age of 10 or 11.  If you've never read this book, stop reading this blog, and go get it!  It's the most incredibly fascinating and emotional story of a boy and his two hound dogs, and it's absolutely unforgettable.  When I was around 14 my mom read the book to my brothers and sisters and me, one chapter at a time, every Monday evening for Family Night.  At that time we ranged in age from 7 to 15 but every one of us was mesmerized by the story, and looked forward to that chapter all week long.  Even though I had already read the book, it was a totally different experience to hear it read aloud. Even my strong and stoic mom could barely make it through the last, and most emotional, chapter.  There was not a dry eye in the room that evening!  Both my mom and dad had read to me since I was a baby, but this particular experience, of hearing "Where the Red Fern Grows" read to the whole family, is probably the biggest reason I became a read-aloud mom to my own kids.

Have you figured out yet that I LOVE to read?  I can't remember a time when I didn't love to read.  I know that I learned to read quickly; I'm pretty sure I already knew a lot of words before I even started kindergarten, and in those days reading was not taught until 1st grade.  I had good examples to follow; my mom and dad both read, and so did my older brother, Mike.  It was also a way for a very shy child to inhabit many different worlds and cultures, have incredible adventures and, best of all, imagine herself the heroine of the stories!

In my family we kids always got books for Christmas and birthdays.  Even now it's just not Christmas without a new book to crack open during the quiet Christmas day afternoon following the high-pitched & noisy excitement of Christmas morning. I grew to love rainy days, and cold winter days (especially snow days in Minnesota when schools would be closed) because it meant I could curl up in a favorite reading spot and indulge in my favorite activity all day long if I wanted.

In elementary school we students could order books via the Scholastic Book Club (through our school) for between 45 cents and $1.25 or so.  My mom would give me a few dollars to spend and I would write down the books I wanted from the books listed on the pamphlet, then calculate and re-calculate the prices to get the most books for the money. Those were probably some of the few times I did math willingly!

In the 60's and early 70's, in southern California, most cities had what were called "neighborhood branches" of the public library.  These were small branches situated right in housing developments and neighborhoods, making it easy for people to utilize them simply by walking or biking a few blocks.  What a shame they are for the most part a thing of the past.  I can't even begin to imagine how many times I either walked or rode my bike to one of those little branches.  My friend, Judy, and I would ride our bikes and come back with our bike baskets full to the brim with books.  I often couldn't decide which book to read first so I'd put them in a stack, read Chapter One of the book on top, then Chapter One of the next book, and so on down the stack.  Then I'd start at the top again and read Chapter Two of each book!

In Junior High "Gone With the Wind," by Margaret Mitchell was THE book to read amongst the girls.  I bought a copy with my allowance and carried it from class to class the entire school day just so I could read a paragraph or two on my way from one class to another.  When I finished it I immediately turned back to Page One and started over, reading it completely through a second time!

Just writing about the books I loved as a child makes me want to re-read them yet again.  Maybe I will!


MEMORY JOGGER FOR NEXT WEEK:  "What do you remember about shopping with your mother?  What particular store did you frequent?  What was your favorite store?  Did you shop differently with your mom than with your friends?"

Are you writing down your own memories?  Share with us -- if you like!

Memories of Me Monday - Postponed

Due to pulling a muscle in my upper back, and spending all of yesterday on a heating pad, my Memories of Me Monday post did not appear this week.

It will return next Monday.

Meanwhile, a reminder of the memory jogger: "Describe the buildings, grounds, etc., of the junior high you attended. What was it like walking to school?"

Bodies of Water - Memories of Me Monday

{The memory jogger for today, as posted last Monday (click here to read last week's Memory of Me post): "Tell about how you feel about water -- playing in it -- seeing it -- tell about the various bodies of water you have seen and an experience or feeling about each."}

I don't remember the first time I saw the ocean, or the first lake that I dipped my toes into, or whether I was ever scared of water as a very young child, but I do remember that my first kiss took place underwater.

When I was ten I had my first boyfriend. His name was Alan Carter, and he was my older brother, Mike's, friend so he'd have been in the 6th grade while I was in 5th. At that time my brother was "going steady" with my best friend, Teri. The four of us used to hang around in the neighborhood acting all big because we were "couples." Of course, the boyfriend/girlfriend relationship at ages 10 & 11 didn't consist of much more than holding hands, and of Teri and I wearing St. Christopher's medals, given to use by the boys, around our necks. Still, it did give us a little boost up the elementary school playground social ladder!

I was quite shy, and so was Alan, at least when he was around me. He pretty much took his lead from my brother who, as a natural-born leader always had followers. One Saturday they came across a yard sale and they bought Teri and I each a stuffed animal. Mike paid 10 cents for the yellow bear he gave to Teri, and Alan spent a nickel for my green floppy-earned rabbit. Teri and I thought they were boss, and displayed them proudly in the center of our beds.

Another time, in early December,we were still outside past dark. I'm not sure how we got away with that; we were supposed to be home as soon as the streetlights came on. On this night, it had been dark for awhile, and the Christmas lights in our neighborhood were all on. It was a crisp and very clear southern California night. In spite of the streetlights and Christmas lights, the stars in the sky shone bright and crystal-white, and it seemed they hung very low over our heads. We could see decorated Christmas trees behind many of the large picture windows of the houses we walked past, and sometimes the movement of people. It was very quiet, and the only sound was the crunch of dry leaves under our shoes.

One house had a waist-high wooden fence covered with ivy and on twined with strands of Christmas lights. These were not the mini-lights, or the dangling icicle-style that you see everywhere now. The lights used in the late 60's were still the larger sized bulbs, painted in bold colors, and they probably used way more electricity than would now be considered eco-friendly. Nor did they stay cool to the touch the way most holiday lights do these days.

My brother stopped at the fence and took up an overly casual stance. Alan, Teri, and I gathered in a loose semi-circle, wondering what was up. Mike had a roguish look on his face that I was quite familiar with; he was about to do something he shouldn't.

Sure enough, he reached out and quickly unscrewed a red bulb. It went dark in his hand, came free of its base, and disappeared into the pocket his jacket. Chuckling, he strolled off. Teri and I stared at each other, momentarily stunned, but then we grinned because we were just as thrilled by Mike's daring than we were horrified at his thievery.

Alan saw his chance to also play the confident & daring bad-boy, and quickly followed Mike's example. He grasped a green bulb, twisted it, and slid it into his pocket. We hurried after my brother, Teri and I clutching each other and giggling almost hysterically. After we'd caught up with Mike and calmed down a bit, Teri moved forward to walk beside him and Mike draped an arm across her shoulders. Alan and I fell into step together and fell silent, shy again.

After a few minutes, Alan took my hand. That alone caused a ripple of sheer excitement to run down my back and warm my belly. Then Alan lifted my hand, placed the still-warm bulb in my palm, and closed my fingers over it. He guided my closed fist into his jacket pocket and slid his hand in with mind, wrapping his fingers around mine.

My knees went weak, and I knew I'd love him forever.

What can I say? I was ten, it was my first experience of what I would later learn to call romance and, as it turned out, it was unforgettable. The underwater kiss? Oh, that had happened at least a couple of months earlier, possibly even before school started in September.

A group of us kids were at the local high school swimming pool which was open to the public when not in use by the school. Alan and I were standing on the edge of the pool. He was wearing one of those nose-clips that hold your nose shut and I was wearing a white rubber bathing cap. Alan was scared of the water which I found endearing and which made me brave enough to take his hand and together we jumped into the shallow end. In the brief moment that we were underwater Alan let go of my hand, grabbed my face, and pressed his lips against mine.

Afterwards I wondered what the big deal was, about kissing. Seemed like a cold, kinda slimy activity to me. Alan couldn't have been too impressed either because, as far as I can remember, we never bothered with it again. In fact, although we exchanged sheepish grins after our kiss, we never acknowledged it again in any way.

But I did love him forever.

Or, at least for the length of a ten-year-old girl's perception of "forever," which was probably two or three months. Whatever activities we were each involved in back then just kept us from seeing much of each other as the school year progressed and one day, without a word between us, I simply handed Alan his St. Christopher's medal as I passed him in the hall at school.

As school neared its end I had second thoughts. Maybe I'd remembered the fun of the summer and fall of the year before, maybe Teri had a new boyfriend and I felt left out, or perhaps I just wanted to feel again the way I'd felt when Alan pressed that warm bulb into the palm of my hand; I honestly can't remember what set me off but suddenly I wished I hadn't broken up with him. I wanted Alan back. I concocted a plan.

I labored over a letter, writing and re-writing it to get what I thought was just the right casual tone, but still making it clear that I missed him and, though I didn't come right out and say it, would like to be wearing his St. Christopher medal again. I took a stamp from my mom's supply and placed it on the envelope which held my precisely folded letter. Then I carefully drew a cancelled postmark, right down to the squiggly lines, copying a real one from a letter my parents had received. I wanted it to look like the mailman had delivered the letter, make it look official and important. I walked the four blocks to Alan's house, looked around to make sure no one was watching, then ran to his porch and slipped my note through the letterbox in the door.

A day or so later I received a reply -- just a piece of folded paper notepaper shoved through our own letterbox and which I just luckily found before anyone else did. Printed in black marker it was short, only a few sentences, and I only remember the very last line, but I remember it perfectly:

"If my girlfriend knew you were writing to me she'd kick your a**."

And that was that. The end of my first romance and the boy who kissed me underwater.

FOR NEXT WEEK! "Tell about how, when and where you learned to drive. Any memorable experiences?"

What Kind of Teenager Were You?

Age 8 - The Good Girl

Age 16 - The Demon Child
{looks can be so deceiving!}

Today's Memories of Me Monday: "What kind of a teenager were you? Nice, rebellious, etc.?"

I think I can sum myself up as a teenager in one word --> TYPICAL.

And that's all I have to say about that!

Ok, I guess that would be taking the easy way out!

So here's a list of words that describe me during the ages of 13 to 18:

Happy
Sad
Helpful
Stubborn
Friendly
Solitary
Funny
Mean
Grateful
Hateful
Sweet
Sassy
Honest
Sneaky
Obedient
Rebellious
Creative
Apathetic
Joyful
Gloomy
Teachable
Resistant
Neat
Sloppy
Loving
Uncaring
Affectionate
Cold
Optimistic
Gloomy
Stable
Moody
Hard-working
Lazy

As I said - TYPICAL!

I'm sure my parents were continually shocked and appalled by the changes in me once I reached the teen years. I had been such a good little girl! Eager to please, obedient, helpful, and a good student.

Suddenly, I was lying, skipping school, sneaking out at night, running away from home, hitchhiking, chasing boys, experimenting with drugs & alcohol, smoking, and yeah, I even spent a night in Juvie.

It's a bit embarrassing now. Some of my biggest regrets are from that time period. Luckily, I was just skimming the surface of those activities, and I didn't get addicted to drugs or cigarettes, become a homeless runaway, turn to prostitution, or drop out of school.

In the end, I and my parents both survived those years. We can even laugh about them now - mostly. My mom likes to sum it up like this: I was the type of teenager who would nod yes, ok, of course, agreeing to everything she told me to do, not to do, etc. And then I'd just quietly go do as I pleased.

My dad wrote about me in his own life history (a work in progress): "Our second born was such a sweet child." Then. later, "In spite of a firm belief in her own code of good behavior, she could sometimes be led astray."

To date, my dad's life history ends with that second sentence. I hope I wasn't so terrible that he can't even bear to write about it!

Yeah, I know. You want more details. Names, dates, places, the nitty-gritty, the dirty laundry, a complete confession.

To quote the Wicked Witch of the West: "All in good time, my pretty, all in good time....!"


FOR NEXT WEEK: "Tell about how you feel about water -- playing in it -- seeing it -- tell about the various bodies of water you have seen and an experience or feeling about each."

It's Memories of Me Monday!

The Memory Jogger as posted yesterday: "What memories do you have of your two grandfathers? Talk about each of them."

Until just recently, when my mom informed me otherwise, I had always thought the above photo was of me on my dad's shoulders. Turns out it's me on my step-grandpa John's shoulders.

My mom didn't like Grandpa John. He had married my dad's mother, Lois, who died when I was three, so I don't remember her, unless she is (and quite possibly could be) the woman in a very vague memory I have of a large woman sitting in an overstuffed chair. I'm told she was quite heavy. She must have been relatively young when she died since my dad was only in his early 20's then. I really don't remember John either since, after my grandmother died he didn't bother to stay in contact with my dad. Anyway, my mom says John always gave her a creepy feeling, and she didn't trust him with me. She kept an eagle eye on him whenever he was around.

My dad's dad {the "real" one} was definitely in our lives. His name was Dee Hansen and he lived in the country part of Marysville, California. He had a sprawling old farmhouse with a camper parked in its gravel driveway, a porch all the way across the front, a bathroom that very well may have been added on since the house was originally built, a great big "den" with cowhide-covered sofas, pool table, and a buffalo head mounted on the wall (and gave me the creeps when I slept in there), and a large kitchen that his wife, my dad's stepmom, Bertha, ruled over with an iron hand.

Grandma Bert, as we called her, was no-nonsense and a teetotaler, so my grandpa had to go out to the shed in back of the house for a pull from one of the bottles he stashed out there. They had a huge garden and when we visited in the summer my grandpa would pick ripe canteloupes, cut them in half and scoop out the innards, then drop a big ol' blob of vanilla ice cream in the centers. Ohhhh, that was good!

My brothers and sisters and I were city kids, growing up in the suburbs of L.A., so to us those summertime visits to my grandpa's house were like entering a different world. He had a huge red barn out back and, although I don't remember any animals besides a few chickens, there was still lots of hay in there, old rusty farm equipment, and hidey-holes where the chickens laid their eggs. One summer we found an abandoned nest of eggs. For some crazy reason my brothers and I thought it would be a good idea to throw the eggs against the wall of the shed just behind the house.

Rotten eggs STINK! My grandpa was hopping mad! He made us get the garden hose and clean off that smelly mess. Of course, my parents were angry, too, and we got a good scolding. Looking back it's hard to believe I would do something like that. I'm sure it must have been my brother, Mike's, idea!

Before he retired my grandpa had worked as a foreman at a slaughterhouse. He also had a portable slaughterhouse on wheels which he hitched to a truck and hauled to his customer's farms for on-the-spot custom butchering. When I was a kid that big metal trailer, no longer in use, was parked among hip-high weeds in a sideyard at my grandpa's house. It was locked but we kids could cup our hands around our eyes, clamber up to stand on the long-flat tires and peer into the windows at a jumble of strange metal machinery inside. We tried to imagine what exactly went on in there, how the animals were killed, which machines cut up the carcasses, and where did all the blood go? We had gruesome conversations, but they were also thrilling in a very creepy way, and gave me the same shivery chills I'd get watching a scary movie.

Most fascinating, to me anyway, were the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. That particular summer (I think I was probably 9 or so) a particular type of riddle was very popular among kids: Dead Baby Jokes. One comes immediately to mind. "What is pink and white and red all over?" Answer: "A dead baby hanging from a meat hook." No wonder my morbid curiosity and fascination with that old portable slaughterhouse trailer!

I was lucky to have my Grandpa Dee all through my childhood and into adulthood, though we did lose Grandma Bert in the late 1980's. My grandpa was in his 80's and still going strong, even planning to marry again, when he was killed outright in a car accident. It was a huge shock to us all. I know it hit my dad hard. He said to me over the phone shortly after we found out, "I no longer have any parents living."

I hope I'm light-years away from that!

I've talked about two grandfathers already, but I did have a third. My mom's dad, Bill Ware. I know very little about him except a few things that my mom has told me. He deserted my grandmother Ware when she was pregnant with her 4th daughter. My mom was about six at that time. Since my grandmother was pregnant she couldn't get a job. She had to take in washing to earn money, and I think she also helped take care of an elderly lady in the neighborhood. My grandfather simply disappeared.

Mom remembers the last time she saw her dad. It was about a year after he left. He'd returned broke and on foot, asking to come back. Mom was outside, rollerskating. I think my grandfather said "Hi" to her, and my mom replied back, "hi." But that was all. My mom didn't go to him, or follow him into the house. That says a lot. And my grandmother refused to take Bill back. He left and was never heard from again.

Years later my grandmother heard through friends that Bill had married again. Well, there'd never been a divorce so now he was also a bigamist. Not a lot of pride to be had with regard to that relative! It wasn't until the early 90's that my grandmother found out Bill had died in 1975. It's weird to think that he lived his life, and then died, while his first wife, four daughters, and then eighteen or so grandkids lived and thrived and rarely gave him a thought.

I do hope he at least had an inkling of what he was missing. One thing I know for sure; he surely got an earful when my grandmother died in 2000 and caught up with him in the hereafter!

And one thing I'm very grateful for. I know the experience affected my mom deeply, one result being that she very carefully (I believe) chose a good, trustworthy, and faithful man to be her husband and father of her children.

And who also happens to be an awesome grandfather!

....and now.....

NEXT MONDAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "What kind of a teenager were you? Nice, rebellious, etc.?" {uh oh!}

Tomorrow's Memory Jogger

"What memories do you have of your two grandfathers? Talk about each of them."

Memories of Me Monday Part Three

Ok, to recap, here's the Memory Jogger from The Jar: "If you could visit any country overseas, where would you go, and why?"

As I've mentioned, I'm limiting myself (for awhile at least, probably a year) to writing about memories of my childhood only. I remember having only the vaguest interest in visiting a country overseas; I probably didn't know much about any of them yet. I think I may have wanted to go to Ireland because I had some notion that everyone there owned horses, and I had the usual schoolgirl crush on those handsome animals. Other than that, I don't remember any desire to leave the country. I think I may have been too scared. My older brother, Mike, travelled to Japan with his Boy Scout troop when he was twelve. I remember being totally in awe of him, that he was brave enough to go to such an exotic place without our parents! And, if I remember correctly, the boys were parcelled out among host Japanese families so he stayed in the home of complete strangers!

No way would I have had the nerve to do something like that.

However, I did have an ongoing fantasy of being shipwrecked on a deserted island.

Really!

It was most likely fueled by the books I read, like "Robinson Crusoe," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "Baby Island," and one of my all-time favorite books, "Island of the Blue Dolphins." All of these books were about people stranded on deserted islands. The last two books were my favorites because the main characters were young girls who used their wits and cunning to survive and thrive. Just the kind of girl I wanted to be, and wasn't.

At that time my family was living in Redondo Beach, California. The summer I was 11 my mom took us five kids, plus several friends and including my best friend, Judy, to the beach almost every weekday while my dad worked. We all got as brown as Indians, rubbed our stomachs raw riding the waves on our canvas surfmats, burned our bare feet on the hot sand, ate tuna sandwiches made with Miracle Whip and my Mom's homemade wheat bread, grapes, red plums, and cookies, and went home every afternoon with sand in our suits, ears, and hair. It was heaven!

Judy and I spent those summer days pretending we were sisters shipwrecked on a deserted island. We stood knee-deep in the waves for hours and made up stories about our adventures. We began writing the stories in notebooks that we bought at the Five and Dime. My stories evolved into my first novel. It was called "Two Girls on an Island," and I illustrated it myself. I can't remember for sure if Judy wrote a novel, too (did you, Judy?), but she probably did.

Writing at our kitchen table, about 1970

That summer marks the beginning my writing life. Over the next 5 or 6 years I filled several notebooks with stories, journal entries, and poems, and I wrote another novel called "Cabin 13." Then when I was 18 and packing to move out of my parent's house, I casually tossed them all in the trash. My mom, who was watching me pack, looked at me with surprise and said, "You may regret that someday."

I was sure then that I wouldn't; that was childish stuff and I was done with it.

She was right.

Although I've filled many a notebook and journal since then, and I expect I'll fill many more, but I'd give a lot to have those first efforts back again.

Memory Jogger for Monday!

Here is the Memory Jogger from The Jar for this coming Monday:

"If you could visit any country overseas, where would you go, and why?"

It's worded more in the present tense, but use it any way you want -- maybe you only want to use one word of the sentence? Or cast your mind back to your childhood and try to remember what country you fantasized about visiting. How about: what weird idea did you have as a child about a foreign country, that turned out not to be true at all?

Have fun with it!

Deborah

Memories of Me Monday

If you saw yesterdays brief post you know that the memory jogger for today is: "What is your personal secret for happiness?"

Interesting question because one of my goals as an adult has been to be happy, purposely, by enjoying and treating each moment as precious, no matter how ordinary.

As a child, naturally, I didn't do that. At that time in my life, with so much of my life ahead of me, my happiness came from anticipation. I looked forward to 1st grade so I could play on the "big kid's playground" and not in the "baby yard," I anticipated the fun of Christmas, birthdays, and family vacations, I couldn't wait to be 12 and go to junior high school, 16 couldn't come soon enough because then I could date. Looking forward to these Big Events was exciting, and it seemed there was always a milestone ahead to look forward to.

I do remember, though, having a little trick -- and I suppose you could call it a secret -- that I used to help me through sad or scary times, but it still drew upon the concept of anticipation.

Although I loved school, there were a few things at school that were decidedly NOT fun for me; in fact, they were traumatic. Giving an oral report, for example, or doing a math problem on the board, reading aloud in front of my class, even my turn for Sharing Time in the early grades was an occasion for heart-pounding fear.

As I mentioned last week, I was very shy as a child. I much preferred sitting quietly in my seat to doing anything -- and I mean, anything -- that would cause my classmates to focus their attention on me. I can well remember that dry-mouthed fear, clammy hands, and fluttering stomach, when it was time for me to perform.

I also clearly remember that, once I was on my feet and had begun to speak, thoughts of home would float through my head and help calm me. The rational part of my brain would send me images of the front door of my house opening to welcome me. Inside my mom would be in the kitchen baking bread or cookies and the smell would fill the house. Through the kitchen window I'd be able to see our clothesline with a double row of snow-white cloth diapers snapping in the breeze.

In reality I was still in front of the class with knocking knees and trembling hands clutching my book report carefully printed in pencil but, as I paused to lick my lips and try to get a deep breath, I'd think to myself, soon this will be over and I can go Home.

I got through a lot of scary situations this way, by looking past it to the refuge of home. I saw my home as a sanctuary and, truly, it was the one place where I was completely protected, loved unconditionally, and accepted for just who I was. I wasn't shy around my family, I felt important, and I was surrounded by the people and things I loved best.

A lot of the things that frightened me as a child, still do. I still don't like speaking in public or being the center of attention. I much prefer to be in the audience than on the stage. But when it's necessary for me to do something that scares me I still use that same trick -- I cast my mind ahead and imagine myself at home, perhaps curled on the couch with a book and a cat, and I still feel that little lifting of my spirits as I think to myself, this will soon be over and i can go home.

Memory Jogger for tomorrow (Monday)

For those who want to play along, here is tomorrow's memory jogger from The Jar:

"What is your personal secret to happiness?"

Remember, you can write a memory based on the entire question, part of the sentence, or just a single word, totally up to you. I'm concentrating at present just on memories from my childhood, but you can use any part of your life that you want.

Share your memories, or not! Feel free to post a link to your blogged memory in the comments section. Have fun, and get those memories written!

I'll be posting mine tomorrow!

Deb

A Child's Prayer

The cutest prayer ever prayed at the Sugar City Journal blog.

Happy (Belated) Father's Day, Dad !

Last month I posted a photo of my mom from the 70's, for Mother's Day. So here (a little late) is a picture of my Dad from the same general time period. Happy Father's Day, Dad! (I don't feel too bad about this post being late because I was actually with my Dad on Father's Day.)

I think this photo is about 1977 or so (dontcha love those plaid pants). During that time he was president of a little company called Automecca which produced the vehicle shown in the photo, the Roamer SportsVan. My dad has always been seriously afflicted with the Entrepreneur Bug and has owned a number of businesses over the years. As anyone who owns a small business knows, its rare to make more money than just enough to live on! I think my mom would have preferred my dad to have always had a "regular" job, but what would our lives be if we didn't take a few risks and go after our dreams?

My siblings and I certainly picked up on that lesson. Out of seven kids three of us run (or have run) our own businesses, and most, if not all, of my other sibs have expressed the desire to do the same. I guess we've inherited that mix of dreamer, optimism, and creativity that makes calling our own shots so irresistible. I'll never get rich with my little biz, but I'm sure having a good time.This photo is from about 1960. I'm on the left of my dad and my brother, Mike, is on the right. My dad taught all of us kids to ride two-wheelers as soon as we were old enough. He was very much involved in Boy Scouts for many years with both my brothers, and I got to go along on many hikes and campouts. He body-surfed and built sandcastles at the beach. He was my first dance partner, and he taught me to drive a car. Of course, he did once leave me behind at a hardware store when I was about 3 (he forgot he had me with him)!

Nobody's perfect but, as a dad, mine comes pretty darn close. Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you!