“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

 

That was a phrase from an old Public Service Announcement.  The spot showed a young black male and while sitting in a chair he slowly vanishes. Within in the message were two things, one was to ask for donations to the American Negro College Fund, the other was to tell anyone that’d listen that your mind is a resource and must be developed.

When I watched the advertisement on TV it felt as if the narrator was speaking directly to me. I am neither male nor black but the words pierced deep into my soul. It rings true for me today as it did that first day because years ago I almost threw mine away. Let me go back to 1963.

When we first moved to California from Minnesota, I was tested for placement. Putting it bluntly, I did rather poorly and was placed with the slow kids. I was told my math and science skills were weak. I could have told them if they’d asked me. A major event the year before had high-jacked my education.

On November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. Many today forget how this incident impacted people’s lives. I mention this infamous date because it affected my education both in short and long term consequences.

I was in fifth grade and attended St. Luke’s Elementary, a large K-8 school run by the parish. On that day our teacher, Mrs. Miller, had arranged for us to have a television set in class to watch President Kennedy and his lovely wife Jackie arrive in Dallas. Mrs. Miller intended we watch the President’s plane arrive, then see the motorcade tour the streets of Dallas and ultimately listen to his speech at the Trade Mart business convention. It was an historic event and perfect for our Social Studies class.

On this day of days, we were the only students in school to watch the live coverage. Our class took lunch early that day so we’d be back in our seats by 12:45 PM and see the coverage from the very beginning.

I could barely sit still and the class was filled with excited chatter while two 8^th grade boys rolled in the TV set. The television took a moment to warm up. At first the screen was blurry and the sound choppy.

Mrs. Miller with nervous laughter ordered the boys, “Don’t just stand there fiddle with the rabbit ears.”

  One of the boys twisted and turned the antenna that sat on top of the set. Finally, the CBS logo came into view. The boy turned the volume up and we heard the top of the hour chime from the television. The boys breathed a sigh of relief and stood in the back of class to watch with us.

Walter Cronkite appeared, welcomed us and said it was a beautiful clear day in Dallas. He narrated the morning events. There were clips of the President’s plane arriving earlier, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy stepping down the ramp and shaking hands with dignitaries. Mrs. Kennedy, Jackie, held a bouquet of roses.

Mr. Cronkite described what to expect from the coverage the rest of the day. He then told us that the President had stopped the motorcade to shake hands with several nuns standing along the curb. That made us proud to think the President stopped for nuns.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity behind Mr. Cronkite. He was handed a long piece of paper and turned his back to the camera to speak with someone.

The screen went dark and a placard saying “We’ll Be Right Back” replaced the darkness. Some of us kids stood up to see the TV better. There was a lot of whispers and chatter in our room.

Skinny Robert, who sat next to me, lowered his head and asked, “What is going on?” I couldn’t answer him.

Moments later, Walter Cronkite returned and in a somber voice said the President had been shot and was being driven to the hospital.

I held my breath. Mrs. Miller began to cry.

I stared at Skinny Robert. He whispered, “Did he say the President was shot?”

Donna Schultz turned back with a sneer and said, “It’s not real. It’s TV.”

Finally, Walter Cronkite was handed another piece of paper and said the President was pronounced dead from gunshot wounds. Walter removed his glasses and wiped tears from his eyes.

My teacher, Mrs. Miller looked at us and began to wail. “Don’t you understand? This is our President,” she said through racking sobs. Then, she ran out of the classroom.

I froze in my chair. When I looked around Skinny Robert and Donna Schultz were stone still. Glancing furtively around the room, I saw Becky King cry into her hands. I wanted to reach out, comfort her, put my arms around her but to move away from my chair seemed far more dangerous than anything I’d ever experienced.

The PA system crackled and screeched. The noise startled me and I jumped. The speaker hung on the wall in the space above the chalkboard. Every morning we’d hear Vice Principle Sister Mary Rose lead us in the pledge of allegiance through the system. We’d never heard the PA system in the afternoon before. An announcement was coming and I suddenly felt cold.

This time Monsignor Andrews voice was heard speaking in a low and formal voice. He said, “Good afternoon children, I have some bitter news. Our President was shot and has died.” He asked us to stand and led us in prayer. Then they told us to collect our books and sent all of us home.

America mourned for the next few days glued to the television to glean information as to what happened. People who didn’t own televisions sets watched in department store windows or went to local bars that had a set.

Everything that could be shown on television was. Vice President Johnson was sworn in, thousands of mourners walked past the coffin in the East Room round the clock for the next 24 hours, churches of every religious affiliation held prayer sessions, and schools, restaurants, and businesses were closed for the entire weekend. News anchors did their best to reveal bit by bit any information on who shot the President.

 That Monday the State Funeral was held and we watched from 10 AM until 4 PM.

On Tuesday we went back to school. We heard Mrs. Miller was ill. Our class had a series of substitute teachers for the remaining two weeks of school before Christmas break. When school resumed in January, we heard Mrs. Miller had been committed to a sanitarium and would never come back. It was the first time I heard the words ‘nervous breakdown’.

As it was the middle of the school year, finding a new teacher was almost impossible. We became a rudderless ship without a steady hand at the helm.

There were many days they couldn’t find any substitute teacher for our class and we were sent to the lunchroom to sit at the tables and study. The lunch ladies and custodians were charged with keeping an eye on us.

Finally in March, Miss Mueller was hired. Miss Mueller realized we were way behind on assignments and promised she’d do her best to catch us up. But we only had three months to the end of the school year. By this time, I was so done with school, it made me ill to go to class. I didn’t want to be there one more minute. The last thing I wanted was to buckle down and learn real subjects like math. Gross.  And so I skated by and wasted my mind.

There was one more element that added to my lackluster 5^th grade, my mother was finishing her last semester for her Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. Like any senior in college she was excited to be on the last lap and more interested in parties and fun. Her college student and teacher friends came to our house often.

I don’t remember a quiet time for studying or homework. When I complained to my mother, she snapped I was old and stuffy just like my father.

That August we moved to California. After being tested, I was considered borderline remedial, somewhere between a C- and D+. No one bothered to find out how I got so behind, my grades in 3^rd and 4^th grade were above average. It was the second half of the 5^th grade that I wasted.

They told my mother I was a slow learner. She passed this on to her friends and relatives. I’m sure she was concerned for my intelligence, but often people talk of others as a way to deflect attention from their defects. It’s like a slight of hand trick. It’s a way of saying, “Don’t look at me look at what is over here.”  Politicians, magicians, and shoplifters do it all the time. Yes, shoplifters, which brings me to Tina.

I don’t know why I got so swept up by Tina. She wasn’t one of the popular kids in school. She was in the smart kids group with Cath, Kathy and Chuck O.

Being around Tina felt fun, exciting. She was how I met Patrick and experienced my first kiss. I felt interesting around her, like people were watching me, like I was important just standing next to her.

She would be the catalyst to the next time I came close to wasting my mind.

Next episode: Shoplifting at Del Amo Shopping Center

 

 

 Welcome to my blog. If this is your first visit, I am delighted you’re here, and a hearty virtual hug to my returning friends and family.

This is part four of a series on a summer that impacted my behavior. It’s about when I started to make stupid mistakes. If you haven’t yet, I recommend starting with “That Summer part 1” and read part 2 & part 3. This blog expands on those posts. Also, it’d be great to hear from you, post a comment and share.

            For context I’d like to start with Oskar Shindler. The movie “Shindler’s List” is based upon his time in Krakow heading a ceramics factory. It is a compelling movie in the radical change Oskar Shindler goes through.

Oskar Shindler was an opportunist and became a spy for the military intelligence service of Nazi Germany. He later told Czech police that he did it because he needed the money. When Schindler witnessed the liquidation of the ghetto, he was appalled. From that point forward, Schindler "changed his mind about the Nazis”. He decided to get out and to save as many Jews as he could. He bribed guards with food, diamonds, and gold to free Jewish people from going to the camps. 

His life after WWII was a mess, he went bankrupt more than once, drank too much and had a massive heart attack. However, the Jewish citizens that he freed honored him and kept in contact with him until his death. He radically changed his mind and took action to save lives. It’s what makes him heroic, not that he was perfect, he wasn’t. He was finally willing to do something for someone else.

I will return to Mr. Shindler, but now it’s off to 1965 in Palos Verdes Estates.

As I’d mentioned there was a Texaco Station adjoining the Frontier Market strip mall. That summer, they ran a promotional game. It was a kind of pull-tab thing. Each time a driver bought gas he was given two sections. One was a long section with two drawings of fruit, two oranges, cantaloupes, grapefruits, apples, watermelons or cherries. The second section was small and had only one drawing. The drawings had to match to get a prize. Monetary prizes started at $5.00 and went up to $30.00. Naturally, there were lesser prizes such as a bottle of soda or a pack of cigarettes. If you matched cherries you got one of the lesser prizes. Lots of people matched cherries. It generated excitement and crowds.

My mother loved that game and collected her strips each time she bought gas. She drove a Buick Electra from Palos Verdes Estates to USC daily. Traffic wasn’t as congested as it is today, but it was 50 miles round trip per day. That Buick sofa on wheels ate up a lot of gas.

One day she came home gleeful. Pushing the tabs in my younger brother and my faces she said, “See? Three oranges. That’s $30.00, kids!”  

Thirty dollars in today’s money would be close to two hundred and seventy-five. Score, right?

In case you haven’t guessed, my mother loved excitement and being with people. It was part of her charm to welcome any impromptu guests that’d drop by day or night, or to accept last minute invitations with delight. That impulsiveness was also in how she handled money, or didn’t. She was what we called a spendthrift.

Impulse control wasn’t one of her top priorities. When I was in high school and living with my father, he told me that in their first week of marriage she bought eight pairs of shoes in one day.

“Eight pairs! Who needed eight pairs of shoes?” he sputtered.

It was a different era. They married in 1947 and the world was still recovering from WWII. Shortages were everywhere, meat, gas, rubber, and leather for shoes. It was considered extravagant to buy two pairs, but to buy eight? Whoa-whoa-whoa slow down there.

As I said, impulse control wasn’t one of her top characteristics.

In that last week of summer, money became very important to her. In the past year, my older sister gave my mother her job earnings. I’d suspected as much when she told me not to give her money I earned.  Now that my sister was gone, that dried up. So, to win $30.00 was a godsend.

Except she didn’t.

I don’t remember why I checked the tabs, but something was off. I picked them up and stared at them for a few moments. The drawings were similar but definitely different. When I examined the key of what shape was what fruit, she had pulled three cantaloupes, not oranges. Three cantaloupes equaled $0.00, not even a bottle of soda.

To soften the blow, I could have shown more compassion in exposing her error. I could have told her it was an easy mistake. The difference in the pictures was small. Oranges had bumps on the rind, whereas the cantaloupes had indents. The drawing wasn’t very good or clear.

I held the pictures up and said, “These aren’t oranges.”

Yep, that was all I said.

“What?” she shrieked and grabbed them. After staring a long time, she finally realized her mistake.  Color drained from her face as she handed them back. She shuffled into her bedroom. I put them on top of the breadbox where other coupons and receipts were filed. I thought that was the end of it.

The next afternoon Jim arrived. I wrote about him in the last post (See here. Reminder, he was my mother’s married boyfriend.)

Jim called me into the kitchen. He sat at the head of the table, my mother next to him. He pointed to a chair and said to sit. Confused as to why I was being asked to join them I hesitated. Jim gestured with his hand to the chair next to him directly opposite my mother. I slid into the chair not moving it.

Whatever was coming, I wanted no part of it. My legs shook under the table.

He asked, “Where are the tabs from yesterday?”

I rose slowly, retrieved the slips from atop the breadbox and handed them to him. As I sat my mother avoided eye contact. Her hands folded in her lap head down.

After a pause, Jim said, “She’s right.”

My mother lifted her head, her eyes boring into mine red with anger. She bared her teeth and hissed at me.

My mind went blank. I stopped breathing. What just happened? Did my mother blame me for her error?

Jim snapped, “Hey.” He glared at my mother. She faked a laugh, one of those demeaning deflections in a just kidding attitude.

Jim gave her a look that stopped her cold. He turned, gently thanked me, and patted my arm. I got the silent message to leave and I quietly walked down the hallway and slipped into my bedroom.

I was clear he had stood up to my mother and protected me. It wouldn’t be the last time.

The argument between my mother and Jim built to a crescendo, filled with shouting and door slamming. In the next week there were late night phone calls that resulted in slam ups.  In those days there were two parts to a phone. The base contained the rotary dial and the handle where one talked and listened. Pix

Those handles were great. One could slam the handle on the base to let the person on the other side know just how pissed off you were. Having done it to telemarketers it felt righteously golden. Ah, memories.

School started and I was too preoccupied with being an eighth grader to notice the silent drama brewing between Jim and my mother.

Tina, Cath and Syndi and I went shopping up at the Peninsula Shopping Center for clothes the one night a week stores were open to 9PM. Thursday. We were so excited. I hadn’t raised enough money to get the hip hugger skirt and poor boy I wanted so I bought an orange flower dress. (pix).

Syndi’s father picked us up and drove us back to his house.  He and Syndi said good night and went in. Tina’s mom was to pick her up soon and I waited with her out in the driveway. Tina giggled and asked if I wanted to see something. Cha, yeah, of course. She opened the bag a crack and allowed me a peek of the poor boy sweater she lifted from the store.

I sucked in air and asked how she did it. She said she slipped it in the bag with the skirt she bought. All when the sales lady wasn’t looking. She said it was easy. She’d show me next time we went to the mall. All I could think about was my own poor boy sweater.

I walked back home and Jim was there making spaghetti for my brother. I showed my mother and Jim my new dress. Jim said the color looked good on me. That made me smile.

Later that night my mother informed me she and Jim had decided to take a trip to Mexico for a long weekend. I was in charge. They left late Friday night.

My younger brother and I had a blast. We feasted on hot dogs, grilled cheese sandwiches, cookies and watched monster movies. Only the B movies for us. “It Came From Beneath the Sea” and “The Creature with the Atomic Brain”. We loved those movies. Still do.

They returned before dawn Sunday. I woke and got up to greet them, but my mother ordered me away. She looked very tired. Jim helped her to bed and got water for her. Then he checked in on me, asked me if I was all right. He said he’d be back later in the week and left.

My mother recovered quickly and was back teaching her classes by Tuesday. She found my orange dress and wore it. Apparently, Jim came to my rescue and asked, “Isn’t that your daughter’s dress?” He told her the dress was a little young for her.

When she came home she threw the dress at me. I hung it up. When I wanted to wear the next day, it was gone. I never did know what happened to it.

Jim came to my defense me a few more times but the affair between he and my mother faded. Jim became involved with a woman named Aurelia. (My mother’s nemesis.) Eventually his wife divorced him. He traveled to the Rocky Mountains, drank too much, and wrote poetry.

As goofy and opportunistic as he was, he will always be my Oskar Shindler, the guy that realized his mistake, stepped up and helped needed.  

I had complained about Jim bitterly when I had to clean up his mess in the kitchen, and told me to get better grades, but he stood up for me time and again.  For that, I will be ever grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Welcome to my blog. If you are a returning friend allow me to extend a hearty virtual hug. If this is your first visit, I recommend you start at the beginning with part one, then progress through each part. I attempted to build each section like chapters in a book.  I’d be delighted to hear from you. Please, ask questions, make comments and share.

So back to1965 and the summer, in which “The Sound of Music” was a box office bonanza, The Beatles released “Help!” and television gave us The Outer Limits and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.

I loved the show The Twilight Zone. Can’t you just hear Rod Serling?

"You are about to enter another dimension.

A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.

A journey into a wondrous land of imagination.

Next stop—The Twilight Zone."

It both frightened and inspired me. The Twilight Zone often played with the concept of fate, typically coming down on the side that we can’t avoid it. We can’t avoid our true selves. It was Greek Mythology translated to contemporary terms.

There were many amazing stories, but two episodes that impacted me were “What’s in the Box?” and “A Quality of Mercy”.

The first is a story of an average cab driver in a miserable marriage. The second is about soldiers during WWII and presents the argument we are more like our enemies than not. (Something worth examining in this era of division and hate.)

Netflix in the US has them, so binge away. Watch these and feast on gourmet food for thought.

These stories helped me develop self-awareness. The 1960’s were like the Roaring 20’s when, to quote an old phrase, the baby of reason was thrown out with the bath water of change.

Today’s blog continues along that fateful summer in 1965 in which I stepped closer into impulsive behavior.  Let’s get to it.

After my brother’s ordeal with the law things settled remarkably fast. (If you haven’t yet, read Part Two for the full drama)  He was fully ensconced at military academy. My sister, entering her first year of college, began the adjustment of dorm life. With both my older siblings gone, there were no more dramatic arguments and slamming of doors. It also meant the stream of teenagers in and out of our house stopped. There was space. I suspect my mother felt a weight lifted off her shoulders.

I thought she and I’d do things together as she and my sister had. It was something she’d promised me the year before. I was envious of how the two of them would talk, smoke cigarettes, and sip coffee into the wee hours of the night. They had discussions about life, literature, politics and love. I wanted that closeness, too. 

When they sat around the kitchen table coffee cups in hand, I was sent away. Told I was too young to understand. Fair enough, at age eleven I was too young mentally to engage in the conversation and hold my own. But I held out hope that my mother and I would rescue our fading relationship in the vacuum left by my departed siblings.

 It didn’t turn out that way.

A man named Jim became a part of the collection of graduate students, Jesuit priests and English teachers of my mother. He fascinated her with his tall athletic build, red hair and love of poetry. But he was married with young children. He wasn’t the first married man my mother had an affair with, but he was the youngest. They began a tempestuous love affair.

In fairness, she was an attractive divorcee, free to date as she chose. But, being a child of divorce, how a parent dates matters. Young minds weave the world together by observing adults. There were things about Jim that bothered me.

For one thing, he was married with small children. For another, he always cooked in our kitchen and never cleaned up. One night he put on a show, impersonating Julia Child, and made a Cesar salad.

“You must rub the salad bowl with garlic cloves,” he said and rolled his sleeves up dramatically. He held a clove up like a torch before attacking the bowl and smearing the garlic from top to bottom. He’d pour himself a glass of wine and then say, “Never use a knife with lettuce, always rip it with your fingers.”

By the end of his show, the kitchen was a disaster. Olive oil spilled all over the counter, bits of romaine lettuce and Parmesan cheese scattered the floor, and jars of spices overturned. The smell of anchovies permeated the kitchen. Then he did what I thought was crass. He ordered me to clean up the kitchen.

I folded my arms across my chest and dug my heels in with an obvious no. Jim said, “The cook never cleans the kitchen.” He grabbed the wine bottle and went into the dining room. My mom backed him. I cleaned up the mess.

My blood boiled with each lettuce leaf I picked up. Who did he think he was, my father? Sure you could say my father lived in Minnesota and wasn’t around. Still. 

I wove together I didn’t like Jim.

Well, I decided to say something and, with all my wisdom and bravado of twelve years, I spoke with my mother. I told her he was married and she shouldn’t date him. I said he was ten years younger than she was.  Didn’t she tell me the reason she divorced my father was he was twelve years older than her? And, he was bossy.

 In no uncertain terms, I was told what she did was none of my business.

Okay, that ended that conversation.

Truthfully, her boyfriends weren’t any of my business. I was a kid. She was the adult. I get it.

It made the notion of boyfriends a source of curiosity. What did one do with a boyfriend?

Summer vacation was drawing to a close and the start of school loomed. I had concerns other than boyfriends. Shopping for new clothes was one, obviously.

As I mentioned in my previous post, Tina and Chuck O spearheaded the running group. After jogging the cross-country track, our little gang of twelve-year-olds went to the market.  

I discovered Tina had light fingers and stole little things while we strolled along the isles. Things like gum, a chap stick, or a small candy bar. It gave her an aura of being dangerous and exciting.

It gave her attention.

I wanted attention.

I was in my late twenties before I figured out wanting something was better than having that very thing. The fantasy is now real with problems and upsets. Reality defeats fantasy every time. But, I had a few years to go before that realization.

One day Chuck O. invited Tina to a party. Tina spread the word. Cath, Kathy, Syndi, Lynnie and I were set to attend.

The party was held at Celeste’s house. She lived in the rich section of Palos Verdes Estates, where kidney shaped pools graced backyard patios. I never saw these pools. Tall fences and bushes protected the yards from unwanted onlookers. Walking past, I’d hear the thump-thump of diving boards and the accompanying splash.

That night, while we were gathering at Kathy’s, Tina pulled me aside and told me a boy from the running group wanted to meet me at the party.

Really, I thought. A boy liked me? Which one?

Let me clarify about this party.  We were eleven and twelve year olds in 1965. Parties weren’t at all what we see in movies now. When we arrived at Celeste’s, we were served orange soda and cheese puffs. I was too nervous to eat and went to the backyard to see the pool.

Her backyard was magical. Special lights along the walkway lit the lush garden. The pool had underwater lights that allowed for swimming at night. Compared to our backyard with the septic tank that overflowed when we did the laundry and the uncut dry grass that my older brother was supposed to attend to but didn’t, this yard was like Disneyland. I wandered through her backyard in a dreamlike haze.

A boy got my attention by standing in front of me. I blinked and finally remembered him.  His name was Patrick. He ran with us only one time.

He looked comfortable, like he belonged. He had blond hair and was dressed like one of the Beach Boys.  Instantly, I felt embarrassed by my clothes as if I were a poor relation visiting rich cousins.

 

Tina and Chuck joined us and we walked towards the pool house at the end of the yard. I’d never heard of a pool house before.  It was a small cabin hidden behind dense Jasmine bushes. Chuck said something that made us stop. Tina looked up at Chuck and they began kissing.

Patrick asked if he could kiss me. Curious, because this would be my first kiss from a boy, I nodded. He plunged his lips against mine and stared into my eyes. He pulled back and smiled. He lifted my arm and gently guided me towards the bushes out of the light and plunged his lips on mine again. At this point I didn’t think I liked kissing.

A loud male voice shouted, “What are you doing! Stop this instant.”

Patrick and I spread apart. Chuck and Tina stood like statues. A tall man starred down at us, his hands on his hips. He said,” I want you out, now.”

We were promptly escorted to the street. Mortified, through tears Celeste apologized as the side gate slammed shut.

We had to wait for Kathy, Cath, Lynnie and Syndi to get the message that the party was over. When they came out we busted up laughing. Chuck said something to the effect that Celeste would never live this one down he would make sure of it.

Our group roamed along the winding streets talking and doing goofy stuff. Jumping to tag street signs, walking one foot on the curb and one foot off. Patrick held my hand. He seemed nice without his lips banging against mine. At one point Cath asked what time it was. Chuck said it was nine forty.

“Oh no. My mom is going to kill me. I’ve got to call her and let her know I’m okay,” Cath said clutching her hands under her chin.

Tina, Chuck and Patrick lived the opposite way and we said goodbye. Kathy’s house was the closest and Cath could reach her mom from there.

As we sauntered along, Syndi told us about the boy she kissed in the television room. Cooper was his name and he was tall. This was critical because at 5’8” she was one of the tallest girls in school. She bet they would be going steady by the start of school. 

It took us longer than we realized because when we reached Kathy’s house her twin brother met us in the backyard. “You are so grounded,” he sneered with a gleeful laugh. Kathy took a swipe at him. He sprung out of reach and giggled.

When we entered, her mother stood in the kitchen with her arms folded. She spoke into the phone, “Yes, they just showed up. I’ll send her home. Okay, bye-bye.” She hung up the receiver. “That was your mother, Lynnie.” She glared at Lynnie who hung her head. “You girls know it’s after curfew,” she stated.

Cath took the lead and apologized. She asked if she could call her mother and let her know she was safe. That seemed to diffuse the tension.

I watched Cath speak to her parents and I could hear the worry in her father’s voice over the line. Cath lived on the other side of school and her father said he’d come pick her up.

“You three best get going. I’ll call your mother Syndi and let her know you are coming,” Kathy’s mom said.

Lynnie, Syndi and I headed home. I was still a little confused. My brother always came and went as he pleased. So, I asked what was the deal about curfew.

Syndi answered, “My dad says the Palos Verdes police are Gestapo’s. They go after anybody. He got a speeding ticket for going ten miles over the speed limit. Oh, he was so angry.”

When we turned the corner Syndi’s father was waiting for her at the garage. “See ya,” she said and turned to her father. He held out his arms and they hugged. Then he held her at arms length and wagged his finger. As they went in I could hear them chatting.

Lynnie and I continued to her house. She asked me to come in. Her parents and several of her father’s work chums were sitting around the oval kitchen table sipping beer and playing cards. It looked like poker because there were blue and red chips in a pile in the center. Her father, with years of hard labor as a longshoreman, slowly stood when we entered.

Lynnie apologized for being late. Her mother joked about getting her a watch for Christmas. It was a friendly jab. Lynnie beamed at the thought of her own wristwatch. Lynnie asked who was winning and her mother gave a sly smile nodding slightly to a pile of chips at her left. One of the men said Lynnie’s mother should go to Vegas and really pull in some cash. She blushed and said the Vegas sharks would eat her alive.

Her father asked if I wanted him to walk me home. I said no, it was only two houses away. He escorted me out the garage and watched as I walked down the alley towards my house.

When I arrived it was close to ten thirty. My younger brother, always a night owl, was watching a monster movie on TV and building a grand fort with Lincoln Logs. My mother and Jim were occupied in her bedroom. I slipped into my bedroom. My beautiful blue-eyed Siamese cat greeted me.

In that moment I knew I could make my own schedule. Like my older brother, coming in late made no difference. It was like what Rod Serling said in the Twilight Zone. I’d entered another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.

It was an empty feeling.

 That Summer pt. 2

 

 

 

Welcome to my blog. If this is your first visit, I am delighted you’re here, and a hearty virtual hug to my returning friends and family.

This is part two of a series on a summer that impacted my behavior. It’s about when I started to make stupid mistakes. If you haven’t yet, I recommend reading “That Summer part 1”. This blog expands on that post. Also, it’d be great to hear from you, post a comment and share. Now, back to that critical year.

I’ve always loved Ancient Greek Mythology. Aside from the gods and goddesses possessing powers, their crucibles, which were often tragic, sometimes comic, and wonderfully human, captivated me. Those stories taught me that every gift has a price.

Consider Narcissus, an exceptionally proud and beautiful youth. Full of hubris, he disdained those who loved him. Tricked into looking into a clear pond, he fell deeply in love with the reflection of his younger self. Unable to leave the allure of his image, he wasted away. There is something inexpressively sad about loving beauty above all else. It makes me think of people that get caught up with always wanting the next shiny thing. I’ve done it.

Mostly, I bonded with Cassandra, a princess of Troy, who was given the gift of sight but was cursed so that her prophecies would not be believed. You could call her the original whistleblower.

In third grade, I was given the notorious label of tattletale. (What can I say? bullies and lies upset me.) One day during recess, there was a small riot on the school playground. Some boys taunted a new girl simply because she looked different. She got so frightened she ran to escape them. They pursued her. Half the playground followed in the excitement.

My moral, ‘this isn’t right’ blood boiled as I watched the girl pinned against a wall. I jumped in to defend her and set myself between her and the crowd of raucous third and forth graders. 

I yelled, “Stop it.” Nick S. threw a rock at me and hit me in the head. I still have the scar. (FYI. it’s not as cool as Harry Potter’s.)

With all the shouting echoing off the brick walls, the nuns came out. Soon, those of us closest to the poor girl were towed into the principles office. I pointed to Nick Scanlon as the troublemaker and the cut on my forehead as proof. He denied my accusations and called me a liar. The rest of the boys followed his lead. It was my first experience that signaled those who are believed have backers.

As you can imagine, I was ostracized at school. I turned to the one thing I thought I could do. I told jokes during recess. I’m sure it was pure survival adrenaline because the jokes were, well bad. I was a stand up comedienne on the playground. Thank god the kids laughed and that saved me.

All whistleblowers need patience that the lie will eventually be exposed. Nick S. eventually was kicked out of school by the end of the year for aggressive behavior. What I learned was being right didn’t exonerate me in the eyes of the kids. Being funny did.

Let’s return to the summer of 1965 and sunny Southern California

After the incident of the naked man, trips to the beach that summer stopped.

Tina was an athletic girl with long golden blond hair just like Alice in Wonderland, invited me to join her run the cross-country track. Chuck O., a boy on whom she had a massive crush, exercised and ran the track in the mornings. I was bored and accepted her invitation.

With the voice of a general ordering the troops, Chuck led us through warm ups. Then off we’d go running the dusty hill. Honestly, I don’t really remember the other boys. Perhaps it was the surreal encounter the week before that shifted my attention away from boys. I was all business and there to run.

One morning after our run, the boys walked us to the Frontier Market, a small shopping and business center a few blocks away. It had a grocery store, a drug/liquor store, dress shop, beauty salon, law offices, real estate offices and of course a Texaco station. Yes, this was when a gas pump jockey in full uniform, who’d come out and ask, “Fill ‘er up?” The reply might be, “No, just $1.50 today.” This was when gas was $0.22 a gallon.

 The hardware/drug/liquor store was part pharmacy, photo store, carrier of cold remedies, aspirin, hammers, and behind the counter, cigars, cigarettes and liquor. Sounds a twinge white trashy doesn’t it? To give you the full white trash picture, it sold fireworks and baskets of fresh strawberries on the 4^th of July. Tina and Chuck O. hung out together at the market most afternoons. I couldn’t.

            I had odd jobs cleaning houses or babysitting. I worked to save up for new clothes. Eighth grade would begin in three weeks. I had my eye on a hip-hugger skirt and poor boy sweater. The white boots were optional. Come on, it was 1965. Nancy Sinatra sang, “These Boots Were Made For Walking”, on the radio.

            I will get to the events that would ultimately shape a deep seated fear about how my life would unfold, but for now, I want to weave in some other things that shaped my decisions on how the world worked.

Something snapped between my mother and my older brother. It could have been a rebellious teen pitted against a weak parent. They were easily combustible. Often my brother, after a volatile argument, would storm out of the house screaming every swear word known to mankind. He made his own schedule after those arguments. It was easy because the back door was next to his bedroom.

One fateful day, my brother was shipped off to military school. I was never told the intricate details but here’s what I wove together.

My brother had gotten possession of a metallic green 1950’s hot rod in pristine condition that he parked behind the bushes for three days. In that dusty alley, it was a magnificent vision. It looked alive just sitting there. This beautiful shiny green hot rod had leather bucket seats, an aggressive rake to the tires and shiny chrome headlights and door handles. My mouth dropped when I first laid eyes on it and when I heard the rumble of the engine my heart pounded. When I stepped up to touch it, my brother snapped, ‘Don’t you’ll smudge the paint.”

On a lark, my brother and a friend decided to go for a spin to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. As only heady teenage boys can, they parked it and sauntered across the street in the middle, not the crosswalk. Someone honked and yelled, “Get out of the street ya (insert curse)”. An officer on duty noticed the incident and stopped the boys.

My brother more than likely got a little mouthy and pointed out others crossing in the same manner. The officer doubled down and wrote up jaywalking tickets for both. The officer then asked the sixteen-year-olds about the hot rod.  How could anyone miss it in the monochromatic streets of Beverly Hills?

The officer checked the license plate number. It’d been reported stolen. My brother adamantly disagreed, said he borrowed it from a friend. Arguments ensued and the boys were ‘taken downtown’.

 Luckily, he was not arrested. When contacted, the friend said yes, he knew my brother, but did not allow him to take the car, that was why he reported it stolen. Instead of an arrest, my brother was given a choice to attend a military academy. I’ve always wondered if the other choice was juvenile detention. (You can imagine how that would have turned out.) He was shipped off to a town just north of San Diego and would finish his last two years of high school there.

He did well in that environment. Maybe he needed guidance. Guidance is another way of saying someone cares enough to hold you to your word. To let you know if you say you will do something, you do it. Integrity, an inner resolve, is very different from stubbornness. I suspect the two get mixed up.

As to integrity, it is what Plato wrote, “Know thyself”.  Stubbornness is a dogged determination not to grow, develop or change. I’ve seen the cost of being ridged and unwilling to change. I’ve paid that price and learned. I’ve seen people take sides and stop listening. The question becomes, why? What purpose does it serve?

My mother battled demons of self-doubt and dedicated herself to finishing her degree. That wonderful trait of stubborn resolve, which got her to complete her BA and 14/16ths of her MA (she never did take a French test) ultimately worked against her, like a tragic flaw from Greek mythology. She was told by relatives and teachers alike to pay attention or serious consequences would unfold. No warning altered her behavior. Los Angeles signaled freedom a chance to regain her lost youth. She embraced it with both hands. It was the 1960’s and the static ‘old folks’ ways were crumbling.

What none of us wanted to face was like a car on empty, momentum will keep it moving, but eventually it’s over. Family, church, community and friends we grew up around no longer mattered. We were rudderless in the ocean of wealth and privilege.

The best example is my brother. At age eight, my brother found a bugle in my grandparent’s house and played Taps perfectly. I remember the incident clearly because the adults came running and asked if he could do it again, he did. Private lessons with my Aunt Mary the concert pianist started that week. By fourteen, my older brother was a talented trumpet player. What we would call ‘scouts’ these days were aware of him.

We moved to California and all that personal support and discipline vanished. There was no structure to keep him playing in Palos Verdes at the level he was in Minnesota not to mention stretching him. He was bored. I’m not justifying his behavior, but I can understand and have compassion for the sudden lack of guidance.

I would make bad choices of my own in the upcoming months.

 

 

 

 

 That Summer

 

Newton’s cradle is a devise that illustrates the conservation of momentum and energy. It’s a hypnotic toy of five steel balls. When one sphere at the end is lifted and released it strikes the stationary sphere transmitting a force through the other stationary spheres that pushes the last sphere forward. One of my college professors had one on his desk and he showed me something interesting one day.  

He said, “If you only see half of the devise it looks like one sphere is behaving erratically. It’s only by expanding your view that you understand cause and effect.”

            I’ve been thinking about that lately given the current climate. I ask myself can I gain a wider perspective when what I want to do is fade away. My wanting to withdraw could be interpreted as indifference but I don’t think it is.

None of us are born indifferent. It’s a protection, a shield against being scorned, laughed at or singled out for having intense emotions. My protective shield of indifference was first planted when my parents divorced. It became clear in the ensuing chaos that us kids were on our own to figure it out. This was the era when many said,  “They’re just kids, when they fall they bounce.”

The first real episode that made me aware of this ideology happened when I had strep throat, but that story is for another time. This is about a time when I made the decision that I didn’t matter.

It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade. I was eleven and the youngest in our collective of friends. Kathy had turned twelve in February, Lynnie in March, Syndi (pronounced Cindy, it’s a long story and I’ll get to it) in April and Cathy had turned twelve way back in January. Just to point out, we had to work out how to address Kathy with a K and Cathy with a C but I’ll get to that, too.

I wasn’t to turn twelve until the last golden week of summer. I was comforted knowing I would be twelve at the start of eighth grade. I had that going for me. At this point, I was the flat chested lanky one of the group.

Two summers earlier, after the dust had settled from the long and messy divorce of my parents, my mother drove us half way across the country to sunny Southern California. Even at nine years old I knew, for my mother this was a new beginning, a chance to escape the gossip of righteous relatives and the Catholic community in which we lived.

Somewhere along that long hot drive from Minnesota, past the Rocky Mountains, Las Vegas, and into the basin of Los Angeles, any rules guiding our family completely evaporated. My mother’s newfound freedom would set in motion disruptive consequences. At the time, blame was placed squarely on us kids for behaving badly, acting out, and causing trouble. My older brother, already in rebel mode during the divorce, caught the brunt of it much like the fifth steel ball in Newton’s Cradle.

We moved to California because USC granted my mother a full scholarship to complete her master’s degree in English Literature. It was the 1960’s and universities were looking for older students that’d make a positive impact. As an intelligent, newly divorced woman seeking a profession, she was an excellent candidate.

We arrived a week before school started and rented a house in Palos Verdes Estates. My older sister and brother enrolled at Palos Verdes High School, my younger brother went to Lunada Bay Elementary and I was placed at Margate Intermediate.

That first year was a shock. A Midwest family settling into a wealthy California community, putting it mildly, we stuck out. Our shoes, hair and clothes gave us away. Hard soled shoes, fall colored sweaters and ‘done’ hair were the essentials of living in the Midwest but foreign in the land of canvas Vans, tropical colored shirts and long straight hair. After the first day of school I never rolled my hair or wore my saddle shoes again. I caught it from my mother that I wouldn’t wear my saddle shoes, as she paid ‘good money’ for them. How could I explain what she didn’t understand?

The streets curved and twisted gently in Palos Verdes Estates. Not the hard right and left angles of which I had known. School friends Syndi and Lynnie lived down the street kitty corner from one another. Their houses hid behind great walls of greenery.

In the Midwest, homes were decorated with flowerbeds cheerfully greeting visitors and passers by. Front doors proudly stood in the center of the house with wide front porches to protect people from the weather when arriving and to offer a place to sit and enjoy a cool summer night or watch a thunderstorm. Behind the houses were alleys where children of every age played every game possible. Touch football, basketball, baseball, capture the flag and kick the can were occasionally interrupted by cars as fathers returned from work to park inside garages not attached to the house. Old barns repurposed to protect cars from winter ice and summer hail.

In Palos Verdes, garages were the focal point. Overgrown jasmine bushes and eucalyptus trees dominated the sides of each house. I remember getting the feeling of ‘do not come any closer’ from these houses.  When Lynnie offered to walk with me to school, I waited for her in the driveway.

The first year in California passed in a blur.

By seventh grade, I gained acceptance in the pre-teen community. Singing in chorus greatly helped my integration. An eighth grade boy, Brad Starr, (yes, he looked exactly as his name sounded) sat next to me and word got out he liked my singing voice and said I was funny. At the time, I was oblivious to his feelings. In my mind, why would he like me? Beverly Kincaid, also in chorus, also in eighth grade, was the girl every boy liked. She had long skinny legs, blond hair and wore white lipstick. Nevertheless, his nod to my singing and sense of humor gave the tip to my acceptance.

Our collective of girlfriends had expanded to include Tina and Kimberly.  Calling out Kathy, or Cathy became confusing. Tina would add, “Kathy with a K”, or “Cathy with a C” when addressing either. Syndi suggested Kathy add her middle name and be called Kathy Ann. Kathy said she’d rather die. (Ann was her mother’s name so, you know, tsk, gross.) Cathy with her practical mathematical mind said, “Oh, just call me Cath.” And that was settled.

As to Syndi and the spelling of her name, I asked her once as we hiked up the dirt trail to school. Her mother and father thought they were unable to have children and they fostered a girl, her older sister Monica. Three years later, much to their delight and surprise, they got pregnant. Convinced it was a boy, they settled on Sydney, a nod to their Australian homeland. And being rather hard headed when he turned out to be her they named her Syndi. Pronounced Cindy.

Finally, the school year ended and the beach with sun and surf and boys beckoned. But first we needed new bathing suits. It meant only one thing: a trip to the Peninsula Shopping Center. With twenty dollars burning in my pocket from babysitting and cleaning houses, all that was needed was a ride.

Turned down by Cath’s older brother and Tina’s mother, Lynnie bit the bullet and asked her mother for the second time. She agreed with the stipulation that we were given one hour to shop. She would take us when she did her grocery shopping and if we weren’t at the car in time she’d leave. 

None of us wore wristwatches so how we were to keep an eye on the time wasn’t discussed. We were just happy to be going. Cath, being both mathematical and practical, every so often, asked the salesladies the time. Even with that, we were five minutes late returning to the car. Luckily the market was crowded that day and Lynnie’s mother, ever the social butterfly, sat on one of the outdoor benches and chatted with friends. We waited for her twenty minutes. But hey, no harm no foul.

All of us bought two-piece bathing suits except Lynnie. She felt she was too fat for a two-piece and got a pretty one piece with a small skirt around her hips. My suit was a Hawaiian floral pattern in sage green and ivory. I remember it cost $12.99 (a fortune back then) but it was well made and fit me perfectly so, Cath told me I couldn’t pass it up. The next hurdle was to get it past my mother before she coveted it as hers.

She’d already taken over a navy blue dress and a pair of dark green suede shoes my grandmother sent me for Christmas, so I felt justified in being cautious. I hid it between the box springs and mattress until I could wear it to the beach. When she found it in the laundry basket, she hit the roof that I dare buy (and more importantly wear) a two-piece to the beach. There were threats to return it. Fortunately, I had already baptized it in the Pacific Ocean. There was nothing that could be done. I suspected however, by how she threw the suit in my face, she’d tried it on but it didn’t fit so it was mine now.

Syndi, Lynnie and I enrolled in summer school. We took art from Mrs. White and math from Mr. Mac Elroy. None of us liked math, but we were told to brush up on our math skills because eighth grade math was way hard. All of us got massive crushes on the dark-haired single Mr. Mac Elroy. I think that was the only time I understood math. It took me until junior year in high school to figure out that the teacher had nothing to do with my learning the subject. It helped if I could understand their presentation, but it was my job to understand.

Our group went to Torrance Beach as often as we could beg, barter or cajole a ride from family members. Kathy told us she just had to go to the beach as often as possible. I suspected it had to do with her acne, which was massive, because she rarely went in to swim. I was in the water constantly. I loved to body surf. It felt like I was flying. With every mother and older brother fed up with driving us to the beach, eventually we had to come up with an alternative.

Palos Verdes had no busses and none of our bicycles worked so we were stumped. One day we made the decision to walk. It was a little over two miles to the Torrance Beach cove from Kathy’s house. Not everyone wanted to walk. At 10 AM that Wednesday we were a small group. Kathy, Syndi, Lynnie and I met, put on our tennis shoes and headed north on Palos Verdes Drive.

I should mention now, athletically the four of us were very different. In track and field, I was one of the fastest girls in cross-country and the 800-meter run. Kathy pulled her weight in relay races and short sprints. Syndi could jump any height with grace and style. Lynnie, politely saying, was not athletic.

Lynnie was cherubic with blue eyes and blond curls. Her compassion and kindness inspired the rest of us to behave better. Walking to the beach that day, we slowed our pace for her. I carried my aqua blue pocket transistor radio and sang to The Animals “The House of the Rising Sun” as we set out.

Palos Verdes Estates borders the rocky edge of the Pacific Ocean. The main road winds along the shoreline buttressed by craggy hills. That winter, a scene from a movie was filmed in the main cove. Tony Curtis starred. Lynnie’s mother got word of the filming and we raced to the spot to see a real live movie star and film crew. Remembering that day, we giggled as we went over the details of how short Tony Curtis was and how big his head looked. We couldn’t wait for the movie to open in theatres.

By this time, we had walked about a quarter of a mile in our quest to the beach. Rounding the curve that brought the road up against the craggy hills to our right, we slowed. Perhaps because we were out of the direct sun and the cooler air gave us a moment of comfort.

Along this stretch, the boulevard funneled into a one-lane roadway and hugged the contours of the hills for the next mile. There were two separate dirt areas large enough for a car to pull off to the side if needed to let faster cars pass or change the inevitable flat tire.

The first outlet was the largest. A natural inlet surrounded by wild prickly bushes that dominated the hill with room for two cars. The second was much smaller, easily ignored and desolate. We passed the first area and Kathy demanded we pick up our pace.

The path along the road was single file at this point. There was no sidewalk on either side of this strip of PV Drive, just a dirt trench. We rounded the curve. Nestled in the smaller turnout a white van was parked with its rear door wide open. It was a curious sight and we slowed slightly. As we continued, our view shifted to gain a perspective inside the van. A man, perhaps thirty, dark hair, sat naked, fully erect and wickedly smiling at us.

Kathy screamed. The shouted to us, “Run! Run!”

 We did.

Kathy, with her talent at short distances, vanished around the corner in a cloud of dust. I, being the long distance runner, was just getting my legs going when from behind me I heard Syndi yell, “Wait! Wait!” I looked back. Lynnie was gasping trying her best to move quickly to no avail. Syndi was pulling her. I slowed and placing Lynnie’s arm around my shoulder supported her around the curves towards Malaga Cove shopping center. Syndi and I spotted the man in his white van speed past us, and the hair on the back of my neck crackled.

Lynnie began weeping. Syndi, her eye on the van reassured her, “It’s okay. He’s gone. He’s not stopping.”

We finally made it to where Kathy stopped, which was at the edge of the shopping area. Kathy, still shaking by the time we joined her, told us we needed to go to the police immediately. “You don’t understand, we have to report this,” she spoke through gulps of air.

Luckily, I knew the ‘Welcome to Malaga Cove’ sign was ahead with directions to local businesses. A gold painted arrow pointed to the right for the police station. We walked into the small front office and spoke to the desk officer.

Kathy was clearly upset and a woman officer offered to speak with her privately. The older officer addressed Syndi and I. Lynnie was silent and held my hand in a gesture of thanks.

“Did he have facial hair, a mustache or beard?” No. “How tall was he would you guess he was, about my size?” No, he was smaller. “Was he muscular like me or thin?” No, just normal. “How old was he? Younger than me or older?” Younger. “And you saw him drive past you when you were coming here?” Yes. “Did he look at you when he drove past?” Yes.

The older officer calmly listened and a young officer was dispatched to cruise around the area to see if he could spot anything. By how quickly they responded and how carefully they dealt with us, something told me they knew this man. They’d dealt with him before.

That man’s face is burned in my memory. He wouldn’t be the only strange man inappropriately exposing himself to me, but he was the first. I can give you a detailed description now that I couldn’t as a tongue-tied shocked eleven-year-old. He was a white male about 5’9’-5’10” in his late twenty’s or early thirty’s with hairy legs, arms and chest. He looked like he hadn’t shaved that morning with close-cropped dark hair, a wide toothy mouth and fierce eyes that could have been blue but assuredly not brown. His hands had thick fingers and wide palms when he waved to us. And his head was round not long or angular. The only thing he wore were tan slip-on boat shoes.

I said none of that at the police station.

The police gave us cups of water, took down our names, addresses and phone numbers. Asked if we could identify the man if we saw him again. I could and Syndi could. Kathy said not really and Lynnie gave a flat no.

They asked who we could call to come pick us up. Lynnie’s mother didn’t have the car today because her father was on a job at the San Pedro harbor, Syndi’s mother and father worked downtown LA, and my mother was at USC. I had no idea how to reach her.

Kathy called her mom at the Real Estate office. When she showed up she held Kathy tightly and rocked her gently, saying “My baby, my girl.” They both cried. It took Kathy a year to tell us about her first incident with a peeping tom and how it escalated.

We loaded into their Buick station wagon and went home.

That night the police called each of our families as a check up. A woman officer spoke with my mother. I hadn’t told anyone what happened simply because no one was home to tell. My sister came home in a fit at four o’clock and stormed around the house, my older brother was out with friends and probably wouldn’t be home until after curfew and my younger brother, who returned from cub scouts at three o’clock, was seven. What would I say to him?

By seven o’clock my mother and her friends arrived all excited to grill burgers, talk about poetry and drink wine. What was I supposed to say? “Guess what? Some guy was naked in a van when we walked to the beach today. I saw his thing.”

It seemed inappropriate to bring it up at their party. I got busted when the police called at eight o’clock. After the call I overheard one of my mother’s friends whisper to her, “Don’t make a big deal of it. She wasn’t hurt so why go over it again?”

No questions were asked. Ever.

It wasn’t my first experience of careless indifference and it wouldn’t be my last. It was difficult, like that steel ball in Newton’s Cradle, not to make up that I wasn’t worth the trouble.

Next blog:  The next incident of that summer