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.