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.