This afternoon, my older sister and I were sorting through a stack of books that belonged to our dad, who passed away two weeks ago. We stumbled upon a book called "List Your Self: Listmaking as the Way to Self-Discovery." It'd be great if I could lovingly share the contents of the book with you—his memories, his fears, his favorite things—but the book is as bare as it was the day my sister or I sent it to him in 1997. Don't fret, though: That same year, I bought a copy for myself, and I have a record of life as I knew it in the late nineties.
Chapter 1: Yourself
Under "List the activities you'd do if you weren't so afraid," I unwisely include "pick up a hitchhiker" and "be a hitchhiker." I didn't do those things, but I did "learn to swim," and I occasionally "say what I'm feeling."
Under "List the compliments you receive on a regular basis," I enthusiastically fill the page, including "you don't act married."
Under "List what consistently worries you each day," I fill the page once again, including "that I have (or will soon have) cancer, Alzheimer's, or an STD."
Under "List the animals that really scare you," I include worms and bears.
Under "List all the qualities in yourself you like the least," I include but 2: "my tendency toward procrastination" and "my pesky shyness."
Under "List all the things you'd like to say to your mother," I include 13 items ranging from "I miss you" and "thanks for staying up late sewing for me" to "I'm sorry I was occasionally disdainful" and "let's go shopping for slutty clothes."
Under "List all the people who love you for who you really are," I limit it to 6 people: husband, son, an ex-coworker, two neighbor children in Dallas, and cousin Suzy.
Chapter 2: Daily Life
Under "List the things you do between turning off the alarm and walking out your front door," I include "weigh myself," "check email," and "open the blinds and verify there isn't a drowned child in the pool."
Under "List all the things you've lent that have come back broken," I write "Nothing, that I recall."
Chapter 3: Business
Under "List what you'd like to shout out loud to your boss or coworkers," I write 1 thing: "Shut the fuck up!"
Under "List the names of all your past bosses," I list 14, including "Dad" and "some guy at Camp Williams."
Chapter 4: Change
Under "List all those events you went into with doubt that turned out surprisingly well," there's a blank page.
Under "List the attitudes and habits you've had to give up to get through life," I include "being nice is all-important," "men are trustworthy," and "people want to see other people happy and successful."
Under "List the ways you sabotage yourself from getting what you want," I include "I'm unwilling to compete, confront, work hard, or be inconvenienced."
Under "List the menu for your Last Supper," I include 5 items: fresh-squeezed OJ, warm cashews, corn-on-the-cob, a thick slice of white bread with Sally's strawberry jam, and a mint truffle.
Under "List the major changes you feel you need to make in your life right now," I include "stop backing away socially," "stay the budgetary course," and "stop eating meat."
Under "List the rivers you've crossed," I include "I stopped fearing dogs" and "I stopped chatting online."
Under "List all the elements of a perfect vacation," I start with the most important: "low expectations."
Chapter 5: Culture
Under "List the contests and awards you've won," I include 6 items, the most memorable being "an apple-bobbing contest at 6th-grade sleep-away camp."
Under "List all the things that could happen to you when you park in an underground structure," I include 4: I could wind up murdered, trapped in a collapse, lost, or "seduced."
Chapter 6: Men and Women
Under "List all the typical reasons you end a relationship," I write 1 thing: boredom.
Under "List what's wrong with women," I include "they're unreasonable," "they're too attached to possessions," and "they use words like boobs." Under "List what's wrong with men," I include half-again as many items, including "they leave," "they don't say good-bye," "they're awful in groups," "they believe in UFOs," and "they wear hats too often." I have no idea to which UFO-believing, hat-wearing man I'm referring.
Under "List the reasons for getting married," I include "being pregnant," "wanting to be a stay-at-home mom," and "needing health benefits."
Under "List the reasons you haven't met the man or woman of your dreams," I write "I have."
Chapter 7: Greater Truths
Under "List all the things you don't want to think about," I include "getting old: being weird, sexless, demanding, pathetic" and "watching Dad get old."
Under "List what heals your aching heart," I include 4 items: a diet Dr. Pepper on ice, talking with my husband, a long drive, and a long walk. In fact, on the last page of the book, I jot down a Kierkegaard quote: Solvitur ambulando. "It is solved by walking."
Chapter 8: Health
Under "List all the self-improvement techniques you've experimented with," I include 3 items: "Mormonism," "that book on est," and "that Franklin Quest class on time management."
Chapter 9: Growing Up
Under "List the foods, candy, and other treats that you loved to snack on," I include goober peas, Big Hunks, tacos, and coconut-rolled-oats cookies.
Under "List the warnings and old wives' tales you were taught," I include "men are more interesting than women," "all women are potential threats," "sexiness is good," "perfume is essential," and "don't wear ankle straps (always unflattering)." Gee, I wonder who was advising me.
Under "List all the details you can remember about your childhood bedroom," I include many, but my favorite is "my neatness, and Sally's lack of neatness."
Under "List who you wanted to be like when you grew up," I include my mom and Norma.
Under "List the experiences you had as a child that you knew were truly significant," I include (among others) "epiphanies related to Don Black" and "ditto Marvin Payne."
Chapter 10: Suddenly...
Under "Suddenly your house is on fire. List the stuff you'd grab to save," I fill the page. I start—of course—with son, husband, and animals. I add photos, favorite furniture, and layabouts. By the halfway point, I include mini-skirts, "vests and nighties," field jacket, Franny and Zooey, award-winning pinewood-derby car, and teeth-bleaching trays.
Under "Suddenly you are as thin as you want. List what would happen now." Again, the page is crowded with my small, neat printing. Very few items have to do with health or happiness (or sanity or humility or devotion or adventure). I'd probably still want to "swim laps," but that's about it.
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Remembering Grandpa Chief
I assume my grandfather was sober when he was ten years old, and he and his brother left desperate circumstances in Denmark to find work as cabin boys aboard a square-rigger. But he was drunk several years later, when his brother drowned as they were swimming back to the anchored ship after a night of drinking and whoring onshore. He was drunk in the 1920s when his ship pulled into the Port of Los Angeles, and he swam ashore and stayed ashore, then and always an illegal alien. He was drunk when he found work in San Pedro as a longshoreman, a job that was a surprisingly good fit for many years. And he was drunk on payday, when he visited a neighborhood whorehouse and admired the madam’s young daughter, Inez. Eventually, he married Inez, and she gave birth to their three children. Then, she did the unthinkable: She turned her back, forever abandoning the confused and ill-equipped little family.
My grandfather was drunk during my father’s childhood, which was defined by neglect, fear, and loneliness. But my grandfather wasn’t a mean drunk, and my father was uncommonly resilient. My father made it to San Pedro High School, where he hit the jackpot when he met my mother: a dark-haired girl with a flashing smile and deep reservoirs of love, which she shared eagerly, spontaneously, and sometimes imprudently with this tall, handsome, and damaged man. They married young and had three children in four years (and—much later—another baby girl).
A couple of Sundays a month, we visited my grandfather, whom we were instructed to call Grandpa Chief. My first memories of doing so are in the early 1960s, when I was five or six. We piled in the car and took a 20-minute drive to San Pedro where Grandpa Chief lived with his grown daughter, Lillian, and her family. Lillian was bossy, shrill, and overweight, garnering my mom’s poorly hidden disdain.
I remember the house as windowless, and at the top of a steep and unfriendly driveway. We entered from a side door, and were immediately assailed by the odors of cigarette smoke and bottled beer. In the background, I discerned the odors of onions and garlic, of spices my mom didn’t own, of cheese that was not mild cheddar. There was occasional cursing, and the sound of a blaring TV in the middle of the day.
Week after week, I stood there in a Sunday dress…always an exact duplicate of my sister’s Sunday dress, and always sewn lovingly by our mom. I observed the differences between this house and the house of my other grandparents, who were Mormons, and had recently moved from California to rural Utah. Their house smelled of chocolate cake and lemonade and lilacs and hymnals. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting shelves jammed with books and family photos. My grandparents would beam at me, admiring how nice I was, how clean, how adept at memorization. I’d perch on the edge of a chair, smiling shyly, trying—because of a speech impediment—to avoid words that started with J or Ch. Someone would tousle my dutch-boy haircut; someone else would play “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” on the piano.
Back in San Pedro, I watched as my dad played cribbage with Grandpa Chief at the kitchen table, which was a vinyl-covered booth tucked into a corner. My dad seemed happy and relaxed. Maybe even more relaxed than usual, I observed, in that quiet and deadly accurate way in which children have always observed adults.
I don’t recall that Grandpa Chief fussed over me, or asked me about school, or noticed that I’d grown. He sometimes glanced my way as I slumped against the table, as I enjoyed the rhythm of the cards and the pegs, the murmur of male voices: “…fifteen-two, fifteen-four....” I never admitted this to my mom, but I even enjoyed the smell of Grandpa Chief’s beer and the smell of the burning match as he lit another cigarette. I sidled closer for the smell of the man himself…the smell of wool and fish and age. I don’t remember that he smiled at me, but he occasionally nodded in my direction, or narrowed his eyes in a way that might have indicated interest or concern.
Grandpa Chief was probably genetically destined to be a tall man (my dad is 6’4”), but a lack of food during childhood, a congenital hip deformity, or both resulted in an adult height of around five feet. Despite that, he was a force to be reckoned with on the waterfront. And despite that, he possessed a certain elfishness that endeared him to an easily intimidated granddaughter.
The highlight of the twice-monthly visits was a gift from Grandpa Chief, a gift rather specific to his lifestyle and his means. He handed us a carton that had once held ten packs of cigarettes, but now held dozens of empty boxes of matches. They fit into the carton perfectly, and were of many colors and designs, so the effect was one of books lined neatly on shelves. (Later, at home, the tiny boxes—with their slide-out inner boxes—would continue to bring enjoyment. Once, I glued four of them in a stack to make a bedside table for a Barbie doll.) Each week, we gasped at the wonder of this gift. Then—to my mom’s chagrin—my brother, sister, and I sprawled on the floor with our cigarette carton, opening each matchbox looking for the money that Grandpa Chief had hidden there. As I recall, he hid fifty cents for each of us, and we squealed as we found it. He didn’t watch us, but he was well aware of our noisy pleasure, and it—of course—fueled his quiet pleasure.
At that point, he reached into the pocket of his khaki work pants and gave us additional coins to spend at the liquor store nearby. We descended the steep driveway (my siblings more easily than my chubby self) and cheerfully walked two blocks to the Busy Bee. The store was dimly lit, and a ceiling fan at the entrance slowly stirred the air. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down into an ice cream freezer. I slid the freezer door open, extracting an orange-and-white creamcicle, otherwise known as a Fifty-Fifty (which I pronounced Wifty-Wifty, so apparently I couldn’t say my F’s, either). We skipped back to the house, giddy from sunshine and sugar and independence.
A few times, Grandpa Chief accompanied us to the Busy Bee (maybe because he’d run out of beer or cigarettes, but most likely because he adored us). When I imagine the three children and the old man on their errand, it’s from a remove, as if I’m observing the action from a neighbor’s roof. And the foursome is not in a group, but in a jaunty line, like the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.
Usually, though, we walked and shopped without adult supervision. Upon returning to the house, we found our dad and our grandpa still happily engaged in their card game, while our mom waited for the visit to end, or conversed briefly and uneasily with Aunt Lillian. There were offers of dinner (cioppino, tripe, oxtail soup), but they were usually declined. We said our good-byes and our thank-you’s, we grabbed our carton of matchboxes, and we left. I could tell—I swear, I could tell!—that Grandpa Chief wanted us to stay longer.
It wasn’t much later that he died. I was nine or ten, and didn’t attend the funeral. Weeks later, my family returned to San Pedro in the station wagon, with a flower arrangement for his grave. We drove through the large cemetery again and again, unable to locate the grave. “You know,” my dad said (his eyes straight ahead, his tone measured), “I think he’d be happy if we kept the flowers, and put them on the table at home. I think that would please him.” He tried to sound cheerful, like a responsible husband and father, but he was a broken-hearted son, and we all knew it. We watched from the backseat as the rows of graves passed by, and then we drove home.
My grandfather was drunk during my father’s childhood, which was defined by neglect, fear, and loneliness. But my grandfather wasn’t a mean drunk, and my father was uncommonly resilient. My father made it to San Pedro High School, where he hit the jackpot when he met my mother: a dark-haired girl with a flashing smile and deep reservoirs of love, which she shared eagerly, spontaneously, and sometimes imprudently with this tall, handsome, and damaged man. They married young and had three children in four years (and—much later—another baby girl).
A couple of Sundays a month, we visited my grandfather, whom we were instructed to call Grandpa Chief. My first memories of doing so are in the early 1960s, when I was five or six. We piled in the car and took a 20-minute drive to San Pedro where Grandpa Chief lived with his grown daughter, Lillian, and her family. Lillian was bossy, shrill, and overweight, garnering my mom’s poorly hidden disdain.
I remember the house as windowless, and at the top of a steep and unfriendly driveway. We entered from a side door, and were immediately assailed by the odors of cigarette smoke and bottled beer. In the background, I discerned the odors of onions and garlic, of spices my mom didn’t own, of cheese that was not mild cheddar. There was occasional cursing, and the sound of a blaring TV in the middle of the day.
Week after week, I stood there in a Sunday dress…always an exact duplicate of my sister’s Sunday dress, and always sewn lovingly by our mom. I observed the differences between this house and the house of my other grandparents, who were Mormons, and had recently moved from California to rural Utah. Their house smelled of chocolate cake and lemonade and lilacs and hymnals. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting shelves jammed with books and family photos. My grandparents would beam at me, admiring how nice I was, how clean, how adept at memorization. I’d perch on the edge of a chair, smiling shyly, trying—because of a speech impediment—to avoid words that started with J or Ch. Someone would tousle my dutch-boy haircut; someone else would play “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” on the piano.
Back in San Pedro, I watched as my dad played cribbage with Grandpa Chief at the kitchen table, which was a vinyl-covered booth tucked into a corner. My dad seemed happy and relaxed. Maybe even more relaxed than usual, I observed, in that quiet and deadly accurate way in which children have always observed adults.
I don’t recall that Grandpa Chief fussed over me, or asked me about school, or noticed that I’d grown. He sometimes glanced my way as I slumped against the table, as I enjoyed the rhythm of the cards and the pegs, the murmur of male voices: “…fifteen-two, fifteen-four....” I never admitted this to my mom, but I even enjoyed the smell of Grandpa Chief’s beer and the smell of the burning match as he lit another cigarette. I sidled closer for the smell of the man himself…the smell of wool and fish and age. I don’t remember that he smiled at me, but he occasionally nodded in my direction, or narrowed his eyes in a way that might have indicated interest or concern.
Grandpa Chief was probably genetically destined to be a tall man (my dad is 6’4”), but a lack of food during childhood, a congenital hip deformity, or both resulted in an adult height of around five feet. Despite that, he was a force to be reckoned with on the waterfront. And despite that, he possessed a certain elfishness that endeared him to an easily intimidated granddaughter.
The highlight of the twice-monthly visits was a gift from Grandpa Chief, a gift rather specific to his lifestyle and his means. He handed us a carton that had once held ten packs of cigarettes, but now held dozens of empty boxes of matches. They fit into the carton perfectly, and were of many colors and designs, so the effect was one of books lined neatly on shelves. (Later, at home, the tiny boxes—with their slide-out inner boxes—would continue to bring enjoyment. Once, I glued four of them in a stack to make a bedside table for a Barbie doll.) Each week, we gasped at the wonder of this gift. Then—to my mom’s chagrin—my brother, sister, and I sprawled on the floor with our cigarette carton, opening each matchbox looking for the money that Grandpa Chief had hidden there. As I recall, he hid fifty cents for each of us, and we squealed as we found it. He didn’t watch us, but he was well aware of our noisy pleasure, and it—of course—fueled his quiet pleasure.
At that point, he reached into the pocket of his khaki work pants and gave us additional coins to spend at the liquor store nearby. We descended the steep driveway (my siblings more easily than my chubby self) and cheerfully walked two blocks to the Busy Bee. The store was dimly lit, and a ceiling fan at the entrance slowly stirred the air. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down into an ice cream freezer. I slid the freezer door open, extracting an orange-and-white creamcicle, otherwise known as a Fifty-Fifty (which I pronounced Wifty-Wifty, so apparently I couldn’t say my F’s, either). We skipped back to the house, giddy from sunshine and sugar and independence.
A few times, Grandpa Chief accompanied us to the Busy Bee (maybe because he’d run out of beer or cigarettes, but most likely because he adored us). When I imagine the three children and the old man on their errand, it’s from a remove, as if I’m observing the action from a neighbor’s roof. And the foursome is not in a group, but in a jaunty line, like the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.
Usually, though, we walked and shopped without adult supervision. Upon returning to the house, we found our dad and our grandpa still happily engaged in their card game, while our mom waited for the visit to end, or conversed briefly and uneasily with Aunt Lillian. There were offers of dinner (cioppino, tripe, oxtail soup), but they were usually declined. We said our good-byes and our thank-you’s, we grabbed our carton of matchboxes, and we left. I could tell—I swear, I could tell!—that Grandpa Chief wanted us to stay longer.
It wasn’t much later that he died. I was nine or ten, and didn’t attend the funeral. Weeks later, my family returned to San Pedro in the station wagon, with a flower arrangement for his grave. We drove through the large cemetery again and again, unable to locate the grave. “You know,” my dad said (his eyes straight ahead, his tone measured), “I think he’d be happy if we kept the flowers, and put them on the table at home. I think that would please him.” He tried to sound cheerful, like a responsible husband and father, but he was a broken-hearted son, and we all knew it. We watched from the backseat as the rows of graves passed by, and then we drove home.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Ode to Bed-Head Magoo
He arrives for babysitting two mornings a week. He jumps out of the car and trots to my waiting arms. He usually has a sippy cup in one hand, and a bag of dry cereal in the other hand. "I have snacks!" he says, beaming. He is sturdy and strong and confident. In the wintertime, he wears jeans or slacks, layers of short-sleeved and long-sleeved T-shirts, and brown suede Velcro'd shoes in size 8W. In the summertime, he wears knee-length shorts, a T-shirt, and the same practical shoes. Until a recent buzz cut, his hair looked as if someone made a large batch of milk-chocolate frosting and then applied it to his bald head...generously, lavishly, excessively, inexpertly. Sometimes, it would be frizzy in spots, or have a bit of "snack" stuck to it. He always smells good.
This morning, he arrives clutching a bag of day-old hot-dog buns. "More bread! More ducks!" he shouts, as he climbs out of the car. Yesterday, we fed ducks at the local Wetlands, and he wants a replay. Why not? I strap him into my car, and we drive the half-dozen blocks to the Wetlands.
Upon arriving, I grab his "backpack" from his diaper bag. The backpack is small and soft-sided, with plastic fasteners across his chest, and an attached leash. The boy has a tendency to bolt (he refuses to hold hands), and the murky ponds make me nervous, so I insist on the backpack. He complies readily. (Later, he'll change his mind, rather noisily and melodramatically: "Take it off! Please! I hate it!" A fisherman will notice, and give me a look.) But for now, he strolls happily along a paved path, still clutching the bread. He asks if he can hold the leash--essentially taking himself for a walk--and I agree to that, since we haven't reached the water yet.
He stops suddenly on the path, and bends at the waist to watch a roll-bug. A ruffle of disposable diaper peeks out between shirt and shorts. I watch him, as he watches the bug. His attention falters momentarily; he takes a step forward, and his size 8W's crush the bug. He looks around, unable to locate it. "Did it fly away?" he asks, confused. "No," I say, but stop short of a lecture on aerodynamics. "Where is it?" he asks. "It crawled away," I lie. He furrows his brow a bit ("How did I miss that?"), and we continue walking.
We find a lot of adult ducks, and five babies. We stand at a railing, and toss chunks of hot-dog bun into the water. He's enthusiastic and competent. Occasionally, he takes a bite of hot-dog bun, looking up at me for approval. I grin at him. "Tasty," I say.
We return to the car, and I ask if he wants to drive to the neighborhood with all the front-yard water features. "Gorgeous water features?" he asks, using a new word I taught him. Five minutes later, we're in an affluent hillside subdivision. "I like this neighborhood," he says, using another new word. I turn and smile at him. He has removed his shoes and socks, and his bare feet are pulled up onto his car-seat. He seems relaxed, and I anticipate a nap, but it doesn't happen. There's no traffic, and I drive slowly through the neighborhood, stopping whenever we spot a water feature. Between sightings, he uses a sweet falsetto voice, as if calling for a lost puppy: "Water! Water!" I linger at our favorite: a gray concrete bowl overflowing into an identical (but lower) bowl. "Like this?" he asks, forming a bowl shape with his little hands. "Exactly," I say.
I suggest we swing by McDonalds for hot fudge sundaes, and he's on board. I sprinkle nuts on mine, and he requests nuts, too. He makes a huge mess, but it's okay, 'cause the glove box is full of fast-food napkins.
His mom will meet us here in half an hour, so there's time for more fun while we wait. We're parked in the shade; "The Essential Leonard Cohen" plays quietly on the stereo. The boy sits beside me in the passenger seat. He finds a pen in the glove box, along with the Honda's owner's manual. He turns to a nearly blank page, and suggests that I trace his hand. I do so, several times. He takes the pen and makes a series of small, imperfect circles. "I made circles," he says, proudly. "Good job," I say.
He politely asks me to buckle his seat belt; then, he asks me to buckle mine. We continue to draw, and talk, while buckled in snugly. Ten minutes later, he reaches over and turns the stereo off. "That's enough Leonard Cohen," he says, giving me a slightly stern look, as if I should know better.
Sometimes, instead of the Wetlands and the water features, we stay home, doing art projects. "Let's do crafts!" he says, as he enters the guest room, where the toys are stored in a box in the corner. He opens the closet doors and selects the supplies for an art project. He prefers a project that requires a lot of glue and/or a lot of paint. I grab one of my husband's T-shirts and pull it over the boy's head. With his new haircut, he now looks like a Tibetan-monk-in-training. He squirts black acrylic paint onto a large manila envelope, and smears the paint around with a small foam roller. He makes several paintings...enough for each of his loved ones. When the paint dries, we'll glue Popsicle sticks to the envelopes, or pipe cleaners, or pompoms in assorted colors and sizes. We're in no hurry. We know that art cannot be rushed.
If he's in a nurturing mood (and he often is), he hauls out the small plastic Animal Hospital, complete with a vet (and her upstairs living quarters), an exam table with X-ray apparatus, a helicopter pad and elevator for emergencies, an ATV for errands, a handful of animals, and all their expected paraphernalia (cages, food and water bowls, bandages, blankets). We sprawl on the queen-sized bed, and I watch him play. Mostly, he enjoys wrapping each animal in a blanket--carefully, sometimes clumsily--and then pulling it to his chest, his shoulders hunched, for a hug. He coos, but seems unaware that he is doing so. Eventually, I can't resist grabbing him for a snuggle. He humors me, and then gets back to playtime.
I know how lucky I am to have this boy in my life, and other boys, too. (I like hanging out with adults, but I'm more comfortable--and philosophically aligned--with children.) Babysitting (for lack of a better word) feels like a meditation; it's as close to a Zen-like state as I ever get. It's kind of like a gray concrete bowl overflowing into another gray concrete bowl. "Like this."
This morning, he arrives clutching a bag of day-old hot-dog buns. "More bread! More ducks!" he shouts, as he climbs out of the car. Yesterday, we fed ducks at the local Wetlands, and he wants a replay. Why not? I strap him into my car, and we drive the half-dozen blocks to the Wetlands.
Upon arriving, I grab his "backpack" from his diaper bag. The backpack is small and soft-sided, with plastic fasteners across his chest, and an attached leash. The boy has a tendency to bolt (he refuses to hold hands), and the murky ponds make me nervous, so I insist on the backpack. He complies readily. (Later, he'll change his mind, rather noisily and melodramatically: "Take it off! Please! I hate it!" A fisherman will notice, and give me a look.) But for now, he strolls happily along a paved path, still clutching the bread. He asks if he can hold the leash--essentially taking himself for a walk--and I agree to that, since we haven't reached the water yet.
He stops suddenly on the path, and bends at the waist to watch a roll-bug. A ruffle of disposable diaper peeks out between shirt and shorts. I watch him, as he watches the bug. His attention falters momentarily; he takes a step forward, and his size 8W's crush the bug. He looks around, unable to locate it. "Did it fly away?" he asks, confused. "No," I say, but stop short of a lecture on aerodynamics. "Where is it?" he asks. "It crawled away," I lie. He furrows his brow a bit ("How did I miss that?"), and we continue walking.
We find a lot of adult ducks, and five babies. We stand at a railing, and toss chunks of hot-dog bun into the water. He's enthusiastic and competent. Occasionally, he takes a bite of hot-dog bun, looking up at me for approval. I grin at him. "Tasty," I say.
We return to the car, and I ask if he wants to drive to the neighborhood with all the front-yard water features. "Gorgeous water features?" he asks, using a new word I taught him. Five minutes later, we're in an affluent hillside subdivision. "I like this neighborhood," he says, using another new word. I turn and smile at him. He has removed his shoes and socks, and his bare feet are pulled up onto his car-seat. He seems relaxed, and I anticipate a nap, but it doesn't happen. There's no traffic, and I drive slowly through the neighborhood, stopping whenever we spot a water feature. Between sightings, he uses a sweet falsetto voice, as if calling for a lost puppy: "Water! Water!" I linger at our favorite: a gray concrete bowl overflowing into an identical (but lower) bowl. "Like this?" he asks, forming a bowl shape with his little hands. "Exactly," I say.
I suggest we swing by McDonalds for hot fudge sundaes, and he's on board. I sprinkle nuts on mine, and he requests nuts, too. He makes a huge mess, but it's okay, 'cause the glove box is full of fast-food napkins.
His mom will meet us here in half an hour, so there's time for more fun while we wait. We're parked in the shade; "The Essential Leonard Cohen" plays quietly on the stereo. The boy sits beside me in the passenger seat. He finds a pen in the glove box, along with the Honda's owner's manual. He turns to a nearly blank page, and suggests that I trace his hand. I do so, several times. He takes the pen and makes a series of small, imperfect circles. "I made circles," he says, proudly. "Good job," I say.
He politely asks me to buckle his seat belt; then, he asks me to buckle mine. We continue to draw, and talk, while buckled in snugly. Ten minutes later, he reaches over and turns the stereo off. "That's enough Leonard Cohen," he says, giving me a slightly stern look, as if I should know better.
Sometimes, instead of the Wetlands and the water features, we stay home, doing art projects. "Let's do crafts!" he says, as he enters the guest room, where the toys are stored in a box in the corner. He opens the closet doors and selects the supplies for an art project. He prefers a project that requires a lot of glue and/or a lot of paint. I grab one of my husband's T-shirts and pull it over the boy's head. With his new haircut, he now looks like a Tibetan-monk-in-training. He squirts black acrylic paint onto a large manila envelope, and smears the paint around with a small foam roller. He makes several paintings...enough for each of his loved ones. When the paint dries, we'll glue Popsicle sticks to the envelopes, or pipe cleaners, or pompoms in assorted colors and sizes. We're in no hurry. We know that art cannot be rushed.
If he's in a nurturing mood (and he often is), he hauls out the small plastic Animal Hospital, complete with a vet (and her upstairs living quarters), an exam table with X-ray apparatus, a helicopter pad and elevator for emergencies, an ATV for errands, a handful of animals, and all their expected paraphernalia (cages, food and water bowls, bandages, blankets). We sprawl on the queen-sized bed, and I watch him play. Mostly, he enjoys wrapping each animal in a blanket--carefully, sometimes clumsily--and then pulling it to his chest, his shoulders hunched, for a hug. He coos, but seems unaware that he is doing so. Eventually, I can't resist grabbing him for a snuggle. He humors me, and then gets back to playtime.
I know how lucky I am to have this boy in my life, and other boys, too. (I like hanging out with adults, but I'm more comfortable--and philosophically aligned--with children.) Babysitting (for lack of a better word) feels like a meditation; it's as close to a Zen-like state as I ever get. It's kind of like a gray concrete bowl overflowing into another gray concrete bowl. "Like this."
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Taking a Walk
In Thoreau's essay on walking, he refers to a walk as "a sort of crusade." He asserts (in a charming and hyperbolic way) that the brave leave on a walk and never return. He observes that most of us lead boring lives, full of boring thoughts. We stay safe. We stay low to the ground. We live in the past. But a long walk can change all of that: We can know "self-respect and heroism” once again.
My earliest memory is of being taken for a walk in a stroller. It's a vague snippet of memory, but I recall the view from the stroller as we turned a corner. How exciting to be out in front, to be the first to see around a hedge or a cinder-block fence!
When I was five, we lived in east Long Beach, and my six-year-old sister and I took frequent but short walks, just the two of us. We walked several blocks to school. We walked to a nearby market (accessed through an alley behind our duplex) to pick up forgotten grocery items that my mom needed for dinner. Once, we walked to a brand-new McDonalds to get milkshakes to carry home, but I tripped in the parking lot, skinning my knees and spilling the milkshakes. I cried for both reasons, but mostly I cried in anticipation of my mom's disappointment.
I remember another oh-so-traumatic incident from that year, and it was also associated with a walk. My mom saved S&H Green Stamps, and there was a display case in the grocery store with empty coupon books and a glossy catalog of "prizes." I was aware that the catalog was free, because I'd seen my mom pick one up after paying for groceries. So, imitating her behavior, I picked up a TV Guide from a similar display case, after paying for the grocery item she'd requested. Upon arriving home, I proudly presented her with the TV Guide, expecting appreciation for my thoughtfulness. But she was horrified, and not particularly sensitive to my feelings or my logic ("I thought it was free, like the Green Stamps catalog!"). She actually made me walk back to the store and admit to "stealing" the TV Guide. Jesus Christ...I'd made an understandable mistake; I was hardly naughty. I cried all the way back to the store, and cried as I pleaded guilty to the store manager, who seemed confused and irritated.
When I was six, we moved to a rented house in another part of Long Beach, and during my elementary school years, I walked often. I was chubby, and I sensed I needed more exercise. I also enjoyed solitude, and there wasn't much to be found at home (with two siblings and another on the way). I walked around the block over and over again, aiming for eight times. (I'd read that eight city blocks equals a mile, and I thought it meant "around the block" eight times.) It was a safe neighborhood, and I knew who lived behind most doors. There were cute boys, of course, but there were also school friends and church friends and babysitters and some of my mom's PTA buddies. I was a cheerful little knock-kneed girl with a Dutch-boy haircut and a rather significant underbite, smiling and waving and walking.
A Speedy Mart opened up about six blocks from our house, and my sister and brother and I walked there almost daily, sometimes more than once a day. There was a large selection of penny candy, and full-size candy bars were only five cents (I preferred Big Hunks, because they took so long to eat) (that's what she said). Sometimes, we bought Slurpees or Popsicles. Our parents were generous with money; my mom probably figured 15 cents was a small price to pay for 45 minutes of blissful solitude. (I wonder how many times my parents had sex while the three of us kids walked to Speedy Mart. Gross.)
At about eight and nine, my sister and I sometimes wandered through the neighborhood with no destination in mind, just a desire to keep moving and keep talking. We were fascinated by pioneers, whom we studied in school and church (I had an abiding crush on both Marcus and Narcissa Whitman). For hours--for days!--we amused ourselves by making detailed plans for our own imaginary westward-ho trek. We made mental lists of the food we'd take, the much-loved books and knick-knacks, but mostly the dresses: the brightly colored gingham and calico, the unbleached muslin...the full skirts, the puffed sleeves, the pinafores, the oversized bows tied at the small of my back, emphasizing my slender waist. I was going to be such a cute pioneer. I'm fairly sure Thoreau would have approved.
What I remember most clearly about those years is the sweet freedom. The two of us (or the three of us) could go almost anywhere as long as we went together. We walked single file along a freeway overpass to get to the public library. We walked seven or eight blocks to the park, which was across the street from Helms Bakery, where we could get a half dozen (very stale) glazed donuts for a dime. It was illegal to enter the Flood Control, but my parents were pretty open-minded about such things, so we trudged through fields of ice plant, climbed up the steeply inclined side to the rim, and slid down into the bowels. My heart raced: We might face cops, bullies, or a sudden rush of water on its way to the ocean. It was risky, and very exciting. I miss that more-courageous version of me.
As we went crashing through puberty, my sister and I began babysitting for neighbors; we worked as a team, earning a combined fifty cents an hour. We were always flush. We took our money and hit the pavement, shopping in downtown Long Beach, eating lunch at Woolworths, sitting through "Krakatoa, East of Java" twice at a movie theater that catered to sailors. Sometimes, we walked home from junior high together, supplementing our babysitting money with our unused bus fare, and stopping for pizza or tacos. I remember going to a track meet one Saturday afternoon (she competed, I did not) and ending up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, where we were hassled by some older boys. We hid in a gas station restroom behind a door that we couldn't lock or even latch, and we pressed our bodies against the door to keep it closed, while the boys pressed from the other side, eventually losing interest. Perhaps like all children, we frequently discussed what we should share with our parents, and what we should keep to ourselves.
It occurs to me now that my dad (who survived an unsupervised childhood) must have convinced my more-traditional mom that freedom was good for kids. Exhibit A: One Easter week, at ages ten and twelve, my sister and I found ourselves in a diner in Victorville, buying candy at midnight, while our Utah-bound Greyhound bus idled outside. Granted, we looked older because we were taller than average. Also, she was tomboyish, and I was pudgy, so perhaps one or both of those things served to keep the pervs at bay. Maybe some vigilant bus-riding mom was keeping an eye on us, but I wasn't aware of that.
We moved to Utah as I was turning thirteen, and I began looking for the perfect three-mile walk (I sought to avoid busy streets or pitiful chained-up dogs). Right away, I found a 3.2-mile square (east of my house) that I walked in fifty minutes. It was delightfully rural, and I passed horses, cows, dogs, farmers, tractors, irrigation ditches, fruit trees, wildflowers, and many three-bedroom brick ramblers built in the fifties or sixties. There were no sidewalks, and I walked on the dirt shoulder, often wearing suede moccasins. Everyone was friendly. Those in cars waved, and those in front yards chatted me up, inviting me to come see a newborn calf, or handing me a paper bag of zucchini or tomatoes from the garden. Sometimes I thought about boys and clothes, and sometimes I rehearsed a talk for church, or lines for a school play. But mostly, I just walked, feeling my muscles work, feeling welcome in this new place.
After high school, I spent four months living in BYU housing with a passel of obnoxious roommates, and I never found a good place to walk. I don't remember being alone, ever. That was probably the point: Given a modicum of privacy, I might have risked damnation by touching myself or enjoying a cup of herbal tea.
In my early twenties, I lived alone in an apartment in Provo, across the street from the hospital on US-89. My three-mile walk took me south a couple of blocks and then directly west. After 1.5 miles, I did a sudden about-face and retraced my steps home. It was all houses and driveways, and even though I walked the same route hundreds of times, I never made any friends. (The only human contact I recall was with a group of teenage girls in a convertible. They shouted something disparaging about my bright yellow tube top, which I was wearing in an attempt to even out my tan.) I don't recall finding this Provo walk relaxing or rejuvenating; it was simply a way to burn calories.
Three years later, I moved out of my apartment and spent one summer in a charmless apartment in Draper with the man who is now my husband. I was in love (still am), but I was surprised (still am) to learn that cohabiting is hard. Long and solitary walks helped me stay sane. I loved walking along Fort Street, which--in 1980--was mostly fields, with an occasional Victorian mansion. The last time I took that Fort Street walk, I wore brand-new Chuck Taylor high tops. About two miles from home, the pain of quickly forming blisters was too much to bear, and I carried the offending shoes, wearing only socks while walking on surprisingly sharp gravel. I would have accepted a ride from a stranger, but no one offered. By the time I got home, I was rabid with pain and regret. Clearly, it was a sign: I belonged in Provo, alone. I listened to an Eagles album, and wept bitter tears.
My man and I spent the next nine months in downtown Salt Lake City, in a lovely (if cockroach infested) third-story apartment with a view of the mountains to the east and the State Capitol to the north. Living together was easier now, and we took a lot of walks together: to double features at the old Trolley Theater on Main (for a dollar!), to picnics at Liberty Park, to night classes at the U of U. I seldom walked alone, since I'd been given considerable grief by transients near the City-County building.
We bought our first house in a crappy little town at the west end of the valley, and stayed for almost two decades. The location was convenient, the big yard was full of trees, and we became a family there. Sometimes I walked alone, and sometimes my husband joined me; I came to enjoy the company, and no longer resented the intrusion. We walked east, making a huge figure eight. It wasn't exactly scenic, and no one waved affectionately, but we maintained a good aerobic pace. Later, we found a slightly more scenic walk that included a mile of tree-lined dirt path alongside a canal. Halfway into the three-mile walk, we stepped off the path and into the trees, to neck briefly before continuing.
Surprisingly, we found a somewhat bucolic walk when we moved to a Dallas suburb in the late nineties. A planning committee wisely chose to leave some trees standing, and a paved path curled between fenced backyards, creating a quiet and private place to walk. On the rare occasion when it wasn't unbearably hot and humid, it was dangerously slick with ice, but we soldiered on. Toward the end of our time in Dallas, we adopted two big dogs, and they joined us on our walks. Adjacent to our subdivision was an empty field (temporary, I'm sure), and at the far end of the field was a stream in which the dogs happily splashed.
We moved back to Utah a few years ago, to a suburb south of Salt Lake City. Once again, there are friendly neighbors who wave eagerly from cars and front yards; there are adorable children who call us by name, and politely ask to pet the dogs (no, but thanks for asking). We have our basic dog walk through the neighborhood, and an additional Equestrian Loop that we take in good weather. For early-morning exercise without the dogs, there are options in all directions, including a paved walking path in nearby Draper. It's safe, scenic, and seems to go on forever. I should be walking there now, instead of sitting on my butt writing about it.
“So we saunter toward the Holy Land…” says Thoreau, and I'm reminded of walks taken at the Nestucca Sanctuary on the Oregon Coast. The sanctuary is two unpaved miles from Highway 101, and while I'm there I walk that four-mile roundtrip every day. Close to the sanctuary, the forest is lush and damp. Closer to 101, it opens up, and wide meadows fall away on each side of the winding dirt road. There's a point where I can't resist spreading my arms, turning my face to the sun, and bursting into private song, usually my favorite line from one of Leonard's best: "...and even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!" My voice is less than melodic, and less than strong, but I stand and celebrate spiritual strength in the face of inevitable loss. One can become giddy, on a good walk.
My earliest memory is of being taken for a walk in a stroller. It's a vague snippet of memory, but I recall the view from the stroller as we turned a corner. How exciting to be out in front, to be the first to see around a hedge or a cinder-block fence!
When I was five, we lived in east Long Beach, and my six-year-old sister and I took frequent but short walks, just the two of us. We walked several blocks to school. We walked to a nearby market (accessed through an alley behind our duplex) to pick up forgotten grocery items that my mom needed for dinner. Once, we walked to a brand-new McDonalds to get milkshakes to carry home, but I tripped in the parking lot, skinning my knees and spilling the milkshakes. I cried for both reasons, but mostly I cried in anticipation of my mom's disappointment.
I remember another oh-so-traumatic incident from that year, and it was also associated with a walk. My mom saved S&H Green Stamps, and there was a display case in the grocery store with empty coupon books and a glossy catalog of "prizes." I was aware that the catalog was free, because I'd seen my mom pick one up after paying for groceries. So, imitating her behavior, I picked up a TV Guide from a similar display case, after paying for the grocery item she'd requested. Upon arriving home, I proudly presented her with the TV Guide, expecting appreciation for my thoughtfulness. But she was horrified, and not particularly sensitive to my feelings or my logic ("I thought it was free, like the Green Stamps catalog!"). She actually made me walk back to the store and admit to "stealing" the TV Guide. Jesus Christ...I'd made an understandable mistake; I was hardly naughty. I cried all the way back to the store, and cried as I pleaded guilty to the store manager, who seemed confused and irritated.
When I was six, we moved to a rented house in another part of Long Beach, and during my elementary school years, I walked often. I was chubby, and I sensed I needed more exercise. I also enjoyed solitude, and there wasn't much to be found at home (with two siblings and another on the way). I walked around the block over and over again, aiming for eight times. (I'd read that eight city blocks equals a mile, and I thought it meant "around the block" eight times.) It was a safe neighborhood, and I knew who lived behind most doors. There were cute boys, of course, but there were also school friends and church friends and babysitters and some of my mom's PTA buddies. I was a cheerful little knock-kneed girl with a Dutch-boy haircut and a rather significant underbite, smiling and waving and walking.
A Speedy Mart opened up about six blocks from our house, and my sister and brother and I walked there almost daily, sometimes more than once a day. There was a large selection of penny candy, and full-size candy bars were only five cents (I preferred Big Hunks, because they took so long to eat) (that's what she said). Sometimes, we bought Slurpees or Popsicles. Our parents were generous with money; my mom probably figured 15 cents was a small price to pay for 45 minutes of blissful solitude. (I wonder how many times my parents had sex while the three of us kids walked to Speedy Mart. Gross.)
At about eight and nine, my sister and I sometimes wandered through the neighborhood with no destination in mind, just a desire to keep moving and keep talking. We were fascinated by pioneers, whom we studied in school and church (I had an abiding crush on both Marcus and Narcissa Whitman). For hours--for days!--we amused ourselves by making detailed plans for our own imaginary westward-ho trek. We made mental lists of the food we'd take, the much-loved books and knick-knacks, but mostly the dresses: the brightly colored gingham and calico, the unbleached muslin...the full skirts, the puffed sleeves, the pinafores, the oversized bows tied at the small of my back, emphasizing my slender waist. I was going to be such a cute pioneer. I'm fairly sure Thoreau would have approved.
What I remember most clearly about those years is the sweet freedom. The two of us (or the three of us) could go almost anywhere as long as we went together. We walked single file along a freeway overpass to get to the public library. We walked seven or eight blocks to the park, which was across the street from Helms Bakery, where we could get a half dozen (very stale) glazed donuts for a dime. It was illegal to enter the Flood Control, but my parents were pretty open-minded about such things, so we trudged through fields of ice plant, climbed up the steeply inclined side to the rim, and slid down into the bowels. My heart raced: We might face cops, bullies, or a sudden rush of water on its way to the ocean. It was risky, and very exciting. I miss that more-courageous version of me.
As we went crashing through puberty, my sister and I began babysitting for neighbors; we worked as a team, earning a combined fifty cents an hour. We were always flush. We took our money and hit the pavement, shopping in downtown Long Beach, eating lunch at Woolworths, sitting through "Krakatoa, East of Java" twice at a movie theater that catered to sailors. Sometimes, we walked home from junior high together, supplementing our babysitting money with our unused bus fare, and stopping for pizza or tacos. I remember going to a track meet one Saturday afternoon (she competed, I did not) and ending up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, where we were hassled by some older boys. We hid in a gas station restroom behind a door that we couldn't lock or even latch, and we pressed our bodies against the door to keep it closed, while the boys pressed from the other side, eventually losing interest. Perhaps like all children, we frequently discussed what we should share with our parents, and what we should keep to ourselves.
It occurs to me now that my dad (who survived an unsupervised childhood) must have convinced my more-traditional mom that freedom was good for kids. Exhibit A: One Easter week, at ages ten and twelve, my sister and I found ourselves in a diner in Victorville, buying candy at midnight, while our Utah-bound Greyhound bus idled outside. Granted, we looked older because we were taller than average. Also, she was tomboyish, and I was pudgy, so perhaps one or both of those things served to keep the pervs at bay. Maybe some vigilant bus-riding mom was keeping an eye on us, but I wasn't aware of that.
We moved to Utah as I was turning thirteen, and I began looking for the perfect three-mile walk (I sought to avoid busy streets or pitiful chained-up dogs). Right away, I found a 3.2-mile square (east of my house) that I walked in fifty minutes. It was delightfully rural, and I passed horses, cows, dogs, farmers, tractors, irrigation ditches, fruit trees, wildflowers, and many three-bedroom brick ramblers built in the fifties or sixties. There were no sidewalks, and I walked on the dirt shoulder, often wearing suede moccasins. Everyone was friendly. Those in cars waved, and those in front yards chatted me up, inviting me to come see a newborn calf, or handing me a paper bag of zucchini or tomatoes from the garden. Sometimes I thought about boys and clothes, and sometimes I rehearsed a talk for church, or lines for a school play. But mostly, I just walked, feeling my muscles work, feeling welcome in this new place.
After high school, I spent four months living in BYU housing with a passel of obnoxious roommates, and I never found a good place to walk. I don't remember being alone, ever. That was probably the point: Given a modicum of privacy, I might have risked damnation by touching myself or enjoying a cup of herbal tea.
In my early twenties, I lived alone in an apartment in Provo, across the street from the hospital on US-89. My three-mile walk took me south a couple of blocks and then directly west. After 1.5 miles, I did a sudden about-face and retraced my steps home. It was all houses and driveways, and even though I walked the same route hundreds of times, I never made any friends. (The only human contact I recall was with a group of teenage girls in a convertible. They shouted something disparaging about my bright yellow tube top, which I was wearing in an attempt to even out my tan.) I don't recall finding this Provo walk relaxing or rejuvenating; it was simply a way to burn calories.
Three years later, I moved out of my apartment and spent one summer in a charmless apartment in Draper with the man who is now my husband. I was in love (still am), but I was surprised (still am) to learn that cohabiting is hard. Long and solitary walks helped me stay sane. I loved walking along Fort Street, which--in 1980--was mostly fields, with an occasional Victorian mansion. The last time I took that Fort Street walk, I wore brand-new Chuck Taylor high tops. About two miles from home, the pain of quickly forming blisters was too much to bear, and I carried the offending shoes, wearing only socks while walking on surprisingly sharp gravel. I would have accepted a ride from a stranger, but no one offered. By the time I got home, I was rabid with pain and regret. Clearly, it was a sign: I belonged in Provo, alone. I listened to an Eagles album, and wept bitter tears.
My man and I spent the next nine months in downtown Salt Lake City, in a lovely (if cockroach infested) third-story apartment with a view of the mountains to the east and the State Capitol to the north. Living together was easier now, and we took a lot of walks together: to double features at the old Trolley Theater on Main (for a dollar!), to picnics at Liberty Park, to night classes at the U of U. I seldom walked alone, since I'd been given considerable grief by transients near the City-County building.
We bought our first house in a crappy little town at the west end of the valley, and stayed for almost two decades. The location was convenient, the big yard was full of trees, and we became a family there. Sometimes I walked alone, and sometimes my husband joined me; I came to enjoy the company, and no longer resented the intrusion. We walked east, making a huge figure eight. It wasn't exactly scenic, and no one waved affectionately, but we maintained a good aerobic pace. Later, we found a slightly more scenic walk that included a mile of tree-lined dirt path alongside a canal. Halfway into the three-mile walk, we stepped off the path and into the trees, to neck briefly before continuing.
Surprisingly, we found a somewhat bucolic walk when we moved to a Dallas suburb in the late nineties. A planning committee wisely chose to leave some trees standing, and a paved path curled between fenced backyards, creating a quiet and private place to walk. On the rare occasion when it wasn't unbearably hot and humid, it was dangerously slick with ice, but we soldiered on. Toward the end of our time in Dallas, we adopted two big dogs, and they joined us on our walks. Adjacent to our subdivision was an empty field (temporary, I'm sure), and at the far end of the field was a stream in which the dogs happily splashed.
We moved back to Utah a few years ago, to a suburb south of Salt Lake City. Once again, there are friendly neighbors who wave eagerly from cars and front yards; there are adorable children who call us by name, and politely ask to pet the dogs (no, but thanks for asking). We have our basic dog walk through the neighborhood, and an additional Equestrian Loop that we take in good weather. For early-morning exercise without the dogs, there are options in all directions, including a paved walking path in nearby Draper. It's safe, scenic, and seems to go on forever. I should be walking there now, instead of sitting on my butt writing about it.
“So we saunter toward the Holy Land…” says Thoreau, and I'm reminded of walks taken at the Nestucca Sanctuary on the Oregon Coast. The sanctuary is two unpaved miles from Highway 101, and while I'm there I walk that four-mile roundtrip every day. Close to the sanctuary, the forest is lush and damp. Closer to 101, it opens up, and wide meadows fall away on each side of the winding dirt road. There's a point where I can't resist spreading my arms, turning my face to the sun, and bursting into private song, usually my favorite line from one of Leonard's best: "...and even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!" My voice is less than melodic, and less than strong, but I stand and celebrate spiritual strength in the face of inevitable loss. One can become giddy, on a good walk.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Very Best Sunbeam
One Sunday afternoon when I was nineteen, my LDS bishop told me that I was being “called” to coach girls’ softball. In other words, the ward needed a girls’ softball coach, the bishop prayed for guidance in filling the position, and God named me. That was the system, as I understood it.
I sat there in the bishop’s office. (In real life, he was a lineman-for-the-county; I went to school with his kids. When I was twelve, he conducted my Bishop’s Interview—an annual review of all things moral. He asked, among other things, if I masturbated. I could tell—based on his tone and expression—that I should say no, so I said no. I hurried home after the interview and looked it up in the dictionary. Yes, sir, I’d been doing that for years. Even at age twelve, I couldn’t see that it was any of his business. I hope that things have changed since the late sixties, and that—if such interviews are still conducted—a woman is present. And not the bishop’s wife. That’d be creepy. But I digress.)
At nineteen, church was keeping me busy (I think that was the plan, given the idle-hands/devil’s-workshop connection). I was the Junior Primary chorister, a Sunday School teacher for preteens, the choir secretary, and a supervisor of teens in some new version of Mutual. In addition, I was frequently giving talks, performing humorous or dramatic “readings,” making posters, and writing and directing skits and plays. I even learned to square dance, so that I could represent the ward through dance. I was always at church. When I wasn’t at church, I was walking to or from church, or sewing a cute and modest dress to wear to church.
But…softball. I wasn’t even sure what it was. Was it the same as baseball? I’d taken one semester of high-school gym, and then weaseled out of the other required semester. I knew that Chuck Connors of “Rifleman” fame had been a professional baseball player before becoming an actor; I knew that I let Gary Ferguson get to second base when we were juniors. That was the extent of my knowledge of baseball. But, for some reason, God wanted me to coach. Well, who was I to say no?
I showed up at our first practice. I knew these girls; they were only a few years younger than me. We practiced at the elementary school across the street from the church (it was the mid-seventies, and no one was minding the line that ostensibly separates church and state). I pulled the canvas bag of balls and bats out of the back of my Pinto. I told the girls to practice tossing the balls back and forth. “Underhand or overhand?” someone asked. “Either,” I said.
I was able to fake it for about ten minutes, before a confident, sturdy girl piped up. “Have you ever played softball?” she asked. I smiled wistfully. “I have not,” I said. They seemed embarrassed for me. I dismissed them early, and drove home.
But I didn’t feel embarrassed. I felt oddly strong and self-contained. I felt like something important was about to happen, and I needed to pay attention. I went for a long walk.
A couple of years earlier, my only church job had been teaching the Sunbeams on Tuesday after school. They were four years old: a half-dozen girls and one sweet little boy. The maxi-dress was all the rage, and often all six girls would wear floor-length pink or white dresses; they looked like little parade floats as they walked. It was an easy-going, affectionate group of kids, and I remember a lot of construction-paper cutouts, a lot of hugs. I remember how it felt to sit next to them (during Opening Exercises) on an oak bench that rose about eight inches from the floor, and what a privilege it was to be alone with them (during class) in a windowless room, our chairs in a circle, talking about life. It was a blissful time, which ended suddenly and without explanation.
The one job for which I was well suited was replaced by a half dozen jobs that I disliked. The new jobs brought me no peace or pleasure. There was an unpleasant dreamlike quality about them, in that I always felt clumsy and unprepared, and more than a little hostile.
When I got home from my walk, I called the bishop.
“I don’t want to coach softball,” I said.
“But, Polly…”
“In fact, I don’t want to do any of it, anymore,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to quit everything,” I said. “Starting right now.”
And it was over.
The other day, I was sorting through some memorabilia (instead of earning a living, or training for a triathlon), and I came across a large envelope on which I’d written “Church Stuff.” I found:
I don’t think I ever really believed in the LDS church. It’s possible (for both children and adults) to overlook doctrine and get caught up in activities, and this particular religion has a lot of activities. I busied myself with Daddy-Daughter Dates, service projects, public-speaking competitions, homemaking training, ward and stake plays, four years of seminary, scripture-chase competitions, devotionals, firesides, girls’ camp, road shows, Gold-and-Green Balls, Education Week, Youth Conference, General Conference, baptisms for the dead, fieldtrips to Temple Square, hiking, tubing, caroling, visiting teaching, and Family Home Evening at BYU. My crushes were seminary teachers, home teachers, and any moderately attractive member of the Young Marrieds. I lived for face time with my true loves: Don Black and Marvin Payne.
Perhaps I should have sensed earlier that I was only “playing church.” I liked so many things about it: the music, the opportunities to excel, the approval of adults (especially my grandparents), the camaraderie, and the structure it gave my life. In the sixties and seventies (and maybe in any decade), there were many reasons to feel at loose ends. Church was everything that the world was not: safe, quiet, clean, predictable, unchanging. And I could see that an adolescence without alcohol, tobacco, drugs, or sex wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. You dodge some bullets that way. And, happily, all those things were patiently waiting for me, at nineteen.
I spoke in Sacrament Meeting twice as an adult, and the other day I found the carefully typed, carefully memorized talks.
When I was eighteen, a member of the bishopric gave me a pamphlet called “We Should Be a Reverent People” by Spencer Kimball. I assume that I was told to summarize it for the congregation. “It was very good,” I offered generously. I quoted from it: “True reverence involves happiness, respect, and gratitude.” Here, I addressed a pet peeve of mine: “When children are taught to be reverent, a whole lot of emphasis—perhaps all emphasis—is put on folding one’s arms.” And a second pet peeve: “Seems that when a child is born into this ward, he or she is made to feel extremely ‘special.’ It’s a shame that some of these children get confused and start thinking that they are ‘more special’ than someone born in Lehi orNew Hampshire Pakistan
During a tangent that no doubt thrilled the bishopric seated behind me, I talked about hunger in Africa, apathy and complacency in Utah County, and a worrisome and pervasive “tinkling-brass existence.” I quoted extensively from the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians, referring to it as “my favorite.” The talk is, essentially, a dressing down. “It profiteth you nothing!” I imagine myself shouting from the pulpit. I quoted Jerry Lewis, John Denver, and the Broadway hit song “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
At age nineteen, I was asked to do a public debriefing of a Youth Conference I’d attended (as a chaperon) at BYU. Everything about the conference had been unpleasant, and I should have declined the invitation to speak, but I did not. I should have opened with “A funny thing happened on the way to the celestial kingdom,” but I did not.
Inexplicably, I talked about becoming very upset while watching the documentary “Nanook of the North” at a BYU film class a year earlier. A starving family kills and eats a baby otter, and “that upset me something fierce.” (In fact, the scene had me considering the very existence of God, but I didn’t mention that.) “God created both Nanook and the baby otter, and then made it impossible for them to live in harmony,” I pointed out, helpfully. I added: “That really bugs me.”
I tried to make some sense of the Nanook debacle by sharing this: “When I had my tonsils removed recently, I developed some very strong feelings for my doctor.” (I suppose a more general but still accurate statement might have been: “Every time a man shows me kindness—even when it’s vague and fleeting, and even when he’s being paid to do so—I develop a crush on him, and I seek him out so that I can say the words aloud: I have a crush on you.” I did, in fact, send the doctor an affectionate note, post-surgically.) To the rapt congregation, I described the doctor as “good and smart and strong and capable.” Then I (finally) made my point: “And he was just a man! Imagine God!” Predictably, I mentioned Luke 12:6-7, and the sparrows.
I made three more points: It was shameful (in 1976) that blacks couldn’t hold the priesthood (I guess I wasn’t bothered by women not being able to hold the priesthood). It was shameful that Mormon men and boys were such enthusiastic hunters (what with the sparrows, and all). And it was shameful that the Book of Revelations was such a downer, and so violent. “So, he creates us in his image, but later (the timing is a secret) intends to send ‘tongues of flame’ to destroy us?” I’m sure they appreciated my eye-rolling tone. Maybe I sensed that this was my last stand, and I chose to air some grievances.
Again, I quoted John Denver. I also quoted Dan Fogelberg, and Kris Kristofferson as John Norman Howard in “A Star is Born.” (How did I manage to leave out Neil Diamond and Richard Bach?) Then, I implored them to “...find happiness in puppies and balloons and polka-dots, in the smell of rain, in getting mail.” WTF? the grown-ups must have been thinking.
I wound up with a charming story about an Indian girl at a carnival, who approaches a man selling brightly colored balloons, and asks him why there are no brown balloons. He releases a handful of balloons, smiles, and says, “Child, it is not what the balloon looks like on the outside that makes it float higher and higher, but what is on the inside.” Nice, huh. I have no idea where I found that story.
Perhaps I didn’t know it at the time, but I was saying good-bye. I thanked the conference-attending teens, my mom, my “far-out family,” and Robert (“for being my friend”). Most poignantly, I thanked “everyone who says hi to me when I walk around the block.” I ended by saying, “Thank you for letting me speak this afternoon. I hope I said something meaningful. I wanted so badly to say something meaningful.” It’s not easy being nineteen.
A year ago, at a spiritual retreat on theOregon Coast Utah
I sat there in the bishop’s office. (In real life, he was a lineman-for-the-county; I went to school with his kids. When I was twelve, he conducted my Bishop’s Interview—an annual review of all things moral. He asked, among other things, if I masturbated. I could tell—based on his tone and expression—that I should say no, so I said no. I hurried home after the interview and looked it up in the dictionary. Yes, sir, I’d been doing that for years. Even at age twelve, I couldn’t see that it was any of his business. I hope that things have changed since the late sixties, and that—if such interviews are still conducted—a woman is present. And not the bishop’s wife. That’d be creepy. But I digress.)
At nineteen, church was keeping me busy (I think that was the plan, given the idle-hands/devil’s-workshop connection). I was the Junior Primary chorister, a Sunday School teacher for preteens, the choir secretary, and a supervisor of teens in some new version of Mutual. In addition, I was frequently giving talks, performing humorous or dramatic “readings,” making posters, and writing and directing skits and plays. I even learned to square dance, so that I could represent the ward through dance. I was always at church. When I wasn’t at church, I was walking to or from church, or sewing a cute and modest dress to wear to church.
But…softball. I wasn’t even sure what it was. Was it the same as baseball? I’d taken one semester of high-school gym, and then weaseled out of the other required semester. I knew that Chuck Connors of “Rifleman” fame had been a professional baseball player before becoming an actor; I knew that I let Gary Ferguson get to second base when we were juniors. That was the extent of my knowledge of baseball. But, for some reason, God wanted me to coach. Well, who was I to say no?
I showed up at our first practice. I knew these girls; they were only a few years younger than me. We practiced at the elementary school across the street from the church (it was the mid-seventies, and no one was minding the line that ostensibly separates church and state). I pulled the canvas bag of balls and bats out of the back of my Pinto. I told the girls to practice tossing the balls back and forth. “Underhand or overhand?” someone asked. “Either,” I said.
I was able to fake it for about ten minutes, before a confident, sturdy girl piped up. “Have you ever played softball?” she asked. I smiled wistfully. “I have not,” I said. They seemed embarrassed for me. I dismissed them early, and drove home.
But I didn’t feel embarrassed. I felt oddly strong and self-contained. I felt like something important was about to happen, and I needed to pay attention. I went for a long walk.
A couple of years earlier, my only church job had been teaching the Sunbeams on Tuesday after school. They were four years old: a half-dozen girls and one sweet little boy. The maxi-dress was all the rage, and often all six girls would wear floor-length pink or white dresses; they looked like little parade floats as they walked. It was an easy-going, affectionate group of kids, and I remember a lot of construction-paper cutouts, a lot of hugs. I remember how it felt to sit next to them (during Opening Exercises) on an oak bench that rose about eight inches from the floor, and what a privilege it was to be alone with them (during class) in a windowless room, our chairs in a circle, talking about life. It was a blissful time, which ended suddenly and without explanation.
The one job for which I was well suited was replaced by a half dozen jobs that I disliked. The new jobs brought me no peace or pleasure. There was an unpleasant dreamlike quality about them, in that I always felt clumsy and unprepared, and more than a little hostile.
When I got home from my walk, I called the bishop.
“I don’t want to coach softball,” I said.
“But, Polly…”
“In fact, I don’t want to do any of it, anymore,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to quit everything,” I said. “Starting right now.”
And it was over.
***
The other day, I was sorting through some memorabilia (instead of earning a living, or training for a triathlon), and I came across a large envelope on which I’d written “Church Stuff.” I found:
- My annual Primary Report from 1961 (a type of report card for my spiritual development, at age four). It was prepared by my mom, who just happened to be my Primary teacher (and would continue to be my Primary teacher until age eight, because I was painfully, tearfully, pathologically shy). In the comments section, she wrote: “Even though you’re my own gal, I think you’re the very best Sunbeam. You’re always quiet and listen carefully and obey. I love you very much!”
- An assortment of Sunday School attendance awards from the early sixties. On one, someone has carefully written “98%” over the original “96%.” I remember informing my teacher that I’d only missed one Sunday that year (probably because of measles or mumps), and that the other “absence” had been while I was vacationing in Utah, where I attended church with relatives (we got credit for that). I was only seven, but I wanted God and everyone to know that I hadn’t been derelict.
- A mimeographed program from a 1964 Christmas pageant, in which my older sister and I were angels, wearing white smock-like dresses that my mom made for us the night before.
- A certificate for “A Talk” from May 1965, with a shiny red star affixed. I probably kept it to represent the hundreds of talks I gave between ages 3 and 19 (despite a rather marked speech impediment in the early years).
- A Top Pilot Flightbook from 1965, the last year that my mom was my teacher. Jesus (as opposed to Joseph Smith) was the centerpiece of that year’s study, and each page of the Flightbook is about him. In February, we read about Jesus driving the money-changers from the temple, and that neatly translated into nine rules for us, all of which related to being quiet and clean.
- A drawing (house, trees, sun…I didn’t really break any artistic ground), which was published in the Children’s Friend in July 1965.
- The Articles of Faith, laminated, and the edges decorated with red velvet ribbon.
- A cloth bag with my name on it, to hold my New Testament.
- A green-felt bandlo (pronounced BAND-uh-low), perfectly complete, reflecting my desire and ability to show up every week for three years, memorize a few dozen scriptures, and learn to cross-stitch, knit, and crochet. (Recently, my older sister asked if the Mormon church approves of tattoos. I didn’t know, but doubted it. We agreed that—if they did—the perfect tattoo would be the Gaynote project: I Will Bring the Light of the Gospel into My Home. “And if you were really devoted,” she said, “you’d have it tattooed in all the little cross-stitches.” We found that hilarious.)
- A program from a Lihoma Holiday in 1969. (As a child I thought that Lihoma was a Hawaiian word, but a recent Google search revealed it to be code for Little Homemakers.) This particular Lihoma Holiday must have been my last, because I’m listed on the program as a Merrihand. I gave the opening prayer, and then I immediately gave a talk. (An aside: The Gaynote teacher is listed as Sister Deaton. She was very attractive, and an accomplished homemaker. My older sister and I were at her house once, when one of her toddlers bit another of her toddlers. Without missing a beat, she pulled up the shirt of the offending toddler and bit into the soft, smooth flesh of his shoulder. He screamed. My sister and I stared. It was chilling. We could see the deep marks that her teeth had made. We were only nine and ten, but should we have done something? Should we have tackled her to the ground? She’d handed me a plate of homemade strawberry shortcake, just seconds before she attacked the little boy.)
***
I don’t think I ever really believed in the LDS church. It’s possible (for both children and adults) to overlook doctrine and get caught up in activities, and this particular religion has a lot of activities. I busied myself with Daddy-Daughter Dates, service projects, public-speaking competitions, homemaking training, ward and stake plays, four years of seminary, scripture-chase competitions, devotionals, firesides, girls’ camp, road shows, Gold-and-Green Balls, Education Week, Youth Conference, General Conference, baptisms for the dead, fieldtrips to Temple Square, hiking, tubing, caroling, visiting teaching, and Family Home Evening at BYU. My crushes were seminary teachers, home teachers, and any moderately attractive member of the Young Marrieds. I lived for face time with my true loves: Don Black and Marvin Payne.
Perhaps I should have sensed earlier that I was only “playing church.” I liked so many things about it: the music, the opportunities to excel, the approval of adults (especially my grandparents), the camaraderie, and the structure it gave my life. In the sixties and seventies (and maybe in any decade), there were many reasons to feel at loose ends. Church was everything that the world was not: safe, quiet, clean, predictable, unchanging. And I could see that an adolescence without alcohol, tobacco, drugs, or sex wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. You dodge some bullets that way. And, happily, all those things were patiently waiting for me, at nineteen.
I spoke in Sacrament Meeting twice as an adult, and the other day I found the carefully typed, carefully memorized talks.
When I was eighteen, a member of the bishopric gave me a pamphlet called “We Should Be a Reverent People” by Spencer Kimball. I assume that I was told to summarize it for the congregation. “It was very good,” I offered generously. I quoted from it: “True reverence involves happiness, respect, and gratitude.” Here, I addressed a pet peeve of mine: “When children are taught to be reverent, a whole lot of emphasis—perhaps all emphasis—is put on folding one’s arms.” And a second pet peeve: “Seems that when a child is born into this ward, he or she is made to feel extremely ‘special.’ It’s a shame that some of these children get confused and start thinking that they are ‘more special’ than someone born in Lehi or
During a tangent that no doubt thrilled the bishopric seated behind me, I talked about hunger in Africa, apathy and complacency in Utah County, and a worrisome and pervasive “tinkling-brass existence.” I quoted extensively from the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians, referring to it as “my favorite.” The talk is, essentially, a dressing down. “It profiteth you nothing!” I imagine myself shouting from the pulpit. I quoted Jerry Lewis, John Denver, and the Broadway hit song “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
At age nineteen, I was asked to do a public debriefing of a Youth Conference I’d attended (as a chaperon) at BYU. Everything about the conference had been unpleasant, and I should have declined the invitation to speak, but I did not. I should have opened with “A funny thing happened on the way to the celestial kingdom,” but I did not.
Inexplicably, I talked about becoming very upset while watching the documentary “Nanook of the North” at a BYU film class a year earlier. A starving family kills and eats a baby otter, and “that upset me something fierce.” (In fact, the scene had me considering the very existence of God, but I didn’t mention that.) “God created both Nanook and the baby otter, and then made it impossible for them to live in harmony,” I pointed out, helpfully. I added: “That really bugs me.”
I tried to make some sense of the Nanook debacle by sharing this: “When I had my tonsils removed recently, I developed some very strong feelings for my doctor.” (I suppose a more general but still accurate statement might have been: “Every time a man shows me kindness—even when it’s vague and fleeting, and even when he’s being paid to do so—I develop a crush on him, and I seek him out so that I can say the words aloud: I have a crush on you.” I did, in fact, send the doctor an affectionate note, post-surgically.) To the rapt congregation, I described the doctor as “good and smart and strong and capable.” Then I (finally) made my point: “And he was just a man! Imagine God!” Predictably, I mentioned Luke 12:6-7, and the sparrows.
I made three more points: It was shameful (in 1976) that blacks couldn’t hold the priesthood (I guess I wasn’t bothered by women not being able to hold the priesthood). It was shameful that Mormon men and boys were such enthusiastic hunters (what with the sparrows, and all). And it was shameful that the Book of Revelations was such a downer, and so violent. “So, he creates us in his image, but later (the timing is a secret) intends to send ‘tongues of flame’ to destroy us?” I’m sure they appreciated my eye-rolling tone. Maybe I sensed that this was my last stand, and I chose to air some grievances.
Again, I quoted John Denver. I also quoted Dan Fogelberg, and Kris Kristofferson as John Norman Howard in “A Star is Born.” (How did I manage to leave out Neil Diamond and Richard Bach?) Then, I implored them to “...find happiness in puppies and balloons and polka-dots, in the smell of rain, in getting mail.” WTF? the grown-ups must have been thinking.
I wound up with a charming story about an Indian girl at a carnival, who approaches a man selling brightly colored balloons, and asks him why there are no brown balloons. He releases a handful of balloons, smiles, and says, “Child, it is not what the balloon looks like on the outside that makes it float higher and higher, but what is on the inside.” Nice, huh. I have no idea where I found that story.
Perhaps I didn’t know it at the time, but I was saying good-bye. I thanked the conference-attending teens, my mom, my “far-out family,” and Robert (“for being my friend”). Most poignantly, I thanked “everyone who says hi to me when I walk around the block.” I ended by saying, “Thank you for letting me speak this afternoon. I hope I said something meaningful. I wanted so badly to say something meaningful.” It’s not easy being nineteen.
***
A year ago, at a spiritual retreat on the
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Young Girl
My earliest memory is of perching on a swing set in the front yard of a Long Beach, California, duplex. My thoughts were contemplative: Why was I so very good, and my sister--one year older--so very bad? When our mom called us in from playing, why did my sister refuse to cooperate, risking a spanking or--much worse--our mom's very temporary withdrawal of affection? What could be worse, really, than loving someone who didn't love you back?
For the most part, I was awash in love. Both mother and father adored me, and took in stride my rather marked emotional tenderness. I was a soft child, both physically and temperamentally. I was a good little learner, though, reading early and well, excelling academically from the start.
Two memories from kindergarten linger. Mrs. Wilson was tall, gaunt, and unpleasantly old and sour, with a rather imposing and unfriendly bosom. I'm quite certain my charms were lost on her. One day we were going to watch a movie in class, and a massive projector atop a massive wheeled stand was positioned in the center of the room. A cord snaked across the room to an electric outlet, and we were admonished to not trip on the cord. Perhaps I forgot, perhaps the room was dark and I couldn't see the cord, but I tripped on it, and both projector and girl went tumbling. Mrs. Wilson was furious, menacing, unconcerned with my possible injuries. I cowered before her, knowing she wanted to grab me and shake me. She shouted, "I told you to be careful!"
And even though I cried easily, and occasionally wet my pants, I was a logical child and a keen observer, and I knew she was wrong to scold me so harshly for a simple misstep. Forty-five years later, a voice in my head says, "It was an accident, you old cunt! I wish the projector had fallen on you! I wish you'd died slowly of a sucking chest wound while 30 five-year-olds--sitting cross-legged in an orderly half-circle--had watched. Might have been more interesting than a hygiene film or a Cold War propaganda film."
The second incident was more disturbing. A boy named Adam misbehaved and was taken by Mrs. Wilson into a restroom and paddled. I suspect that Adam's crime didn't involve hitting or biting, but was of the coloring-outside-the-lines variety. Whatever the case, I was horrified, traumatized, indignant. Even at age five, I knew that a teacher or a principal paddling a child was perverse. And I knew that for all the talk of bullies, the most egregious bullies were the grownups.
Life got better when my family moved to another Long Beach neighborhood, and I began first grade at a new school. Miss Barbie--my teacher and my first love--adored me; she favored me. Because I'd been reading since age four, I was sent to the school library during classroom reading instruction, where I was able to indulge my love of books unfettered by even a librarian's supervision. I sat on the floor in front of the bookshelves, reading book after book, relishing the solitude, relishing the pleasure of special privilege, of being The Smart Girl.
The years passed. We ducked-and-covered, we mourned the loss of JFK. I was madly in love with boys and men: classmates, neighbors, the Monkees, "The Rifleman." When I wasn't attending summer school for gifted students, or giving perfectly memorized talks in Sunday School, or putting on plays in our kid-friendly backyard, or writing affectionate and newsy letters to my Utah relatives, I was indulging in more private past times such as spinning sexual fantasies about the cast of "Hogan's Heroes," picking my nose to the point of bleeding, and smuggling food from kitchen to bathroom where I could binge in blissful privacy.
I still cried easily, and still took everything personally. I can recall every time my mom scolded me or swatted me, and every time my dad was stern with me. In third grade, my teacher--at her wit's end--said something like, "I'm fed up with all of you today!" and in response I sobbed quietly at my desk. She called my mom that night and apologized, offering that I was the only one who cried, and the only one who didn't deserve the scolding. I never really toughened up, and, in my twenties and thirties, a disapproving word from an employer or policeman or gynecologist could reduce me to tears.
Puberty hit hard: bras, sanitary pads, crappy romance novels, bad haircuts, unflattering glasses, short skirts, brightly colored fishnets attached to garter belts (in elementary school!). Wisely, my mom refused to buy me white go-go boots, or I'd have that to add to my list of sartorial regrets. I was the tallest kid in school, chubby, awkward, self-conscious, and almost obnoxious in my ability to outshine others scholastically.
Junior high school represents a low point. While our house was in a decent neighborhood, the school was not. My sister and I took a city bus, catching it early enough to avoid the most dangerous kids, but arriving at school before any adults. It was 1969, racial tensions were running high, and one predawn morning found us surrounded by a large group of hostile black girls accusing us of some invented slight. They'd been stealing my lunch money and lip gloss for months, ridiculing me in gym class, and I stood before them that morning, cowed, exhausted, vanquished. A couple of months later, my parents moved us to rural Utah, where most children had been taught to "be nice" at all costs, and schoolyard intimidation was much more subtle, and I stumbled upon a system in which I could work and thrive.
We were Mormons, and that offered a modicum of social currency once we lived in Utah. I was lucky enough to have a girl cousin in attendance at the same junior high school, and her friends became my friends. I began to shed my pariah status, and eventually scored "Best Personality" and "Best Grades" in an issue of the school newspaper. Between church, school, and extracurricular activities, I was managing to fit in, to enjoy a certain level of respect.
High school suited me. The boys were taller, the classes were more demanding, and the opportunities to excel were vast. I donned skirt, sweater, tights, and chunky shoes (to this day, my favorite outfit) and set out to own that school. Between acting, debating, public speaking, creative writing, before-school religious study, student government, and straight A's, I was busy. I had a new circle of friends and an occasional date. As I entered my junior year, I was a considerably slimmer version of myself, and walked the halls with new confidence. I was never going to be popular, but that was okay: I could already see that power--and fun--can often be found at the fringes.
In retrospect, BYU was a huge mistake, but I refused to consider other options. After one miserable semester, I scurried home. And when a close friend said that she was considering leaving the Mormon church ("You can do that?!?"), I promptly did, without fanfare, acrimony, or regret. And I was surprised and delighted to find that "men" are really quite different from "Mormon men." (Later, I would notice some crossover, but at nineteen there was a bright line.)
Due to a chain of events for which I will be forever grateful, my mom scored a job at the officers' club of a military post near our home. Timing is everything: I was in my early twenties (and as cute as I was ever going to be), The Pill was easily available but AIDS was relatively unheard of, and the country was mercifully between wars. Every summer, hundreds of soldiers (all men, mostly Special Forces) would train here for weeks at a time, and--evenings and weekends--nothing could keep me away. Adorable, affectionate, and agreeable, I took full advantage of the rare opportunity. Endless pleasure, endless pain.
Between summers, I visited soldiers at their base camps, answered personal ads in magazines, tried to revive high school romances, and hung out with my brother's buddies. Mostly, though, those were dry and lonely times. I lived alone in a charming and much-loved apartment in Provo and worked for an oral surgeon. I had neither friends nor pets. I corresponded feverishly with soldiers, sat cross-legged on the floor playing "Abide With Me" over and over again on an acoustic guitar, and went for burgers and Cokes with my mom. She would die several years later, and I would rephrase the question of my girlhood: What could be worse, really, than loving someone who isn't there to love you back?
For the most part, I was awash in love. Both mother and father adored me, and took in stride my rather marked emotional tenderness. I was a soft child, both physically and temperamentally. I was a good little learner, though, reading early and well, excelling academically from the start.
Two memories from kindergarten linger. Mrs. Wilson was tall, gaunt, and unpleasantly old and sour, with a rather imposing and unfriendly bosom. I'm quite certain my charms were lost on her. One day we were going to watch a movie in class, and a massive projector atop a massive wheeled stand was positioned in the center of the room. A cord snaked across the room to an electric outlet, and we were admonished to not trip on the cord. Perhaps I forgot, perhaps the room was dark and I couldn't see the cord, but I tripped on it, and both projector and girl went tumbling. Mrs. Wilson was furious, menacing, unconcerned with my possible injuries. I cowered before her, knowing she wanted to grab me and shake me. She shouted, "I told you to be careful!"
And even though I cried easily, and occasionally wet my pants, I was a logical child and a keen observer, and I knew she was wrong to scold me so harshly for a simple misstep. Forty-five years later, a voice in my head says, "It was an accident, you old cunt! I wish the projector had fallen on you! I wish you'd died slowly of a sucking chest wound while 30 five-year-olds--sitting cross-legged in an orderly half-circle--had watched. Might have been more interesting than a hygiene film or a Cold War propaganda film."
The second incident was more disturbing. A boy named Adam misbehaved and was taken by Mrs. Wilson into a restroom and paddled. I suspect that Adam's crime didn't involve hitting or biting, but was of the coloring-outside-the-lines variety. Whatever the case, I was horrified, traumatized, indignant. Even at age five, I knew that a teacher or a principal paddling a child was perverse. And I knew that for all the talk of bullies, the most egregious bullies were the grownups.
Life got better when my family moved to another Long Beach neighborhood, and I began first grade at a new school. Miss Barbie--my teacher and my first love--adored me; she favored me. Because I'd been reading since age four, I was sent to the school library during classroom reading instruction, where I was able to indulge my love of books unfettered by even a librarian's supervision. I sat on the floor in front of the bookshelves, reading book after book, relishing the solitude, relishing the pleasure of special privilege, of being The Smart Girl.
The years passed. We ducked-and-covered, we mourned the loss of JFK. I was madly in love with boys and men: classmates, neighbors, the Monkees, "The Rifleman." When I wasn't attending summer school for gifted students, or giving perfectly memorized talks in Sunday School, or putting on plays in our kid-friendly backyard, or writing affectionate and newsy letters to my Utah relatives, I was indulging in more private past times such as spinning sexual fantasies about the cast of "Hogan's Heroes," picking my nose to the point of bleeding, and smuggling food from kitchen to bathroom where I could binge in blissful privacy.
I still cried easily, and still took everything personally. I can recall every time my mom scolded me or swatted me, and every time my dad was stern with me. In third grade, my teacher--at her wit's end--said something like, "I'm fed up with all of you today!" and in response I sobbed quietly at my desk. She called my mom that night and apologized, offering that I was the only one who cried, and the only one who didn't deserve the scolding. I never really toughened up, and, in my twenties and thirties, a disapproving word from an employer or policeman or gynecologist could reduce me to tears.
Puberty hit hard: bras, sanitary pads, crappy romance novels, bad haircuts, unflattering glasses, short skirts, brightly colored fishnets attached to garter belts (in elementary school!). Wisely, my mom refused to buy me white go-go boots, or I'd have that to add to my list of sartorial regrets. I was the tallest kid in school, chubby, awkward, self-conscious, and almost obnoxious in my ability to outshine others scholastically.
Junior high school represents a low point. While our house was in a decent neighborhood, the school was not. My sister and I took a city bus, catching it early enough to avoid the most dangerous kids, but arriving at school before any adults. It was 1969, racial tensions were running high, and one predawn morning found us surrounded by a large group of hostile black girls accusing us of some invented slight. They'd been stealing my lunch money and lip gloss for months, ridiculing me in gym class, and I stood before them that morning, cowed, exhausted, vanquished. A couple of months later, my parents moved us to rural Utah, where most children had been taught to "be nice" at all costs, and schoolyard intimidation was much more subtle, and I stumbled upon a system in which I could work and thrive.
We were Mormons, and that offered a modicum of social currency once we lived in Utah. I was lucky enough to have a girl cousin in attendance at the same junior high school, and her friends became my friends. I began to shed my pariah status, and eventually scored "Best Personality" and "Best Grades" in an issue of the school newspaper. Between church, school, and extracurricular activities, I was managing to fit in, to enjoy a certain level of respect.
High school suited me. The boys were taller, the classes were more demanding, and the opportunities to excel were vast. I donned skirt, sweater, tights, and chunky shoes (to this day, my favorite outfit) and set out to own that school. Between acting, debating, public speaking, creative writing, before-school religious study, student government, and straight A's, I was busy. I had a new circle of friends and an occasional date. As I entered my junior year, I was a considerably slimmer version of myself, and walked the halls with new confidence. I was never going to be popular, but that was okay: I could already see that power--and fun--can often be found at the fringes.
In retrospect, BYU was a huge mistake, but I refused to consider other options. After one miserable semester, I scurried home. And when a close friend said that she was considering leaving the Mormon church ("You can do that?!?"), I promptly did, without fanfare, acrimony, or regret. And I was surprised and delighted to find that "men" are really quite different from "Mormon men." (Later, I would notice some crossover, but at nineteen there was a bright line.)
Due to a chain of events for which I will be forever grateful, my mom scored a job at the officers' club of a military post near our home. Timing is everything: I was in my early twenties (and as cute as I was ever going to be), The Pill was easily available but AIDS was relatively unheard of, and the country was mercifully between wars. Every summer, hundreds of soldiers (all men, mostly Special Forces) would train here for weeks at a time, and--evenings and weekends--nothing could keep me away. Adorable, affectionate, and agreeable, I took full advantage of the rare opportunity. Endless pleasure, endless pain.
Between summers, I visited soldiers at their base camps, answered personal ads in magazines, tried to revive high school romances, and hung out with my brother's buddies. Mostly, though, those were dry and lonely times. I lived alone in a charming and much-loved apartment in Provo and worked for an oral surgeon. I had neither friends nor pets. I corresponded feverishly with soldiers, sat cross-legged on the floor playing "Abide With Me" over and over again on an acoustic guitar, and went for burgers and Cokes with my mom. She would die several years later, and I would rephrase the question of my girlhood: What could be worse, really, than loving someone who isn't there to love you back?
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