Since these are my memoirs, I guess I should start at the beginning. But gee whiz, if I do that, then they’re not "my" memories … they’re Mom & Dad’s! Oh well, considering how many of "my" memories exist only because of the many stories Mom, Dad, and Jeannie have repeated over the years, I guess that’s appropriate! Jeannie is my younger sister. She has a much better memory than I do. She also has more common sense than I do. She pays attention, learning from my mistakes, while not only do I not learn from the mistakes of others, but I don’t even learn from my own until they’ve been repeated several times … if then. But this is my story, not hers. Of course she does make frequent appearances in these memoirs. It’s hard for me to tell "my" story without her.
I was born 5 days before Christmas in 1950, in Ward 25 of Letterman Army Hospital on the Presidio of San Francisco. For those who pay attention to such things: Mom gained 15 pounds during my womb-time; presented me to the world on a Wednesday at 10:34 am; for probably the first and last time in my life, I created very few problems for her (although her spinal tap probably helped a little); I weighed in at 6 pounds, 8 ounces, and 19" tall. Colonel Brackett, the attending physician, has the dubious distinction of being the first person to spank me. While they normally kept the mothers & new babies for five days, we were released early (for good behavior?) so I made it home in time to celebrate Christmas with my new Mommy and Daddy.
For the first 44 years of my life, I was proud that, technically speaking, I was not born within any state of the Union since military bases are federal territory. At the same time, I was also proud that I was considered to be a native-born San Franciscan. In 1994, however, I read the Constitution of the United States of America, the Constitution of the State of California, and the Constitution of the State of Idaho, as well as a number of other legal references. As a result of this education, I now claim the right to have been deemed a citizen of Idaho upon my birth since Dad was himself a citizen of Idaho, enlisting from Idaho, and actively serving in the Armed Forces of the United States of America, even though based in San Francisco when I was born.
For the first year of my life, we lived in Candlestick Cove, San Francisco. It was during this period that we learned how tasty a meal fleas find me, since I was bitten all over my tiny body. To this day, if a flea has the choice between a dog, cat, or any other critter and me, he selects me. Spiders and mosquitoes seem to find me just as tasty. So my daily existence includes scratching at one bite or another! I guess I should be grateful we don’t have fire ants where I live!
Even before I could understand a word she was saying, Mom would hold me on her lap and read out loud from whatever book she was reading at the time. According to my Baby Book, my favorite story was "The Three Bears" … I assume this meant "Goldilocks & the Three Bears". However, according to stories told time and time again as I was growing up, my favorite book was "The Little Engine That Could." In fact, Mom says she read it to me so often that I had it memorized before I was three and was "reading" it by the time I was four. Actually, I was remembering the words, while looking through the book. I’m not sure whether or not I was associating the spoken word with the written word, although I’m inclined to believe I was since I was definitely reading before I entered kindergarden, two months before I turned five. No matter what, though, I sincerely believe that it was Mom’s reading to me as an infant and her patience in reading the same things over and over to me as I became older that gave me the love for reading that has been so much a part of my self-identity and has been for as long as I can remember.
One of Mom’s favorite "Mom Stories" occurred while I was a toddler. I’m not sure where we were living at the time, but I believe it was San Francisco, while Dad was in Korea, which would have made me around 2 or 3 years old. Apparently, I was somewhat of a sun-worshipper back then. Boy, has that changed. Now, I avoid the sun as much as I can. In at least one incident, I removed my diaper … to get a more even tan, you understand … and then, with a burst of pride, headed out the yard and down the sidewalk in order to show off my beautiful physique … with Mom hot on my tail! If I remember her telling it correctly, she experienced no little embarrassment at her daughter’s lack of embarrassment!
Jeannie was born when I was 14 months old. While it’s likely I felt some resentment, it never really made an impact upon me. Maybe because, at least according to Gram (Mom’s mom), I was the golden, curly haired angel, while Jeannie was born with a full head of straight black hair. Therefore, I was doted upon, or so she claimed, while Jeannie was stuck with the leftovers. But I doubt it. Instead, I attribute it to three factors. First, I know that Mom’s holding me in her lap, reading to me, continued even after Jeannie’s birth. Furthermore, Mom didn’t feel a need to "get away" from us very often. Until much later, when Jeannie and I were both in High School, she was happy and fulfilled as "just" a Mother and a Wife. Secondly, Jeannie and I were completely different. We played together at times, but we also played quite contentedly apart from one another. And neither Mom nor Dad felt it incumbent upon them to coerce us into playing together. So I was never forced to endure a pesky sib tagging along behind me, ruining my day’s fun. We played together when we wanted to. And only then. Finally, while the date of my birthday (December 20th) could easily have resulted in my birthday getting lost in the Christmas celebrations, Mom & Dad never let that happen. With very few exceptions, I always had a birthday party and birthday gifts completely separated from Christmas. In fact, even to this day, Mom & Dad exercise diligence in insuring that my birthday doesn’t get buried by Christmas, even though I don’t usually show up on their doorstep until Christmas Day. (We spend Thanksgiving at my place and Christmas at Jeannie’s.)
Dad was shipped out for a tour of Korea in April of 1952. That made me about 14 months old when he left, while Jeannie was only about 2 months old. We moved in with Gram and Mac, her husband, at first. But Mom found a separate apartment for us four months later. When he returned 11 months later, so the stories go, I was absolutely terrified of that strange man. Meanwhile, Jeannie greeted him with a big smile and wide open arms. Oh well, I guess my ability to pay attention as well as my memory have always been lousy … since Mom undoubtedly talked often about him, sharing his letters with us, and would definitely have had his pictures all over the place!!! Granted, Gram never approved of Dad, believing that her daughter deserved someone better, but I can’t blame my failure to recognize my Dad upon her attitude! It just doesn’t work that way!
I never got to meet Dad’s parents, Henry Joseph Lingg and Frances Juliette (Jones-Lingg) Beeler, nee Cole. His mom had divorced his father while Dad was himself a young boy, and he was just never a part of our life, even though he didn’t die until just after Dad retired. Nor was her third husband, William Beeler, a part of our lives. In fact, it wasn’t until I got involved in working with Mom on our genealogy that I even "consciously" thought about having a paternal grandfather. Or a paternal grandmother. Gramma Beeler died in 1953, while Dad was enroute from his tour of duty in Korea. Not long ago, I was going through some family photos that Mom had copied for me, creating four different family collages (one for each of my grandparents & their ancestors). As I was putting Gramma Cole’s picture in the collage, I really "looked" at it for once. And I found myself crying, feeling grief, realizing that I had missed something very important in my life … knowing her and getting to spend time with her. Not long after that, I asked Dad about her, telling him and Mom about the loss I had felt. He told me that she was a wonderful mother and would have made the best grandmother ever. In spite of never having known her, she has become an important part of my life and my heritage.
My relationship with Gram, Mom’s Mom, wasn’t good. I’m not going to "wash our family linen in public" so the only thing I’m going to add is that there was a real void in my life because I didn’t have a grandmotherly Grandmother as I was growing up and even through much of my adult years. To an extent, Aunt Brunetta helped keep the ache at bay, but we rarely lived near to her, while we frequently lived near Gram.
Jodie Whitener, Mom’s only sibling. was killed during the Korean War – October 14, 1951. He was the flight engineer on a B-29 which crashed while landing at their air base in Japan after a bombing run over North Korea. I have no memories of him, although Mom’s memories of him, which she has shared with us, are a part of who I am. Uncle Jodie did get the chance to meet me before he was shipped out. According to Mom & Dad, he fell in love with me. (Of course, he never had to change my diddies … that might have made a difference … especially since he was single!)
We never had a lot of money growing up in the Army. Although this is one place where my memories "give the lie" to Mom & Dad’s stories. According to them, they often had to tell us no to things we wanted, saving money for birthday and Christmas Gifts. However, I absolutely do not remember ever experiencing a crippling disappointment because I didn’t get something I "just had to have". Ironically, as an adult, I have a very difficult (correction … nearly impossible) time distinguishing between "today’s want" and "tomorrow’s need." This appears to be an inherited trait (from my maternal grandmother, according to Mom) and not a lesson taught, since my parents were great role models … they actually did what they said. We never heard anything even remotely approaching, "Do as I say, not as I do"!
Since money was always tight, Mom couldn’t afford to hire a babysitter when she "had" to attend the wives’ monthly coffees meetings. When they were held at someone else’s home, she took us with her along with a coloring book and crayons. As a child, I grew up constantly and consistently hearing that how we behaved reflected on our father. For most of my life, I equated this with something comparable to, "What will the neighbors think." In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I learned differently. I don’t know if it’s the same today, nor do I know if it’s the same for non-career military brats. But back then, when Dad was first a Sergeant then later a Warrant Officer, had either Jeannie or I gotten in trouble, Dad would have been in trouble as well. And not in the same way some communities now discipline parents when their children break the law. Dad’s career literally depended upon our good behavior. As a result, we were raised under firm discipline and control. Don’t get me wrong. Jeannie and I were far from perfect. But we knew that while some behaviors would get us in trouble, there were other potential behaviors that would get us in "Really Big Trouble". And, to the best of my knowledge, it never even occurred to us to engage in the RBT behaviors. So when an "RBT" order was given, we were expected to obey. At once. Without question. Or, in more familiar terms, "When we were told to jump, we didn’t waste time asking how high … we just jumped … and if it wasn’t high enough, we knew it at once and jumped higher!" So when Mom took us to her coffees, we had no trouble finding a corner to play in and playing there quietly.
The month after my fourth birthday, Dad was assigned to 121 days TDY (Temporary Duty) to go to school in Maryland, to be followed by a 3 year tour of duty in Germany. We, Mom, Jeannie, and I, couldn’t afford to go with Dad to Maryland, although we would be able to join him later … after he had gone to Germany and found housing for us. So the four of us drove to Texas, where Dad would continue on, while Mom, Jeannie, and I spent the summer with Mom’s Aunt and Uncle, Brunetta and Ernest George. While staying there, we also got to visit Mom’s Grandfather, T. V. Shockley, whom we all called "Pawpa". While I don’t actually have memories of our time there, we have photos from then. Quite a few of them show Jeannie and me in trash barrels filled with water, with Uncle Lemon (what we called Uncle Ernest) holding the hose, spraying us down. I doubt we were allowed to spend the whole time that way, but I can’t think of a better way to "enjoy" Texas. It’s depressing … I am extremely proud of my heritage as the daughter of a native Texan, but because of my inability to handle the heat and the sun … combined with a disinclination to learn to adjust to it, I’m just not suited to life in Texas.
Jeannie must have had some kind of a food fetish when we were small. … Mom says that that she’s the one who named Uncle Ernest Uncle Lemon and it stuck for all of us. She also called me Banana! But I can assure you, that one did not stick for anyone else!!!
One morning, when Mom was making my bed, she lifted up the pillow and found a
scorpion. Somehow, it had gotten into the house and had made a beeline for me. Must have
decided that I wasn’t as tasty as it had been led to believe, however, since it
hadn’t bitten or stung me during the night. Several days later, we found its mate
dead under the kitchen sink. As least Mom assumed they were mates. She didn’t check
to see if they were different sexes!
On 4 November 1955, we flew out of Love Field, Dallas, Texas. We had a brief stop off in Chicago, three days in New York getting processed, then headed out across the Atlantic from New York International Airport on a large Turbo-prop redesigned by the Army to hold 100 passengers. Do I remember anything of this flight, probably the only time I’ll fly across the Atlantic Ocean in my whole life? No. Jeannie, the rememberer, might, even though she was only 3. But not me! Nor do I remember anything of our brief stopover in Ireland, at the Shannon Free Airport … a country I would give my eyeteeth (whatever those are!) to be able to visit now that I have begun researching my heritage! From Ireland, it was just a short 4 hour hop to our (almost) final destination, the Rhine-Main Airport in Frankfurt, Germany, where Dad was waiting (patiently?) for us.
While they’re pretty limited, I have more memories of Germany than I do any other period in my life. Correction … only two of them are actually of Germany … the rest are just your standard childhood memories.
We lived on the top floor of an apartment building on Colorado Street in the Vogelweh Sub-Division of the Army dependents’ housing area in (near?) Kaiserslautern. Our building was typical "GI (Government Issue): Cold, grey, unadorned concrete with columns and rows of windows – barred to keep us kids from falling out. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a prison enclave. All of the buildings on Colorado Street were exactly like ours. Each building was set back from the street, with a sidewalk leading up to the center entrance and a large groomed lawn in the front and on the sides between each building. The Vogelweh Sub-Division was on a mountain … or maybe it was just a large hill that seemed like a mountain! The buildings across the street from ours were on higher ground than was ours while the area behind our building was a forest-like embankment with trails and with a playground at the foot of the embankment. (Keep my age in mind, if you’ve been there and your memories don’t line up with mine!)
As soon as we arrived, since I would be 5 in December, Mom registered me for Kindergarden. (They placed you based upon your age during the calendar year, not the school year, so Jeannie had to wait two years and only completed Kindergarden while in Germany.) I have only one clear memory of my school experiences in Germany. I was coming home on the bus, and got "lost". The apartments all looked alike. My memory says that the bus driver drove back and forth, around the curves of the streets, asking me where I lived. Mom’s memory says that the bus driver knew where I lived, and took me straight home as soon as he had dropped everyone else off on his route. Either way, I can still remember a sense of panic because I couldn’t recognize my home!
One of the "required classes" for American dependents in Germany was German. As in the foreign language, I mean. Linguists say that these early years are the best time to learn a foreign language. Supposedly, if you learn one as a child, you will relearn it later, even as an adult, easier and will be able to speak it without an accent. Neither Jeannie nor I can confirm this. When we hit High School, Curtis offered five different languages. Jeannie took French and then Russian. I took Latin and then Spanish. Neither of us took the 5th language – German! Even when I took a foreign language in college, I took Spanish instead of German. Part of me is consumed with curiosity, wondering if I would be able to learn German easily and speak it well. But the other part of me is afraid to try, dreading failure.
I had a friend my age who invited me over to his home for lunch one day. While I don’t really remember where he lived, it seems it was three or four apartment buildings "down" and on the other side of Colorado Street from our apartment building. His Mom had prepared chicken soup (chicken noodle?) for us and, for the first time in my short life, I was allowed to add my own salt and pepper … all by myself. The only rule was that I had to eat it. Completely. Luckily, she relented and I didn’t have to eat that inch or so of black pepper clearly visible in the bottom of my bowl!
Jeannie, I, and at least one other friend were in the forest behind our building one day when we found a pincher beetle … you know the kind I mean, it has pincers which are as large as its entire body! I believe it was I who went running home to get a bottle to put it in, but I’m not sure whether Mom gave it to me or whether I just grabbed it. Whichever it was, I took the bottle back to where Jeannie and our friend were waiting for me and one of us picked it up and put it in the bottle. This is one of the most impressive of my childhood memories. Not because I remember the event all that clearly, but because every cotton pickin’ time I look at a maraschino cherry jar (and I do love maraschino cherries!!!), I see that poor, innocent, defenseless beetle, trapped in that jar!
During at least one winter while we were in Germany, it snowed. I can’t remember the winter itself, but I sure do remember the snow. (Hey, what do you expect … I was a kid!) Actually, though, I only remember one event that occurred because of that snow. It gave me my first experience in a sport that would, in later years, become a family passion: skiing. Our ski slope was somewhere on the hill across the street from our apartment. It was probably only a couple of ski-lengths long, and probably had just enough of a slope for gravity to exert a pull on me. But none of that mattered. I was skiing!
One day, "Freeda", our maid, had spent several hours cleaning two large white lampshades, leaving them drying in the bathtub. Not long afterwards, I went home, probably after making mud pies, and headed into the bathroom to wash my hands. Sometime later, when Freeda was going to put the lampshades back on the lamps, she met with an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. The once completely white lampshades were now decorated … with two dark brown handprints. In today’s society, I would probably have been praised as a budding artist instead of being disciplined as the mischief-maker I was, even if my intent wasn’t destructive.
Normally, Mom handed out any necessary discipline. She used a wooden spoon applied to the most appropriate portion of our anatomy … our bottoms. She didn’t use the spoon because it caused us more pain. Instead, according to her own testimonies, she used it because she knew that if she used her hand, she, herself, would experience pain. And she felt that this pain would increase her anger, leading her to possible abuse, not discipline. So the spoon enabled her to administer judicial discipline. Occasionally, though, when Mom was really really mad about something we had done, she knew it would not be wise for her to attempt to discipline us so we would hear those fateful words, "Wait until your father comes home."
Unlike Mom, who, like me, has a short fuse, Dad is fully controlled. His discipline, even when he was the one who caught us in the middle of something that got us in trouble, was handed out under very controlled and very ritualistic circumstances. He would escort us into the bedroom, sit down on the bed, order us over his knee, clearly reminding us that, "This will hurt me more than it will you." He would then whack us several times, then pull us into his lap and gently but firmly ask us to tell him what we did wrong. Once we quieted down enough to tell him, with whatever coaching was needed, we were allowed to leave. He would give us one half hour of pouting time, after which we joined the family, secure in the knowledge that, yes, we had blown it but we had paid the cost and it was over. Period.
While I can’t remember for sure, I’m pretty sure that the lampshade incident was one of those rare times when Mom passed the buck. Near as I can recall, she was mighty mad at me. And I think it took Freeda several days to forgive me.
Spanking wasn’t the only discipline Mom & Dad administered, although it was the most common one. At other times, they would let the discipline fit the crime.
They are now ex-smokers. While we were growing up, though, they both smoked. And when Dad was home, working on whatever outside, he would send one of us up the stairs to ask Mom to send a cigarette down to him since he didn’t carry them on him. She would light it for him then hand it to us to carry back down the stairs. One of these times … and only one, which should become obvious soon … I decided to see what was so neat about these cigarettes, taking a drag off of it. Somehow, Dad caught me. (I didn’t know that Dad’s had the same extra pair of eyes in the back of their heads that Moms have … but they do … at least for certain crimes!) For this incident, the discipline most definitely fit the crime. He sat me down on the front stoop, gave me my orders, then stood there, watching me take one drag after another, suffering agony on my behalf, yet unrelenting as I turned greener and greener! And then, to add insult to injury, he sent me back upstairs to get him another one. I believe he offered this one to me as well, but I not so graciously declined. After that experience, I never again wanted a cigarette … not until I was a Senior in High School, and "peer pressure" reared its ugly head.
We had a friend, Simone Rantham who lived two stories down. I can even remember going down the stairs and turning right to head into her apartment. Like all of us living in the area, she was an American dependent. Not Army, though. Her husband was a civilian, serving with the Department of Defense. But she was a French "War Bride" and spoke with the most beautiful accent. Technically, she was Mom’s friend. But she had one special treat for just Jeannie and I. She would break an egg, separating the white from the yolk. Then, she would add a little sugar and a very little brandy to the yolk, blend it thoroughly until the sugar had dissolved, then give it to us. I know it sounds horrible now … eating a raw egg yolk … yuck! And it may even sound dangerous. But, at the time, it was neither. At least not to Jeannie and I. After we returned stateside, Mom refused to fix it for us. Not only did she think it was disgusting, she also thought it was unsafe. I can remember at least once when Jeannie & I tried to fix it. But without the brandy, it just wasn’t the same. (A pair of lushes, even then!) Eventually, we even gave up the wanting to have it. Our taste buds hadn’t changed, but our perceptions of food had finally adjusted back to American standards.
While I’ve never connected the two before, I just thought of something. For as long as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed raw ground beef. When Mom would make meat loaf or hamburgers, I would raid the main ingredient, grabbing a pinch of it, seasoning it with a little salt & pepper if she hadn’t done so already, then consumed it with much gusto. As often as I could get away with it, I would repeat this performance. Occasionally, if not stopped, I would go too far, barely leaving enough for Mom to be able to finish dinner. She didn’t appreciate this. I don’t know if Jeannie ever acquired this taste, but if she did, she lost it. I’m the only person in our family now who likes raw ground beef. And, yes, I do still like it. And, in spite of today’s well advertised risk, I still continue to eat it. To understand why, you will just have to check out the "Hot Issues" section of my Web Site, where I fully explore and explain my reasons. For now, though, my point is that I’m betting I acquired this taste from Simone, since the French use raw meat in a number of different dishes.
We got a Ford Taunus station wagon while we were in Germany. One day, while returning from a drive through the countryside, I told Daddy that I had to go potty. He told me that I would just have to wait until we got home. (For those of you who aren’t familiar with German roads & drivers, there were no rest areas spaced every hour’s drive or so. When the urge struck, at least back then, Germans … and many Americans … would just pull off the road, and take care of their business … without even looking for a friendly tree to hide behind. But Mom & Dad never let Jeannie & I learn this habit.) Once we got back home, he learned that had a little mess to clean up in the back of the station wagon, where I had piddled. I don’t believe I was disciplined for this. Not because it was an accident … it wasn’t. I had very carefully positioned myself over and aimed into the wheel well. No way was I going to let an accident happen and end up having to finish the drive in wet panties. But it was his fault. Not mine. And he knew it. Children, especially daughters, just don’t have the same holding capacity Daddies do. To my knowledge, he never committed that blunder again. In fact, I have very clear memories of his asking, "Can’t it wait until…", where "until" was followed by the next rest area, gas station, our home, or whatever.
One of my strongest "non-memory" memories is of the smells in the German countryside. If you’ve ever worked in, driven past, or lived near a dairy, then you know the one smell I remember the best! For years after I moved here to Columbia County, I only had to drive up State Highway 30, past a Dairy Farm near Dear Island, to be transported right back to the German countryside. In itself, the smell is not pleasant. And yet the feelings of family happiness that it evokes for me makes it worth it. Lately, I’ve noticed that the smell is gone. I don’t know if the Dairy Farm is still active or not. But I honestly do miss the memories.
For most of my childhood, I had frequent bouts of middle ear infection. The 98th General Hospital in Neubrucken was practically my second home while in Germany. Most of the times, all they did was pierce my eardrum to let the pus drain out. (Remember, this was in the days before tubes were inserted.) In April of 1957, however, I had my tonsils and adenoids removed. I can remember being offered something I loved, but couldn’t eat during my recovery in the hospital. I also remember the ice cream and pudding. In September of 1957, they removed my right ear mastoid bone in a second surgery.
Even though ear infections are rare for adults, when I get an earache, I get nervous. In fact, in 1973, I once again experienced two ear infections. Both ears went on the same day. Knowing my past history … all too well … I walked into the clinic in Newport and told the doctor that she would need to lance my ear. As she was getting ready to take a look in my right ear, she poo-pooed my statement, saying that with today’s penicillin, they didn’t need to puncture eardrums anymore. However, once she looked in there, she immediately got out her lancing kit. She told me that she hadn’t done this since she was in school! She was also amazed that I had had a mastoidectomy. Apparently, they were rare even in the early 50s. If any of you are parents and have a child in similar circumstances, let me offer you one sincere reassurance. The pain in the ear is so intense that the pain from the lancing is literally not even felt. The only thing that is felt is the immediate cease of pain as the pressure is released.
She didn’t lance my left ear however, saying that it wasn’t bad enough. Later that night, I went to the ER, telling the nurse that I needed to have a doctor lance that ear. She called my doctor, who lived in a nearby town, at home, who told her to call her associate who lived in the same town as the hospital. That doctor told her to just give me a penicillin shot and have me come back to the clinic during hours. Foolishly, I listened to them and let her just give me the shot. I will never again allow anyone to send me home without first lancing the ear drum when I know (by the severity of the pain) that I have a middle ear infection. I will insist that my doctor be called again. I will rant and rave. I will make a scene. I will even get violent if necessary. I will do what ever it takes because I will never ever go through what I had to go through that night, all because a doctor couldn’t believe an ear could get as bad as mine did as fast as it did. About four hours later, four hours of excruciating agony even with my ear resting on a towel wrapped hot water bottle, the ear drum burst from the pressure, releasing the pus.
When Dad’s tour of Germany ended, we all took the train from Heidelburg to Bremerhaven, a port in northern Germany. I have a dim recollection of the train, walking through it, with doors on either side.
In Bremerhaven, we boarded the USNS Geiger, which would take us back to the States. Dad ended up working his way back, being assigned as Special Services Officer for the trip. While he didn’t appreciate the honor, I sure did, since as Special Services Officer, he was in charge of all the entertainment events for the passengers. So, in my young mind, that made him even more special than he already was. And that was without even knowing his "title"!
We were sailing through the English Channel around breakfast time. It was pretty rough, and Mom decided that, while she would join us, it would be wiser and safer for her to pass on breakfast. Shortly after we sat down, Jeannie started looking as green as Mom felt, so she and Mom headed out for the open deck. But not me. I was a big girl. I wasn’t going to miss my breakfast and get seasick. About the time I finished breakfast, Dad noticed that I was starting to show the familiar signs. He barely had enough time to pull my chair out and pick me up before I lost all of that suddenly not so delicious breakfast … all over him. Believe me, this failure to admit weakness is deeply ingrained within me!
It took about three days for us to get our sealegs. But once we did, we were in hog heaven. There were movies, games, parties, and all sorts of fun things to do every day. No one had any excuse for feeling bored. Especially not us kids. For the movies, we were handed something good to snack on. (My clearest memory is of a long ribbon of lollipops.)
The only problem we had was when we walked past this one part of the ship. It was somewhere up above the main deck, near the ladder, I believe. There was a very distinctive smell that we encountered only at that one place and it always caused my tummy to take a tiny heave. Some 20 years later, I ran into and clearly remembered, once again, that smell. It was raw grease. And it still causes my tummy to rock & roll. Just not quite as badly. And, like with the Dairy Farm, in spite of the unpleasantness of the smell itself, it brings back some very happy feeling-memories.
While we were enroute, I still swear that Mom & Dad promised that we could go to the Statute of Liberty once we landed. Mom says that she probably said that we could go there when we returned from Germany and Dad was with us. She was absolutely terrified of the thought of leaving the safety for Fort Hamilton to go into the huge city of New York with just herself and two toddlers. In the past, Dad has said that they promised it only on the condition that we landed in New York. Hah! Just because we landed in New Jersey instead was no excuse for denying their children the once in a lifetime chance to go to the Statue of Liberty!
We drove from New York south to Virginia then headed west towards Arkansas and then back down to Texas. Today, I would give an arm and a leg to make that drive and to see all of the places my ancestors lived. Instead, my best memory of that time is when we drove through the Smokey Mountains, singing "Smokey the Bear" at the top of our lungs. Now, for an outsider to have heard us would have been torture … neither Dad nor I can "carry a tune in a tin bucket" … and Jeannie and Mom don’t do much better. But as a family, it was times like that that really bonded us together. Even though it took adulthood for us to appreciate it!
With most of Dad’s reassignments, he tried to include a "delay in route". This meant that, while we couldn’t dally a lot, he didn’t have to report in immediately so we were able to drive from one location to the next as a family. Without the "delay in route", he would have had to get there the fastest way possible, while leaving us to drive there by ourselves. These long drives were very much a part of our family life. When small, Mom & Dad used the trips as opportunities to teach Jeannie & I. We played all sorts of contests & games with billboards, license plates, livestock in the fields, etc. We even got to hit some of the typical tourist type detours and stops. No matter where we were headed, how far we were going, or how much time we had, two things were constant in all of our drives … we left before dawn and we stopped early enough for Jeannie & I to hit the swimming pool (when the weather permitted) before dinner. Actually, there was one more constant … when we were allowed to order whatever we wanted for dinner, I ordered prawns. After Dad retired, we continued to make long drives during Dad’s vacations, heading for Texas, to visit Pawpa and Aunt Brunetta & Uncle Earnest. We only stayed a couple of days, with most of Dad’s vacation time used up in the drive itself. But, while Dad was always in a hurry, he also always made a point of insuring that we got to enjoy the vacation. He planned a different route each year so we could visit the different scenic areas … Garden of the Gods, Yellowstone, Mesa Verde, etc. (Personally, I believe he had an ulterior motive … he was trying to win our forgiveness for not taking us to the Statue of Liberty. Didn’t work! Gee, I wonder what he would do if I offered to trade the lost trip to the Statue of Liberty for a ticket now to Disneyland?) When Mom & Dad talk about these trips … the "delays in route" and the vacations … they apologize that we didn’t get to go to more fun places for kids. But I honestly don’t remember feeling mistreated. Speaking only for myself now, I sincerely believe that, apart from the Statue of Liberty incident, they gave us the best experiences with the best memories a kid could have. Maybe we didn’t make it to Disneyland or other "kids" places, but everywhere we went and just about everything we did, we went & did as a family. And we hit enough tourist trap gift shops to keep us happy. As for the Statue of Liberty, sorry, Dad, but you’re stuck with that for the rest of eternity. I ain’t a gonna let you forget that one even when we’re rejoined in Heaven!
We visited Mom’s kinfolk in Texas, then headed north. Dad’s next station was at Fort Lewis, but we visited Dad’s kinfolk in Idaho and Washington first. Our cousins, Linda & Barb, and Aunt Mary & Uncle Ted had a farm in Valley Ford, Washington. Now both Mom & Dad had grown up, for at least parts of their childhoods, on farms. So they were true rustics. And we had spent time with Pawpa on his farm in Texas. So even though Jeannie & I were city kids, we weren’t completely ignorant of farm ways. Unlike Pawpa, Aunt Mary had a horse, Major! And both Jeannie and I were mad about horses. What kid isn’t? We had the time of our lives since Aunt Mary let us ride Major. There was also one drawback to the business. Aunt Mary also kept geese. It was our first experience with geese. And it’s not an experience I will intentionally repeat. Those are undoubtedly the most perverse critters in God’s Kingdom! Every time I walked through the courtyard, there was this one mean goose who would chase me, running and screaming the whole way (me, not the goose!), trying to get a bite (the goose, not me!) Or maybe that was Jeannie, not me?
In Seattle, we visited Aunt Geneva and Uncle Johnny. They had a small back yard which consisted of a steep hill, but it was awesome. It was made into a rock garden, with all sorts of levels, some artificial, some real.
During this assignment, we lived off-base, in South Tacoma. Over the years, I have blended together two memories into one. One memory is from my first school experience in South Tacoma, the other is of my first school experience two years later, in San Francisco. In my mind’s eye, I can clearly see myself standing in a classroom at a window, looking over a courtyard a couple of stories below, hearing Mom talking to someone about enrolling me in the grade I had just left. Built into my memories of this blended scene is a strong resentment that I was being forced to repeat the second grade. Curiously, the repeated class was in South Tacoma, at Horace Mann Elementary School while the window scene was in San Francisco, at Dudley Stone Elementary School, where I was placed for the last two months of the school year in the same grade I had started in South Tacoma. How I managed to blend the two is a mystery I’ll probably never solve. For years, Mom & I have argued over this. I maintained that we had moved from Germany to San Francisco, based upon this memory. She insisted that we had moved from Germany to Tacoma. It wasn’t until this year (1999), when I got out my childhood scrapbook and began going through it that I realized what had happened. Sheesh! When will I learn not to argue with Mom based upon my memory!? (There have been many times in my life when I have wondered if this didn’t contribute to my being able, in future years, to glide through my classes, getting passing grades without having to do much studying and, as a result, never having really learned to apply myself.)
I have absolutely no memories of my second 2nd grade year.
Mrs. Ferne Nelson was my third grade teacher at Horace Mann. According to Mom & Dad’s memoirs, Mrs. Nelson herself agreed that I should not have been held back and forced to repeat the second grade. But, Mrs. Nelson being the extraordinary teacher she was, she worked hard with me to make sure that I didn’t get bored. My own memory of her is from one incident. She had us put on a class play. I can still see myself in a gypsy type dress with a huge (long) stuffed snake draped around my neck and body. I believe our play was something about a circus or something like that. I was in her class for less than 9 months. Mom had to pull me out in April so we could go to San Francisco to live while Dad was stationed in Korea. (Again.) Almost 20 years later, when I was a Senior in High School, I ran into Mrs. Nelson Again. I had volunteered as a Candy Striper at one of the hospitals in downtown Tacoma. (Can’t remember which one it was now.) During my first few days there, I saw a Mrs. Nelson listed as one of the Grey Ladies (the adult volunteers). At that time, I wondered if this was "my" Mrs. Nelson. I was right. It was. As soon as she saw me, she recognized me and remembered me. For the rest of that school year, every time I saw her at the hospital, she shared with me her memories of me as her student. And it was always a positive, encouraging memory. If ever a teacher deserved the title, "Teacher of the Millenium", it would, in my opinion, be Mrs. Ferne Nelson of Horace Mann Elementary School.
While we were in Tacoma for this tour, Dad took Jeannie and I out to Fort Lewis with him. His guys got a big kick out of us, if’n I’m remembering correctly. Dad even took us for a ride in one of the Am-Traks. Externally, all I can remember is that it had tracks like a tank. But inside, I can remember getting to climb up and look out the top?turrent?
We moved to San Francisco during the school year. The only time this ever happened. Mom can’t remember having to do this. But I most definitely have two different Report Cards for that year. And the one for San Francisco says that I didn’t start there until April. Proof that even Mom’s memory ain’t perfect!
Since the school year was almost over, I was dropped right into the middle of a project the class was working on. We were building, as several small groups, 3D maps of parts of California, to be used as the background for the different dwellings, utensils, cooking methods, etc of California’s early Indian tribes as part of our studies in the geography and early history of California. I can’t remember much more, other than that the tribal group I was assigned to built rounded dwellings of some type of wood or similar growths and were located in the southwestern desert area … if I even remember that part correctly, that is.
While we were in San Francisco, Toni Kay, our half-sister, Dad’s daughter by his first marriage, came to live with us for awhile. Not long after Dad left for Korea, someone took a whole roll of Mom’s airmail stamps, thoroughly licked them (or applied similar moisture through some other method), and papered the wall with them. Mom gathered all three of us together, asking us who did it. Like a trained trio, we all denied it. Vehemently. So Mom took me into the bedroom and administered discipline. Next, she did the same with Jeannie. However, when Toni was ready for her turn, Mom told her, "No." She was fourteen years old, and too old to have done something like that. So if she had done it, then her discipline was to know that we had been disciplined for something we didn’t do. Even today, all three of us deny that we did it. I’m inclined to accept the blame, knowing how poor my memory is. But I sure don’t remember actually doing it.
At Christmas time, Mom wasn’t in much of a mood to celebrate. In fact, she didn’t even intend to get a tree. But Jeannie and I pooled our meager funds (we came up with something like three dollars, I believe) and went out shopping for a Christmas Tree all by ourselves. Some people might have laughed at us or kicked us off the lot. Even then, Christmas Trees cost more than what we had. But the man at the Christmas Tree stand took pity on us. He gave us a huge tree. We could barely carry it home. But we did. And Mom felt justifiably guilty, making it up by fixing us a Christmas Dinner with all the trimmings.
Mom & Dad say that everywhere we lived, I made friends all over the neighborhood and our home was a frequent gathering place for all of those friends. On the other hand, Jeannie was more exclusive, and only made one or, at the most, two very close friends. When we moved, I said "good-by" and left the friendships behind, never looking back, always looking forward. I remember some of them, but mostly as dim, shadowy images who participated in one event or another that I do remember. Jeannie generally corresponded with her friends through at least one move and was in touch with a couple of them for quite a few years. One of my regrets now is that I don’t even remember the names of my former friends. It would be fun to get in touch with them and to learn what and how they’re doing. (To be realistic, however, I’m not even attending my High School reunion this year … they farmed it out to an Reunion Business who planned all sorts of fancy things for us. However, I refuse to pay that much money. I wish some of them had e-mail and we could correspond that way, but that’s about the only correspondence I do. In fact, until Mom & Dad got their PC and joined the internet community, the only time they had contact with me was when they made one of their summer trips down here or during our Thanksgiving and Christmas visits. While I do make long distance calls occasionally, I’m not a telephone talker, and keep my calls limited to an exchange of the facts that necessitated the call in the first place.)
One day, as Mom, Jeannie, and I were out shopping, Mom noticed that I was holding a candy bar in my hand. She hadn’t paid for it. She knew I didn’t have the money myself. Nor had she seen me pay for it. And the door was behind us. Not in front of us. After we got home, she handed me some money and told me to go to the store and get a box of candy. She didn’t specify what kind, so I got Chocolate Covered Cherries. When I got home, she sat me down and talked to me about stealing. Then, she proceeded to discipline me. This was one of those times when the discipline fit the crime. At first, it didn’t seem like discipline. But long before I had eaten every one of those rich, gooey candies, my stomach was getting mighty queasy. But, like Dad with the cigarette, Mom suffered in silence, unrelenting, determined that I would learn my lesson. Sometimes, no matter how hard a parent tries, a child doesn’t seem to learn one lesson or another. The only thing I learned from this lesson was to stay away from chocolate covered cherries … and that only lasted for about 25 years!
Later, but during that same year, Mom had made some brownies. Late at night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sneaked down and stole a piece of it. The next morning, Mom knew what I had done. I can’t remember if I just left a big gaping "hole" when I took that piece or if she had counted them the night before and then again that morning. But no matter how she knew it, I was caught. This time, she didn’t send me to the store to buy the candy, it was already there … that whole plate of fudge. Believe it or not, that incident, while it made me sick, didn’t cause me to swear off chocolate. At least not for very long. I was, I am, I will always be a chocoholic!
Throughout my life, I have been overweight. The only time I wasn’t was just after a growth spurt. But that never lasted very long. No matter how active I was, no matter how closely Mom watched my diet, I was overweight. While I can’t deny that I love my sweets, and I can be awfully sneaky about "getting my fix", I still believe there’s more to it than that. Mom tried everything she could think of. She enrolled me in all sorts of dance classes and sports programs. In High School, she even tried diet pills. Nothing worked. When I was in the 7th grade, Aunt Brunetta promised to give me a horse if I would get down to a certain weight. When I was a Junior, I wanted to join the Civil Air Patrol. Dad said I could, if I got my weight down. After High School, I wanted badly to enlist in the Army. They had a weight limit and wouldn’t take me.
During the 4th grade, I was chosen to be a "Playground Guard". This meant that I was one of the "older" students who watched over the "younger" students during recesses and lunches. In spite of … or maybe because of … this choice honor, one of my girlfriends and I managed to sneak off-campus during at least one (probably more) of our lunch hours. Taking our lunch money with us, we visited the neighborhood grocery store which was just down the block from Dudley Stone Elementary School. We were walking back home, nibbling on the candy that we had bought when I looked up the hill. There was my mother, striding towards us. I can remember how disconcerted I was, but I can’t remember the discipline I received. I do know I wasn’t entrusted with my own lunch money any more! Mom may have let the school administer the discipline for this offence, since our school wasn’t an open-campus.
We lived in the Haight-Asbury District of San Francisco … years before Haight-Asbury achieved national notoriety. At that time, it was just a multi-cultural area of the city. During this stay in San Francisco, I had three friends I actually remember … although I have forgotten their names now. Two of the three were my very bestest friends while there. We spent a lot of our time roller skating up and down the nearby sidewalks. I have a photograph from my birthday party while we lived there and Mom recorded everyone’s names. Based upon the photo, I’m betting my two best friends were Patricia and Barbara, since they were sitting right next to me and (I beg your forgiveness for this since I usually despise racial descriptors) they are of the right races.
One of my friends, Patricia?, was oriental. I loved to visit her home which was about two blocks down Masonic, one over, and then halfway down the next. There was a tiny but really pretty Chinese Garden in the backyard of her apartment building. It had a small bridge and, unless my memory is mistaken, a small waterfall and flowing creek. It also had some really neat statues. I can remember once being invited to eat with her family. I can’t remember what it was, chicken teriyaki or something like that, but it sure was good. I think I went home and asked Mom to fix it for us.
My other friend, Barbara?, was a negro. She lived about two blocks to the right on the street that crossed at the top of Masonic. She lived above a storefront. I think I spent more time at her house than I did at my other friend’s. It seems that her home was more "comfortable" and less formal. More suited to a visiting kid.
The third friend I remember was my very first boyfriend. (Even his name has become forgotten in the past.) He was an "older man", being a sixth grader, while I was a fourth grader. On our first date, he took me bowling. I had never done it before, so he had to teach me. I don’t know how well I did, but we did go bowling several times during our stay there. We also went to the Golden Gate Park.
One of the most painful of my childhood memories involved him and was actually the source of a subconscious resentment against Mom that literally required revelation and healing some twenty years later. The incident occurred on the day before we were to leave San Francisco. I was sitting at the top of the stairs leading to our apartment when I saw him walking up the street with a big, beautiful bouquet in his arms. My heart started beating a million times a minute. I was so excited I could barely sit still. Here I was, a ten year old girl, a hopelessly romantic dreamer of a ten year old girl at that, and my boyfriend was bringing me a bouquet of flowers. It was thrilling. It was tragic. We would be leaving the very next day. I’d never see him again. I watched him turn and climb the stairs with my eyes shining bright with joy, waiting for him to join me on the step. Then, he spoke. He asked me, "Is your mom home?" Mystified, I replied, "Yes". And then that dirty so and so walked right past me, into the apartment, and gave my flowers to my mother. I was devastated. I was heartbroken. I was betrayed. By my own mother.
About twenty years later, after a long stretch of introspection, I talked to Mom about this, expressing the hurt and the betrayal I had felt. Telling her that I had, subconsciously, blamed her for stealing my boyfriend just as she had (Electra rears her head) stolen my daddy. And, whether or not your psychological beliefs allow you to accept this, that moment created a healing within me and within my relationship with both of my parents. Daddy’s girl (still at thirty!) finally cut the leading strings, and, while I’ll always be Daddy’s girl, he’s also now my dear friend. While "the other woman", my mother, is now one of my very best friends. And our relationships have grown even deeper and stronger through our friendships since then.
Our last day in San Francisco was a time of mixed joy and sorrow for me … and probably just plain work and frustration for Mom. I had been selected to serve as one of the "Playground Guards" who got to watch over the younger kids during lunches and recesses. Our picnic/party, sponsored by the school, was held on the same day Mom wanted to leave town. She let me go to the party while warning me that I would have to leave as soon as she had the car loaded and ready to go. I’m not sure if it was held in Golden Gate Park or some other park, but I can see the picnic tables which were set under the trees, not far from the parking lot and the kids playing games. But not from inside the park, as one of those kids. Instead, my "snapshot memory" occurs after Mom had found it necessary to leave the car in order to come and drag me, kicking and screaming the whole way, to the car. (Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Mom wouldn’t have put up with that … she’d have administered the appropriate discipline right then and there … no matter who was looking on!) Anyway, the party was still going strong when I was dragged away, and I was shoved into the back seat of the car to pout, looking out the window with tears of anger streaming down my face as we drove away. And that is what I so clearly remember. Looking back as my friends continued to party without me. I’m sure my eyes had already started to look forward even before we cleared San Francisco!
In some respects, I share parts of both Mom’s and Dad’s tempers. Mom has a short fuse. And is a "yeller". Or at least she used to be. Until she learned that it was futile where Dad was concerned. When Mom exploded and started yelling, Dad would just walk out of the room, telling her that when she was ready to talk calmly, they would discuss whatever it was that had her so upset. But not until then. To understand this, you have to know that Dad is 7years older than Mom. He was 25 when they were married, with Basic Training, WWII, experience as an ROTC Trainer, and several promotions behind him, each of which put him into a position of authority over others. On the other hand, Mom was 18, not quite finished with High School. She ended up maturing within the marriage, not before it. And, according to the stories they tell, it was a close call at times. In fact, a couple of times, Mom even went storming out of the house, like a child running away from home. But when they got married, they both meant their vows. They were both from broken homes, and they both swore that they would never put Jeannie and I through what they went through. It wasn’t easy. But their 50th Anniversary is less than a year away now. And their "fights" are just a dim memory, remembered only as something to laugh about.
On the other hand, I have never seen or been aware of Dad losing his temper. If he has, it has been under perfect control. Oh, he gets mad, but it’s about issues. Things like prejudice, and injustice really tick him off. But not his family. Not even a daughter as stubborn, as pig-headed, as independent as me. (Hey, I get it from him.) So what part of his temper do I share? Well, I refuse to argue. Unless I’m forced into it. When I get mad, I just walk away. And I usually stay away until I calm down. When confronted before this, I generally just bury it, acting as though nothing had happened at all. More often than not, it even works and I completely forget that I was mad! In fact, as I write this, I wonder if it’s not this trait of mine that led to the "half hour to pout" rule following discipline. Had the time limit not been set, who knows how long it would have taken me to get over my pout. Now that I’m adult, Mom & Dad have "confessed" to me that at times, they found it necessary to "egg me on" so that they could get me to open up and tell them what I was so upset about.
When we arrived in Tacoma, Mom thought that we would be living off-base like before, so we stayed in a motel temporarily, while we went house hunting. The house she came up with was in Parkland, an almost rural suburb of Tacoma. It was a huge older house, with a large yard. There were climbing trees all over the place, in our yard and in the yards of our neighbors, most of whom had kids near our ages. To a child, it was paradise. We had lived in a variety of different locales, but none of them were as good as was this one. Best of all, it was summer and, for the first time in our lives, Jeannie and I were allowed to go to the theater and the library alone.
Our furniture hadn’t arrived yet, so we went shopping. Mom got cots, bedding, cookware, and a hot plate and a cooler. It was just like camping out. Only we were inside a house, not a tent. Not long after we arrived, even before our furniture showed up, I believe, it rained. Now considering that we were in what I familiarly refer to as the Pacific NorthWet, this shouldn’t even deserve mention. However, it didn’t just rain outside. It also rained inside. In other words, our roof leaked. Big time. We ended up using our cookware to catch the water.
Every Saturday, Jeannie and I and all of the kids in the neighborhood would head for the theater, waiting patiently in line for the doors to open for the Saturday Matinee. I’m almost certain that they were all Westerns. Partly, because that was the era for Westerns, and partly because we were all horse and cowboys & indians mad. In fact, I can remember running all around our block, playing cowboys & indians, chasing the indians. I can’t remember ever "having" to be one of the indians. I believe we "forced" Jeannie, and the rest of our younger sibs to be the indians if they wanted to play with us. I make no apology for this. It wasn’t a prejudice issue. We didn’t even know what prejudice was … in deed or by definition. It was just a "good guy" - "bad guy" issue. And I would have been just as opposed to having to wear the "black hat". Today, I would undoubtedly want to be one of the heroic Indians, even if it meant death in the end. But that was then. And this is now.
Once we were settled in, Mom & Dad gave me permission to go to the library all by myself and get my very own library card. Believe me, as an avid bookworm, books were as important to me as were my friends. But, as an Army family, owned books were few and far between since every one had to be packed, moved, unpacked, and put away with every move. So the library was one of my favorite places. And this privilege meant that I could now go there anytime I wanted to, instead of having to wait until Mom was ready and had the time. (Not that Mom was ever difficult to talk into a library run!) I don’t remember how far away the library was, or if I ran the whole way back once I had my card. But I was sure running hard when I hit the front steps to our house, with my new card held firmly in my hot little hand. And I do mean hit. I missed my step, tripped, and fell with my chin connecting solidly with one of the steps. I hit hard enough to cut my face, just below my lip, leaving a scar that I bear with honor. Not because I was graceful enough to trip, but because it’s a sign of that step of independence. (No pun intended.)
When we learned that we were going to have to leave our home in Parkland, before the school year started, both Jeannie and I were broken hearted. I can’t speak for Jeannie, but I know that for me, it was probably one of the hardest moves away I ever experienced. It wasn’t the friends as friends, as much as I enjoyed them, it was the whole place … the home, the neighborhood, and the friends. But, as an experienced Army brat, I adapted. And our new home in Fort Lewis was as much my home as were they all. Home wasn’t a place, it was the people who lived there with me.
You would think that I would have more memories of Fort Lewis than I do of San Francisco. But I don’t. I remember that Dad went out and bought a riding lawnmower, since he voluntarily took on mowing all of the yards around our Sixplex. And I remember that the PX, the Commissary, the Theater, and most of the places we went were all within walking distance. All except our school, that is. Mom says that it was also within walking distance, but I remember absolutely nothing about that school or the school year.
What I do remember, quite vividly in fact, was when a couple of friends and I went to a movie. It was a screenplay of one of the Edgar Allen Poe stories. I can almost remember which one it was. But not quite. It was close to dark when we got out. As we walked home, I gained "comfort" from the presence of my friends. By comfort, I mean that I was scared out of my mind from that movie, and the dark wasn’t helping. But at least I wasn’t alone. Not right away, that is. We did live the farthest from the theater, however. So when my last friend turned to head into his apartment, I kicked it into high gear and made a mad dash for home. Running into the house, I clambered up the stairs so fast I probably created a sonic boom behind me! Before jumping into my bed and pulling my covers over my head, I grabbed my Bible and held it close to my heart as I recovered from my panic. Where were Mom & Dad at this time? Probably in the living room, watching TV. I don’t know if they even knew I was home, although they would most certainly make a bed check before they headed for bed. So why did they allow me to see such a scary movie? Well, I’m willing to bet the movie wasn’t half as scary as I perceived it to be. You see, I have an over active imagination. When I go outside after dark, if there are no lights nearby, I run, sensing a huge bird which is flying down to grab me in his claws … straight out of the Arabian Tales. Every so often, even when I just turned out the lights and am heading for my bed, I find myself jumping into my bed, with my heart beating rapidly, waiting for the hands of the "monster under the bed" to reach out if I let my feet dangle over the side of the bed. Sound ridiculous coming from a supposedly mature adult? Well excuse me. Over active imaginations do have their drawbacks, but they also have their advantages. So there!
At Fort Lewis, there was some kind of a Youth Club. I can't remember much about it, I don't believe I spent much time there. But I do remember that I learned to do the Polka there.
Once, when we attended the Puyallup Fair, Mom let me get one of those small turtles that were so popular. (Are they still as popular? I haven’t seen any for a long time.) I don’t know how long it was before he got lost, but get lost he did. Since he had one of those plastic "cages" with a swimming pool and a plastic palm tree for appearances, he shouldn’t have been able to get out. In fact, he probably didn’t get out on his own. However, I don’t remember if I "took him for a walk", or if Jeannie did. We searched for him for days, then finally gave up. He did show up again. When we were packing up to move to University Place and a civilian life. He was dead. He had died of hunger and thirst, trapped beneath the sofa.
I wish I could say that that was the only time an animal entrusted to my care had died an excruciating death. But I can’t. Several years later, I once again came home from the Puyallup Fair with a pet. This time, a chameleon. We kept him in a cage with a lot of grass or straw or something like that. Partly refuge, partly food. Not long after I got him, I looked in his cage and he wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for him in that darn cage. So did Mom. So did Jeannie. None of us could find him. Finally, we just put the cage up in the attic and forgot about him. Years later, I went up to the attic for something and glanced in the cage. There he was, plainly visible where he had fallen, having died while starting to change color.
In September, 1962, we moved from Fort Lewis to University Place, where Mom & Dad were buying our first (and their only) house. Leaving Fort Lewis for University Place didn’t really feel that much different. Granted, we were moving into our very own home, but Dad wouldn’t be retiring until the end of 1963. So we were still Army when I started the 6th grade at Curtis Elementary School. But that was the beginning of the end of my life as a Military Brat. (Not that I’ll ever not be a Military Brat!)