I opened the door and found them hysterically crying

It was deer season 1981 in rural Pennsylvania; the first hunting event I had experienced since moving from Southern Cali only a few month's prior. My younger sister and I were living with my older sister and her husband. They had a myriad of animals; horses, goats, cats & dogs. not to mention the occasional cow escapee from the neighbors farm. I was 14 and this was a new adventure for me; a new school, new friends, the quiet, the changing of the seasons. The first day of doe season my brother-in-law (Doug) dressed in his camouflage hunting gear gathered his rifle and met his niece and nephew at the door; excitement was in the air, anticipation of the hunt to come. My older sister was still in bed when Doug returned about an hour later; I asked him "Did you get a deer?" He shook his head no and hurried into the bedroom his wife was in. I stood there feeling strange when I heard what I thought was laughter coming from the room; I opened the door and found them hysterically crying. His niece had been shot and killed. It was an accident, a total accident, no ones fault, just a freak accident. While Doug was flushing the deer toward his niece and nephew; they were climbing into a tree. Lisa was first then, her brother, Scott was next handing her the rifle so he could climb up. The gun slipped and fired one round through Lisa's heart, she died almost instantly. Lisa had a one year old son and a husband; she was loved by many people and was greatly missed. This was new to me, death. I had never lost someone I cared about before and I was not sure what to do with these emotions. I had nightmares of Lisa getting out of her coffin and chasing me down the street and I refused to go to the funeral after the viewing. I just couldn't. I remember her face, looking like wax and so pale. Her husband lifted her hand to show me where the bullet had also taken out a big chunk of her thumb. It was all too much for my 14 year old mind. Too much. It was an accident, no ones fault. Just a stupid accident.

That summer was a blur and I do not remember much

My time spent at my Grandmothers house in Sacramento was rarely pleasant but I do have some interesting memories. The ruby red tea set my little sister and I played with is bright in my mind; I remember threats with it being taken away if we did not behave. There was also a garden with tomatoes and one day we found this horrible gigantic bug; I was told it was a potato bug; we also found huge caterpillars that we would have to pluck off the plants. There wasn't much room in the back yard to run and play and we were not allowed in the front yard. If we made too much noise we would be yelled at and threatened to be hit with a switch; one we would have to pull ourselves from the backyard. It was hard not making noise and we would be subject to the switch often, at first, then less and less as our spirit was crushed. My little sister and I also had to take naps everyday. I was six years old and naps were not something I regularly needed. but if we didn't take a nap we would get yelled at. I quickly learned to fake sleep but my little sister didn't; she got yelled at more than I did. That summer was a blur and I do not remember much; I think there were fireworks on the 4th of July. I missed my Dad and was happy when he finally found us and took us home but home wasn't the green house any longer it was whatever we could afford or whomever would let us stay with them. My father had lost his job due to a refrigerator falling on his back. We lost the house, our pets (DingDong & Quiney the cats and Kelly our German Shepard) and our stability. I think we stayed with my father's mother for a brief stint before my mother wished us girls off to Louisiana.

She took us away from the green house, from our pets, from our dad, and from a stable home for many many years to come.

I think I had an OK childhood up until my mother ran away to Sacramento to live with her mother (the first of many times she ran off); she took us away from the green house, from our pets, from our dad, and from a stable home for many many years to come. I am angry about this and wish I had talked to her regarding this issue and many others when she was alive; I now only have this blog to vent out my frustrations and the fears and the hurt I faced as a child. I digress; my mother had MS and when she started to experience the early onset symptoms ( blurred vision, loss of balance, unexplained weight loss) in her early thirties she went to doctor after doctor and was told the same thing over and over again; she was crazy, it was all in her head. I know this made her angry and she often spoke of how hurt she was that no one believed her and I believe this is when she began to shut down and stopped being a mother; her only concern was herself and my little sister and I received no more nurturing from her. I remember my mother loading us into the station wagon while making the announcement that we were going to live with Grandma and what fun it would be; she neglected to say that our dad would not be joining us. As the wagon pulled out of our driveway my father was pulling up; my sister and I waved to him out the car window as he stood there with a confused look on his face. We asked "Why isn't daddy coming with us mommy?" only to be told to be quiet and do not ask questions. This was the beginning of the summer of fear and uncertainty: I wanted my daddy.

Many thoughts ran through my head but panic was not at the top of the list.

I loved living in Southern California, not only for the weather but as a preteen/teen there was so much to do; beach, mountains, Disney Land, Knotts Berry Farm. .  . I remember quite clearly a trip I took with my church group to Knotts Berry Farm; A bunch of teens let loose to ride as many attractions as humanly possible! My favorite was the Corkscrew; it would go up up up and have you at a vertical straight back, then a pause and whew hoo!!!!!! around and around just like it's name. I do not remember how many times I hopped on this ride but the last time will always be ingrained in my mind. It had started to drizzle but nothing that would close the Corkscrew down. I wanted to be in the very front on this go around as did my little sister; we hopped in and waited anxiously for the ride to begin. The ride operator came by, checked our lap bar and gave the thumbs up for the ride to begin; click clack up up up we went and just as the front car got to the apex, just before it would drop us into a myriad of spirals. . . the ride stopped. Many thoughts ran through my head but panic was not at the top of the list; confusion, wonder, curiosity, impatience, maybe a little fear. I was a teenager; ignorant to the fact that tragedy could strike on amusement park rides and optimistic that all would be well once the ride started. It seemed forever that we were stuck there, in that vertical position, with our heads resting on the back of the car and ours eyes seeing nothing but the sky above us. I could hear the ride operators saying everything would be just fine, they would get the ride operating again shortly, do not panic, stay calm; wrong thing to say; my sister started to cry and so did others. I am ever the Polly Anna when it comes to others and I reassured my sister everything would be fine; that the ride would start soon and then the fun would begin! Inside I was becoming doubtful. Click click the car lurched and we were up and over the apex and spiraling our way around and around and then the ride was over. I was dizzy and shaky getting out of the car and saw the relief on everyone's faces; we were safe. I found out we had been up there for 15 minutes while the technicians tried to figure out what was wrong; they closed the ride and it was not opened again while I was there. This did not stop my love for roller coasters; I went on many other rides that day but none other has ever been as eventful.

I would show up at their house to ask them to play and would get turned away at the door

I remember my tenth birthday; we were living in the yellow house on Linda Rosa, it was March and it was a very nice day. The pictures from that day show a happy fat kid with a majority of her neighborhood friends sitting around a table while wearing party hats and eating cake. Two friends that were missing, whom I thought couldn't come, showed up and were immediately taken aback that they were not invited to my party. I had wanted them to come and had asked my mother to invite them but she had told me they would not be home. My friends left crying (I am ashamed that I do not remember their names, I do remember they were twin brother and sister) and my party was not the happy event it started out to be. I later found out from my mother and father that, because my friends were Filipino, my parents did not trust them and did not want them at our house. This was confusing to because we were welcome at their house and their grandparents did not take issue that my skin was white; at least not until the day of my birthday party. I would show up at their house to ask them to play and would get turned away at the door: I wanted to explain that it was not my fault, that I wanted them at my party, that my parents were the ones who didn't. One day, maybe a month later, I did get my chance but the damage had been done and are friendship was no longer.

She was left alone on a small gurney with no means of getting help from anyone.

This isn't my own memory but it is significant because it is the day I was born. My due date was March 28th and Easter was on March 26th of year I was born. According to my mother Easter Sunday was very stressful because everyone kept staring at her and wishing her into labor so I would be an Easter baby. They waited in vain because I refused to set things in motion until March 28th. My mother knew she would go into labor on my due date and around 8pm she began to feel labor pains. My father rushed her to the hospital and after that he is not mentioned again. My mother was taken to a room and evaluated and found to be only one centimeter dilated even though she was in excruciating pain and hollering out with each contraction; the process of getting her looked at took about three hours and it was getting close to midnight. The doctor told my mother it could be awhile before she was ready to deliver so they put her in a room and left her. She was left alone on a small gurney with no means of getting help from anyone; soon, she began to experience full on labor. She called out over and over for help but no one came to her aide and then she had to push; out I popped teetering on the edge of the gurney, about to fall to the hard floor. My mother sat up and was about to stop my decent when a nurse finally showed up to check on her; the nurse scooped me up scolding my mother for not calling out for help and whisked me away. The room became very busy as everyone was in shock and disbelief that my mother had gone from pretty much a standstill to having a baby in less than 30 min; without medical assistance. The next day my mother and father were ready to take me home when they were informed that I would not be going with them, that their baby was jaundiced and needing monitoring. This threw my mother into a rage and it took some doing to calm her down; she felt the hospital was responsible for my newborn illness because of the lack of support she received while delivering me. I was released two days later to begin my roller-coaster life.

I turned around to look at what I had stepped on and was horrified, terrified at what I saw, what I had done.

Some of my best childhood memories are from when we lived n the green house on Corson Street; before my father was injured and before my mother became ill and took us away to Sacramento. We had a dog; Kelly, cats; Tiger then Patty and Fluffy who had kittens which we kept two of Qeeny and DingDongDingalingOgden and two bunnies; I don't remember their names just that they were grey and white and that they didn't appreciate my five year old hands trying to pick them up. That is how I learned that bunny bites hurt. We had a big patio with a built in BBQ that was surrounded by a wall. My sister and I loved to ride our noisy Big Wheels back there. There was a gate that led into the big back yard that was also surround by a wall; the backyard was sunny and had one huge tree at the back center near the patio wall. There was also a tree in the far right corner that my sister and I could climb so we could look into our neighbors yard; they had chickens and goats. My father tried to make a bunny pen in the back yard but the bunnies learned they could dig and escaped under the fence into our garden; they particularly enjoyed munching on the carrots. One day our mother said we were invited over to the neighbors house to see the baby chicks that had hatched; they were so cute. I am not sure how many chicks there were but they seemed to be all over the place; I did my best not to step on them but . . .I was moving out of the way of one chick when my foot came down on something behind me; I turned around to look at what I had stepped on and was horrified, terrified at what I saw, what I had done. There lay a baby chick; it was twitching on the ground with blood coming out of it's beak. I somehow climbed over the wall and ran into our house crying the whole way; I felt so bad, so icky for killing the baby chick. My mother followed me home; she gave me hugs and reassured me that it wasn't my fault the it was an accident. Later that day she told me that the baby chick was going to be OK, that is had a broken wing and leg; I really wanted to believe her but I couldn't help but feel she was just trying to make me feel better so I would stop crying. Years later my mother confessed to me what I had known all along; Do you remember that chick you stepped on when you were five? Well, you killed it.

I felt ashamed and embarrassed but there was nothing I could do.

Both of my parents were heavy smokers; most of the adults I knew smoked. I never noticed the smell because it permeated everything and only when I was in high-school did one of my friends mention how horrible I smelled; I felt ashamed and embarrassed but there was nothing I could do. I remember another time when I felt shame at my parents smoking; I was nine years old and my mother took my little sister and me grocery shopping at Safeway. I loved going to Safeway, they had a cool toy section that included metal horses; I was into horses at the time and collected them when I could but this day there wouldn't be any collecting. My family received food-stamps and welfare checks because we were poor and my parents were disabled; my mother because of her MS and my father because a refrigerator had fallen on his back and messed it up for good. This stipend from the government is what paid for everything, including my parents cigarettes; at this time one could buy smokes with food-stamps. My sister and I followed my mother around the store and helped pick out yummy food for dinner which included TV dinners and Twinkies. There were some healthy items but not many; my father was the one who purchased the real food, fruits, vegetables and meat. Once in line my mother requested a couple of boxes of cigarettes then proceeded to check out. When everything was rung up my mother realized we did not have enough food-stamps and money to cover all she had bought and had to decide what to put back; she did not put back the cigarettes, she put back food, a lot of food. I felt sad and wanted to cry because everyone was looking at us and shaking their heads in judgement. That night my parents had a very big argument about the cigarettes and the fact that my mother kept them and not the food. I covered my head to drown out their voices and vowed never ever to smoke. That was the last time my mother ever went shopping.

One would think Mrs. Butterbalm would nurture the budding artist in me but she didn't let me paint again.

I knew from a young age that I loved to draw and color but didn't know I had a talent until I was in kindergarten. In my class, which seemed very large to my little five year old mind, my teacher Mrs. Butterbalm (I am not sure if that was her name but it is the way I remember it) had set up free-time stations; art easels for painting, building blocks, a play house area with an oven, sink and stove and coloring area and couple of others that I know were there but do not remember. Some how in the two months since school had started I had yet to experience the "painting area" and once there I did not want to leave. I remember creating an image of a black cat wearing a witches hat on an orange background; I can still see it in my mind! Mrs. Butterbalm was very impressed and sent a nice letter home along with my painting. One would think Mrs. Butterbalm would nurture the budding artist in me but she didn't let me paint again; I understood about taking turns but when more than a week had gone and she kept telling me no while insisting that I go play house, I became very very upset. So upset that the next time my teacher told me to go "play house" I started crying and crawled into the oven declaring that I was pumpkin pie and would not come out. They had to call my mother to come get me. My mother did not like Mrs. Butterbalm and I do not think Mrs. Butterbalm liked her; my mother was very pretty while Mrs. Butterbalm looked like Margaret Thatcher but there was more; at the beginning of the school year Mrs. Butterbalm sent a letter home informing my mother that I was left handed and that she would be "switching me over". My mother blew a gasket and stormed in telling her that under no condition was she to try and make me right handed! I did get a scolding from my parents; so did Mrs. Butterbalm. I am not sure what was said but after that day I was given equal time at the easel.

We stayed to the lighted streets when we could and were about a block away from home when an old pick-up truck came racing down the road toward us.

My father let my little sister and I do whatever we wanted to do and go wherever we wanted to go. I am sure he cared about about what we did but I can't imagine the strain of having to raise two young girls on his own. He was 16 years older than my mother and in his 50's when she became very ill and unable to take care of a family. I think this made his drinking worse and he was drunk more often than not. When my father was sober or slightly inebriated he was wonderful, funny and charming; I loved my father then and could forget the bad times, almost. One evening in the summer of 1980 (I was 13) my little sister and I wanted to go to a movie; Xanadu, I loved that movie! My father said sure but because it would be dark out, when the movie ended, he wanted to be there to walk us home; we lived about 6 or seven blocks from the theater on Colorado Blvd. What a fun time my sister and I had, we threw popcorn at a couple of cute guys in front of us, drank our soda and sang along to ELO (I think this was our 4th time seeing Xanadu). Once over, my sister and I went outside to wait and wait and wait and wait. No Dad. We would have called home but our phone had been disconnected. After about 45 minutes we decided we had to walk home without an escort. We stayed to the lighted streets when we could and were about a block away from home when an old pick-up truck came racing down the road toward us. My sister said she recognized one of the men as our school janitor and waved. The truck made a u-turn and then we noticed there were at least five men in the back whistling at us and not one of them was the janitor from school. RUN RUN! I screamed. We did and luckily we were not followed. When we got back to our little apartment the door was unlocked and we found our father passed out on the couch with a drink spilled on the floor next to him. We tiptoed quietly upstairs to bed. I had trouble falling asleep; the adrenaline from running still pumping through my veins. I hugged and petted my kitten ChaCha and eventually drifted off. The next morning my father didn't even mention not picking us up; I wanted to scream at him for forgetting.

I was sure to get in trouble if my mom found out and had to devise a plan to hide it.

My parents always told me I was a peculiar child, I don't think my mother meant it in a good way but my father seemed to appreciate my uniqueness. I liked to spend a lot of time alone and preferred the company of my pets, imaginary friends and as I grew older, my books. I remember an incident when I was five that being different played against me. . . It was summer and my mother was getting dinner prepared; I decided I wanted to help. My mother said I was too young and told me to sit down, so I did, on the open oven door. I think I moved faster than light because suddenly I was in the bathroom and do not remember getting there. I was afraid to look and was trying my best not to cry because my leg hurt very very bad. I did look, though, and there it was; the biggest blister I had ever seen on the back on my right leg. I was sure to get in trouble if my mom found out and had to devise a plan to hide it. First, I had to stop the tears, second I had to prevent my parents and siblings from seeing it: it was too warm out to wear long pants, plus it would hurt my legs. I had it! I would walk backwards! So I did, for three days; no one questioned my odd behavior and I thought I was home free, then my little sister and I went to visit my Grandma Ogden which I was regretting anyways because she would always give us crooked bang trims. I walked into her house backward and she immediately took a look behind my back and saw the now scabbed-over but still painful burn; Grandma Ogden was one astute lady. Grandma Ogden was very gentile while she was bandaging my burn, which was about the size of a small carrot; all the while she kept asking why my parents hadn't seen it, they must be crazy to let a child walk around backwards without even wondering why etc. . . That night when my parents picked us up she laid into them, my mother tried making excuses, my father just shook his head and I just stood there shaking in fear, afraid that I would get spanked when I got home for hiding my burn. I didn't get spanked; my father was very understanding and thought it was kind of funny but my mother, she was angry for failing in her job to protect me.

I hoped she was lost in some other memory when she told us this because the reality was too horrible to believe.

For a brief time my family lived in Louisiana; this is where my mother was originally from. I do not remember the trip out there, I know my father wasn't with us at first; I think this was another instance where my mother ran off. The first place we lived was with my great grand mother, Granny and I think my grandfather PawPaw lived there, too. It was a little old house full of sunlight and away from the crowded noise I was used to in Pasadena. I was six years old and would attend my first and only little red school house just like the one you saw on Little House on the Prairie! I made some friends, learned what a poisonous spit was (grasshopper) and had my first experience with Down's Syndrome. There was this sweet little girl (I can say this now as an adult) that kept wanting to hold my hand at church. She looked different and acted different and she scared me so I cried and clung to my mother who shamed me for my actions instead of explaining to me how special everyone is no matter what their circumstance. I only have one bad memory at Granny's and it involved a kitten; my little sister and I found a sweet orange kitten and fed it some milk. Granny through a fit and put the kitten in a sack and threw it in the pond or so she said that is what she did with it. Granny didn't always seem to be in her best mind and would wonder off in her recollections so I hoped she was lost in some other memory when she told us this because the reality was too horrible to believe. My little sister and I seemed to get into a lot of trouble at Granny's but I chalk it up to just being curious kids who didn't have all the facts. One time we decided we wanted some baby chicks and had learned about incubation at school so we grabbed some eggs from the fridge and put them in the grill; we figured the sun made it nice and toasty in there so the eggs would soon hatch. We forgot about them and instead of baby chicks we had a whooping because of the mess and smell the eggs made when they finally burst open. Another time we decided we wanted to gather all the toads that lived around Granny's house; we found an empty box and started our toad collection. I think we gathered about 40 or more toads that evening and when it was time to come in we left the box, with the toads in it, by the kitchen door. That night when PawPaw came home he inadvertently knocked the box over unaware that it was full of toads; he had to use the toilet so he didn't bother to pick up the box and close the door as he had more important things to attend to. My sister and I were already in bed but were startled awake by a lot of hollering going on in the kitchen. I got up sleepy eyed to find my PawPaw gathering up the the toads that had escaped into the house; thankfully my PawPaw had a sense of humor and we didn't get in a lot of trouble just a talking to. It was my understanding that PawPaw told that story to anyone who would listen, up until the day he died.

I was so excited I could barely sleep the night before

The apartment building on Hurlburt Street was like a mansion compared to the hovel we had moved from; it was like we had been given a reprieve from the badness, if only for a short time. We had two bedrooms a living-room that opened up onto a small patio, a n eat in kitchen and a small backyard. I know I barely went into the yard because right outside my living-room door was a pool and a big grassy yard to play in. And kids, oh the kids and everyone was clean, shiny and pretty. We even had a car that we could park in our own parking spot. My mother could still walk but she was getting weaker and sometimes had to use her walker to help her around. She tried her best to only use it in the house; she didn't want anyone to think less of her for using it. This was another golden time that lasted about a year, we spent one Christmas there and Easter and a summer before we moved. One day stands out clearly to me and this was the day I missed the third grade school trip to the L.A. Zoo. I was so excited I could barely sleep the night before but I did and when I woke up. . . I felt like I was going to throw-up. No No No!!! Not OK I had to go to the zoo! I tried to keep my illness a secret and very badly wanted to beeline it to the bathroom but my mother was in there primping; she must have had an appointment or something because she rarely was in the bathroom that early. I said "Hey, Mommy you almost finished I have to go potty?" She told me to come on in, my little sister was in there already. I wanted her to leave, she couldn't see me get sick; if she did I know she would make me stay home. I felt it bubbling up and knew what was coming; luckily I made it to the toilet. My mom was horrified (I got some on her foot) and sent me straight to bed. I was crying, it wasn't fare, I wasn't going to be sick again, I felt better, I really did. She took my temperature and it was high. I spent the day asleep in bed. I was right I didn't  throw-up again but I was sick for the next couple of days.

I thought that was unusual because my mother usually didn't care where I was going.

When I was nine my family had two white cats; Timmy and Tammy. I was Timmy's person and everywhere I was he was; this was the first time I had ever loved anything so much that it could hurt. Timmy was my comfort at night when my parents were yelling and my shelter from bad dreams. We also had bunnies; I am not sure how my little sister and I convinced our Dad to let us get some bunnies for Easter but there they were on Easter morning, two little bunnies. I called mine Joseph, he was wild bunny brown, my sister named hers Spooky because he was all black; we soon found out that Spooky was the perfect name for him because he was "spooked" at everything. My father had made a sturdy bunny pen up against the house in our backyard; they were out of the elements and we didn't have to worry about freezing weather in Pasadena. Joseph and Timmy became fast friends and would chase each other around the pen my father made for the bunnies. If Joseph were out in his pen and he wanted to play he would make this high pitched cry and Timmy would come running. The first time Joseph made this noise my father and I thought he was dying but soon figured out what he was doing. After a good run around Timmy and Joseph would lick each other and then nap. I loved my Timmy and my Joseph. One morning I decided I wanted to head down the street to visit the animals at the pet store, my mother was all for this and was rushing me out of the house; I thought that was unusual because my mother usually didn't care where I was going. La la la out the front door I went and was stopped by Timmy in the front yard, licking something?? I opened the gate (our front yard had a rickety white picket fence) and saw Timmy licking a fur. "Oh Timmy you found a fur" I said and went over to see; to my horror it wasn't just any fur but Joseph's, he was torn apart. I know I screamed, I know it was loud and that it lasted a very long time. I ran crying, Timmy followed; he had blood on his mouth. My mother was yelling at my brother (he was living with us now, his father had died) for not picking up Joseph when she had asked. My father came in and told me what had happened; the night before he heard loud noises by the rabbit pen and went out to see a pack of dogs tearing at the bunny pen, he didn't know what happened to Spooky but he saw one of the dogs with Joseph. He scared the dogs away but it was too late for my bunny.

That is what nursing homes reminded me of, death; they smelled like death would smell.

When my mother became so ill that my father couldn't take care of her and two young girls she would be sent away to a nursing home. Keep in mind that most of the people who lived in these homes were elderly; my mother was not, she was in her mid thirty's. I remember the time an ambulance came and took her away; I was walking home from the bus stop and there was my mother, she was screaming and crying in pain as the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance. My father was no where to be seen; I think she was supposed to be gone before my little sister and I came home from school. This was a few days before we had to be out of the house and I can't help but think that all the stress triggered an episode. As I stood there I was grateful that my little sister hadn't been witness to this event but then what do I tell her; I knew it was up to me my dad was off drinking somewhere. A couple of weeks later my father took us to visit her and I didn't want to go; I hated the smell of those places, the chemical smell that tried but failed at covering up the stench of urine and old feces. I had to go, she was my mother, what would she think if I didn't go; I had to be a good girl and I had to make sure she wasn't dead. I had a fear of death, I would get up in the middle of the night and make sure everyone was breathing and I was always terrified when I went to my grandmothers house; afraid I would be the one to find her dead. That is what nursing homes reminded me of, death; they smelled like death would smell, I just knew it. Once there we had to wait a little bit because my mother was making herself ready; my mother was a southern belle, beautiful and vain and always wanted to be at her best if possible. While waiting this little old lady came up and started picking at the buttons on the cushion of the bench where I was sitting. I appeared to me that she was putting invisible tiny objects into a little container; all the time she had this funny look in her eyes and then gave a manic giggle. GET ME OUT OF HERE! was all I could think, I almost lost it, I wanted to cry. My mom was ready to hold court; she had a lovely view of the industrial building and not much sunlight filtered in. She looked better but tired and a little thinner; she couldn't walk and her wheelchair was parked next to the bed. I told her a little bit about school and church then ran out of things to say so I asked her about the lady and the buttons and got an earful. Apparently, this little old lady killed her cheating husband and everyday all day she would relive it by picking up the invisible bullets and loading the invisible the gun; she would then give a giggle and head off the shoot her husband then start the process all over again. I can't imagine how I looked as my mother told this story, I was horrified and wanted to go home but my father just dropped us off and we had to wait until he was ready to come get us. I had nightmares for the next few nights and never visited my mother at that nursing home again.

I didn't want to get up for I was becoming scared at what might be there.

continued from 1/12/12
At some point my mother was with us again and we had moved into a larger living space within the same building; this one had a private bathroom, a kitchenette, a small living area and very small bedroom. My sister and I had the bedroom and our own little separate beds. Even though this apartment was bigger it felt darker because the windows were smaller and covered by bars. We spent one Christmas there; I remember my father trying to roast chestnuts on Christmas eve and a small sparsely decorated tree. Over the holiday I was in charge of the class turtle, Chuck; he didn't move much or come out of his shell so I would pick him up and give his belly a squeeze so he would pop his head out.  My class had a nice memorial for Chuck once school resumed.  On New Years Day we went a block down the street to watch the Rose Parade, what fun! One night, in the spring, I was awoken by a sound at the window, we were on the second floor so immediately I was thinking some kind of bird or rodent was trying to get in. Plink, plink, plink, plink. . . I didn't want to get up for I was becoming scared at what might be there; suddenly a big bang!  Do I dare go look. . . I did dare and what I saw made me relax; it was my father, in the ally, tossing gravel at the window.  He must have been locked out out the building after a night of hanging at the bar and needed someone to let him in. There was a curfew, if you didn't make it back by a certain time the front door was closed and locked; you could leave but not come back in.  I tried to wake my mom but she was dead to the world and my little sister was also sound asleep; I guess it was up to me to let him in, only I didn't want to.  Letting him in would mean I had to get up and go down an unlit hallway to the stairs then down the stairs to the front door. I was afraid of what might be hiding in the darkness but more afraid of my father and his temper; he was a mean drunk, a very mean drunk. He knew I had seen him so I had to go let him in; I think I held my breath the whole way down the hall and the stairs.  My father was swaying at the door and staggered in as I opened it; he didn't seem angry just very grateful he didn't have to spend the night in the ally. The trip back to our apartment seemed to take forever and once back my father collapsed on the fold out couch; I crawled back into my little bed and silently cried. By that summer we had moved again, this time into a very nice apartment complex with a pool.

I never saw the police but I do know there was a lot of yelling and we never saw that dirty old man again!

At one point in my early childhood we lived in a run down hotel that I am sure at one point was beautiful.  There was a crystal chandelier, worn oriental carpets and elegant double staircases that led to a second floor balcony; the banisters were made of iron with intricate detail.  It was hard to imagine, as a seven year old child, that this place we were going to live was ever anything other than a dark, gloomy, grime laden, urine soaked hole that it was.  The first room we had was a one room apartment that barely squeezed in a fold out bed that my little sister and I slept in, an old reclining chair that my dad slept in, a TV stand with a TV on it and a small dresser for what little clothes we had; the communal toilet was down the hall.  I am not sure what we did for baths, I don't remember; maybe this a defense mechanism because remembering would be too hard.  For meals we would eat a lot of boxed cereal or canned food and sometimes we got to go around the corner and feast at a little dinner or have hamburgers at the bar my dad like to frequent.  Let me take a moment and say that my father was well liked; everyone knew him and always had a hearty "hello Bob" greeting.  When he had his toe-headed girls with him everyone would come over and offer free treats to us and drinks for my dad. My little sister and I lived in that room with my father; I am not sure where my mother was, she had a habit of running off to Sacramento to her mom or perhaps she was in a nursing home though I don't think that happens until I am older.  My sister and I had the lobby to play in or if my dad were up to it he would take us to the park caddy-corner from the hotel.  I preferred the park for more than obvious reasons; on the balcony sat a group of stinky old men one of them liked to have his hands down his pants and sometimes flash my sister and I threatening don't tell anyone.  I don't remember my parents telling me this was wrong but inherently I knew. My little sister and I finally told on him and caused a very big shake-up.  I never saw the police but I do know there was a lot of yelling and we never saw that dirty old man again.  A couple of good memories from that period in time; my father let me stay up to watch the Miss America Pageant and we bet on who would win, I picked the winner! The park was a haven of sorts, I loved the nature we saw there, pigeons, squirrels and the occasional stray cat or dog; one time a baby pigeon followed us home, I wanted to keep it and hoped it would hang around but it was gone the next day.  (to be continued) 

I still couldn't sleep and my imagination was playing tricks on me, I swore I could hear someone walking

My family owned two dogs while we lived in Pasadena, both were German Shepherds.  The last one we named Rexie; he was a cutie at six weeks old.  My little sister and I begged and begged to bring him home; my father relented as long as my sister and I took care of him; my sister was 12 and I was 13.  We brought Rexie home and set up a little corner in the kitchen for him to sleep. That night I could hear Rexie crying so I got up to comfort him and as soon as he settled down I went back to my room to sleep.  Again, I heard Rexie crying and repeated the comforting process.  After the third time I decided to let him "cry it out"; I was tired and had school the next day. Of course I lay there unable to sleep, feeling guilty that I was making my puppy suffer; just as I had made up my mind to go get him he quieted down.  I still couldn't sleep and my imagination was playing tricks on me, I swore I could hear someone walking; was that why the Rexie was quiet? Then my bedroom door; I didn't close it all the way so I could here Rexie if he needed me for more pressing issue than just comfort. The door began to open creeek. . . for a brief second I thought this was it I am dead; (oh the dramatic mind of a teenager) then I hear a little wimper, it was Rexie!  He slept with me the rest of the night and the night after that and so on. A few weeks later we discovered that Rexie was actually a Trixie; she was a great dog, my dog but someone stole her from our yard or so my father said.  This was just before we were evicted so I always wonder if my father knew what was coming.

I flew onto the hood then rolled off stunned at my stupidity and inattention

When I was a child my family moved a lot; I didn't understand why and that this was not normal until I was older.  I think what jump started my realization was when I was injured looking for my father; I was 13 and we were being evicted.  The day started out normal enough; it was summer, humid and hot and I could hear the cars flying past on the Pasadena Freeway.  The air had that heavy quality, bright but with a film over it.  My mother was confined to a hospital bed; she had MS and couldn't walk or even get out of bed at this point in time. I didn't know where my father was; he had been missing since the night before.  I knew we had to move again and that I would miss my room because it was bright, sunny and decorated with animal posters; it felt secure to me and I was packing reluctantly.  We had found another house a couple of blocks away, it wasn't as nice but I would have my own room and still be able to attend the same Jr. High School; I was thinking about this when the phone rang.  My mother answered and immediately her voice raised; she hung up the phone crying saying that we had to have the rent to the new house in an hour or they were giving it to someone else.  My dad had the money, where is he, I had to find him. I had a pretty good idea where to look so I hopped on my bike and started to pedal toward the bar that was a least two miles away, if not more.  The whole time I was asking why? why? why?, not paying attention to the world around me.  I was headed toward Colorado Blvd, (you know the route the Rose Parade takes), I was almost there and the bar was less than a block away when BAM!!! I road in front of an ally and was hit by the car coming out.  I flew onto the hood then rolled off stunned at my stupidity and inattention.  The driver jumped out to see if I was dead (you know that's what you would think if you hit someone); I appeared to be OK, they wanted to take me to the hospital anyway.  I was crying almost hysterically; I know I was saying I had to find my Dad, it was important, I had to go.  I jumped on my dented bike and road to the bar, he wasn't there, they hadn't seen him since last night.  I road home, the ride back became harder and harder with each pedal; I was beginning to feel like I had been hit by a car.  Once home I told my Mom what happened, she was concerned and when my father called hours later she told him what had happened.  He was home in 30 min and took me to the E.R. I was so sore I could barely walk and he tried to help but I shrugged his arm off me;  I regret doing that, I wish I hadn't, I wish I had let him hold me.  I was lucky I had a sprained ankle and was badly bruised on the outside but my heart is what hurt the most.  We didn't get the house and ended up living with my father's mother which is another story for another day.

It is spring, and it must have been raining; why else would my older sister have an umbrella in her hand?

I go back in time and retrieve my first memory, a memory that isn't a normal memory but an out of body experience where I am floating and watching as events unfold. I think I am 4 years old living with my parents and three siblings; an older sister, an older brother and a younger sister. We live in Pasadena, Ca in a little house on a corner lot and I think we had just had our picture taken; I remember seeing a picture of us kids looking like we do in my pseudo half memory of that day. It is spring, and it must have been raining; why else would my older sister have an umbrella in her hand. Suddenly, it is quite and the light is diffused; I am watching from above as my older sister angrily swings the umbrella at the head of a little blond girl; the girl is ten years younger and so much smaller than my sister. My sister is yelling at the crying girl crumpled on the ground, telling her she deserved what she got. I see blood, a lot of blood. My mother comes rushing out demanding to know what happened and my sister tells her it was an accident; my brother, younger sister and I all keep our mouths shut because we know what could happen if we tell. . . That's all I remember; I know that little girl was me and I carry the scar behind my ear to this day.