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.