Chapter 2: Welcome to California
Back east, by the age eight, I’d attended three different elementary schools. Now, in brave new California, little did I know I still had three more to go. In a quiet moment yesterday, memory grace, enhanced by the Cycles workshop, did some magic. Bits and pieces of life in those houses and schools descended upon me. Which astounds me, since on the regular I can’t remember what’s needed at the grocery store.
When I left New York midst third grade, we were painstakingly perfecting print on manila paper with our number 2 pencils. Each capitol aiming for the top line, the lower case for the dotted line midway. At my worn wooden desk in California, at Hazeltine Elementary, everyone was ball point speed writing in cursive. I struggled mightily to learn cursive on my own and that independent struggle the I’ll do it myself thank you, emerged as metaphor apropro for my youth.
We landed in a sprawling ranch home in San Fernando Valley where we tasted avocado for the first time and I knelt on a cold flecked linoleum floor making broiler-bacon with my new friend. Candy dots in pastel pink and green and blue on long paper strips, teeny wax bottles filled with coke syrup, orange creamsicles from the ice cream man. Funny how food memories stay strong; my grown son has the very same skill. Side-by-side on the nubby couch with my brother for The Beast with Five Fingers, Abbot & Costello, King Kong, The Three Stooges, Godzilla, Invaders from Mars. These black and white dreams found their way into my DNA.
And the Pacific Ocean. Every weekend the family trek to Zuma or Malibu or Pt. Dune. This ongoing induction into the wonder of the natural world is a gift I hold in deep gratitude to my parents. It couldn’t have been easy rustling up three kids and pails and lunches and blankets. But surely it was one reason they came out West. The glory of it all: exposing us to and exploring together was a persistent task for my mom and dad.
The underscore of tension I’d detected following my sister’s birth was now a pervasive threat. With increasing frequency, my dad burst into uncontrollable rage that spewed over into verbal or physical abuse. It wasn’t until maybe twenty years ago, looking back through adult eyes, that I realized that his WW2 service created undiagnosed, untreated PTSD. But what does a child know? Only how to create safety. I breathe into the memory of one beach trip, my brother and I sibling tussling in the back seat. My dad screams back that with one more outburst, he’d turn the car right around and we’d get spanked when we got home. Pretty soon we were headed home.
I wore one of those tie at the neck bathing suits. Covertly I made a multiple knot mess of it, hoping to slow him down when it came time to expose my little pink slap-able butt. Indeed. I remember the wicker furniture in that dark back bedroom. I remember him putting me over his knee and I will never forget his burst of laughter at the sight of the knots. I never got that spanking. In fact, for some warped boundary inspired reason, he never touched me in violence again. I cannot say the same for my brother and sister. Me? I was quickly learning how to fly under the radar. A skill I still tap into on occasion.
We didn’t stay in that first house long. Fourth grade was at Lemay Elementary from which I remember very little except one thing: being identified as science-gifted. Regular outings to another school where we did cool science things. Maybe this fostering was the spark that ignited my inner science geekiness. I look at my same age second grandchild now and wonder what sparks are flying. This school was so close to our house I came home for lunch most days. Campbell’s tomato soup with a pat of melting butter, tender white bread with Velveeta cheese. And the dependable company of television: Sherrif John, Spanky & Our Gang, Looney Tunes.
I was a physical kid: roller skating, hopscotch, four square, handball. And, of course, ballet lessons. It was pre-Barbie but I had a Toni doll, vague memories playing doll with a friend across the street and my little sister Beverly. This special needs child was rambunctious, a trouble maker who loved to dance. I loved her deeply and it often fell to me to care for her. So many pictures with my big sister arm around her. My dad’s mom, Grandma Rae came to stay with us. Now I wonder if her presence was at my mom’s petition, someone to help control dad. There is a picture of us all in the kitchen; my sister with a big bandage covering her forehead.
Her behavior was often out of control and my dad was a control freak. It was a situation on slow simmer, soon to boil over. But this spin, this is me looking at the past with adult eyes. What did I know then? Certainly nothing I could articulate. Certainly I had feelings aplenty, feelings too dangerous to express, let alone acknowledge. The roots go way back for my lifelong challenge recognizing and naming emotions in real time. So much compassion for little defenseless beings living at the mercy of entrusted adults. Myself included.
I’ll close this chapter with one more story. Kelly , just a puppy at my birth, had been my constant companion for a decade, a German Shepherd, faithful witness through all the changes. I came home from school one rainy afternoon and mom let me know me he had died. Alone, I went into the backyard, tenuously lifting the upside-down pool edge, absorbing the sight of his inert body. Alone, I returned to my room, sat at the back window, watched the rain spatter and bounce off the pool all afternoon. Alone. See above about struggling to learn on my own. Nowadays we know tons about the workings of grief. How to support each other in moments like this. How children have tender feelings and cosmic questions and a need to be held and cared for. At dinner, nothing was said. The next day I went to school. When I came home, Kelly was gone.
I don’t even know why we moved once again or even why we moved all those other times. But next up: entering fifth grade in yet another house on Amigo Avenue in Reseda. Van Alden Elementary: once again, a brand new school. I was ten years old.
❤️Bella