Chapter 7—A New School

            Fifth through eighth grades meant a new school which was just next door to my friend Cookie’s house, a block from my home. I could walk to and from easily. We had a merry-go-round that we could jump on as someone pushed, or we could all push and then jump on and gleefully spin around until we were dizzy.  We had monkey-bars which let us swing upside down and do all kinds of gymnastic tricks. One day I fell on my head which meant many chiropractic appoints ever since.

The slide seemed to be so tall it reached the sky, and we could shoot down its great expanse at tremendous speeds or climb up the metal poles that braced it.  At least Cookie could.  She could climb anything, especially the ancient weeping birch in her front yard.  I envied her athletic ability.  Behind the school was a grassy field for baseball, football, Rover-Red-Rover and other sports. The school itself was very old. I had to push with all my might to get through the heavy, high wooden doors.  Inside was the waxy smell of the varnished hardwood floors.

            One of the real perks of walking to school was being able to come home for lunch with Mom.  Just the two of us.  The old kitchen radio was on that played country western music in the morning. Now it was set to the station broadcasting Mom’s favorite soap opera, Pepper Young’s Family, sponsored by Beech Nut Gum and Camay, the soap of beautiful women.  Lunch was always a bowl of Campbell’s soup and a Wonder Bread sandwich, usually tuna.  I don’t ever remember Mom’s usual criticism or advice giving, just a sense of home, security, of safety and warmth.  This kind of comfortable tenderness was so rare in my family, and it helped to lessen my sense of being on the outside looking in.

            A buying trip to San Francisco meant Mom and Dad had to find some place for us to stay.  Susan and Steven were sent to my Dad’s father and step-mother in Folsom, California near Sacramento. I was scheduled to go to Mom’s parents in Reno, and I could hardly wait.  It would mean being the center of attention, outings to the Mackay School of Mines rock museum with Grandpa, and graham crackers with butter and a cup of milk at bedtime with Grandma. Maybe even a movie at the old Granada Theater. I could lay aside my cocoon for a few days and breathe in the rarefied air of unconditional love.

            Just days before our scheduled departure, Grandma pleaded exhaustion, and Mom had to generate a new scenario. Her best option was to send me to her old high school buddy, Dee, who lived in Fair Oaks, also near Sacramento. I didn’t know Dee and her husband, Harry, or her daughter Carolyn, or the house, or the smells of eucalyptus or the new tastes of unfamiliar foods. Not only did I have my cocoon on, I added several layers.

            By the third day, I couldn’t eat, cried a lot, stayed in bed.  Dee had some of Carolyn’s friends over hoping to snap me out of my funk.  As I sat on the porch with these girls and listened to their bragging about how they went to middle school with underpants off to tease the boys, something inside me crashed. My Puritan morality couldn’t find support here either. I was way over my head in a cross-cultural experience.

            I began to hibernate with the bed covers over me, repeatedly crying to go to be with my brother and sister, even though they were so much younger. Now if I’d been five or six, I wouldn’t see my behavior as that odd, but I was at least ten years old, maybe even twelve, and I felt orphaned, abandoned big time.  For me, this was a concentration camp. After a second day without my taking food or water, Dee became alarmed, and took me to my Dad’s parents. I calmed down a little and began to eat a bit, but I remained silent and aloof.  I often climbed a tree in the front yard and took out a one dollar bill my Mom had left with me, smelling the smell of my mother’s perfume and pining for home. After a few days, Mom and Dad returned and took us home to what I had come to experience as normal.

            Some children who have an alcoholic parent become absolutely petrified of desertion.  The emotional unavailability of my mom, because of her intense focus on dad, and dad’s unavailability because of alcohol and work produced a feeling of unworthiness in me, and anything that felt like abandonment produced the extreme symptoms I experienced during that time at Dee’s.

           In my new school, my fifth grade teacher was Miss Cody Shaw. It was whispered that her brother had been killed in the Korean War, and we were all to be very respectful of her broken heart.  She was a great teacher, tender and strict, but her most valuable contribution to my life was the adventures of Marco Polo. Our family didn’t travel, and these stories whisked me up into great fantasies of the mysterious East and great and exciting happenings across the sea.  I did the normal reading, writing and arithmetic, but wait until Marco Polo came on the scene.  I was entranced. Although they weren't the same as the bible stories I'd read, they held a certain luminosity that furthered my love of learning.

            This was also the year we had our first dance, a Boy Scout dance.  No one invited anyone particular, and we didn’t dress up.  We all just showed up.  I remember being strangely popular and only later realized it must have been because I would cuddle up to my partner and put my head on his shoulder.  I wasn’t fussy because I was a sucker for romance.  My other romantic gestures included passing notes during classes to who ever had my heart at the moment. There was the thrill of doing something forbidden.

            By sixth grade, I had developed a certain expertise at math, and during a math test, a boy named Harold whispered for me to give him the answers.  As I filled in my answers, I would quietly fill him in too.  I was promptly brought up on charges of cheating. Just trying to be helpful.  Not feeling particularly guilty about the whole thing, I expected it to blow over quickly.  However, we had class officers who met together to decide the punishment for such as I, and their creative penalty had me scheduled to play one full recess of football with the boys.  Thinking this was great fun, the boys proceeded to nominate me to carry the ball.  I was tackled…repeatedly…still wearing those little cotton dresses.  Not being used to rambunctious play, I felt like a victim being pummeled and beat up with lots of scrapes and bruises.  But I wasn’t going to cry.

            I thought the worst was behind me, but then I stumbled onto a mean dog in the neighborhood.  In those days, none of us kept our dogs penned in and they ran where they wanted.  This dog was a biter, and belonged to a beloved member of the community, my first grade teacher, Mrs. Booth.  With her he was probably an angel.  But I’d never had any trouble with him, so I wasn’t afraid of him.

            Then one day I went over to see if anyone was home at the Chambers’. All of us kids liked to visit the Chamber’s house across the street.  Myron and Byron were retired twin brothers, one of them married to “Grandma” Chambers, and they liked to tell stories of the old days.  Just being with them on the back porch listening to their drawl and their attitude of having timeless space for us was a big draw.  I climbed up on a pillar to better see into the house.  It was dark and no one seemed to be at home.  When I jumped down, I accidentally landed on Mrs. Booth’s dog.  Quick as a shot, he jumped at my face and took a bite.  I screamed and dashed for home leaving my sandals in the street.

            My mother met me at the door, my face dripping in blood.  Grabbing a dishtowel to staunch the flow, she bundled me into the car and we raced down to Dr. Hand’s office.  It turned out the dog had taken a piece out of my upper lip.  Mom, who was frantic over loose teeth, was coldly calm, but fretted about my looks.  Dr. Hand simply accepted the whole thing matter-of-factually, cleansed the lesion, reassured my mother, and gave us a powder to apply to the wound.  Today you can barely notice anything.  It never gave me any sense of self consciousness.  When it could have been my eyes or nose, I felt there must have been some divine intervention. 

            Mrs. Booth’s dog disappeared for good.  My mother only hinted that Dad took his rifle one night and  disposed of the animal.  That was the way of country towns.  You took matters into your own hands without giving it much thought.