Chapter 10--Mixed Feelings

Note: Some names have been changed for privacy reasons.

As I came to the end of eighth grade, LeRoy and his family prepared to move to Idaho where his dad had a new job. I don’t remember my feelings at this enormous loss, but given my history, I must have been swallowed up by grief for some time. Missing him, I tearfully prepared to start high school.

Douglas County High met in an impressive, but very old brick building, now the Carson Valley Museum and Cultural Center on Gardnerville’s main street. I say impressive because of the high white columns and many stairs leading up to the high, heavy doors. It was designed by Frederic Delongchamps, a popular architect who designed the Reno downtown post office, Reno's Riverside Hotel (now apartments) and the Washoe County court house. It would be my campus until 1957 when as a Junior, we moved into the new high school building just behind the old.

            The upper classmen seemed so grown up; I held them in awe. They didn’t associate with lower classmen, so I admired them from a distance. Whitey Plimpton and Denise Aldax were my idols. To me they were as untouchable and fascinating as any movie stars. I had the same admiration for all upper classmen then that I have for Bill Gates and his wife today, assuming they were all smart and good. 

Instead of having one teacher for all my classes, we now went to different rooms where teachers specialized in various subjects like math and English. And of course there were new boys.  I was noticed by one boy in particular—Brad Parker, the son of a rancher who lived south of town.  He had an impressive 1956 Chevy, shiny black with a streak of green along the side. Brad was a few inches taller than my five foot two, lean and athletic, with dark hair in a crew cut. His muscles were primed by “bucking bales” during hay season.  I was pleased to be noticed by an upper classman, and I was flattered by the attention.

When he had some free time after school, he would come driving past my house and “rev” his engine a few times before going on down the street. My heart beating a little faster I ran to the window to see the car heading away.  Eventually we began to go to dances together. At one particular dance, the April Prom, we’d had a great time dancing and enjoying our friends. I wore a satiny formal that my mother helped me pick out at Learners, a women’s store in Reno.  The dress had swirling patterns of blues and greens with a harem skirt and rhinestone spaghetti straps. Mom was always there to find just the right outfit for a special occasion, often spending more than she planned, and whispering, “Don’t tell you father how much we spent on this!”

When Brad arrived at the door, I saw in his hand a transparent box with a fragrant corsage of gardenias.  Thrusting it into my hand, he seemed uneasy about what to do next.  Mom helped by taking the package, removing the flowers and pinning them on for me.  I went to the mirror, and standing on tip toes, smiled back at myself looking very sophisticated.  I handed my coat to Brad who held it while I slipped it on, and off we went.  I don’t remember if we had a band or just the 33 ½ vinyl rpms or 45s.  I suspect the latter.

When we came out of the dance, a couple of inches of wet, spring snow covered the trees that were just beginning to leaf out.  The street lights caused the heavy laden boughs to sparkle and my eyes opened wide to drink in the beauty.  I spun around with my arms open breathing in every last detail.  Then, with my feet feeling the cold wetness, Brad and I headed for his car.  It was only three blocks to home, and we laughed together as we remembered the dance.

When I got home that night something didn’t feel right, and Brad let me out after only one long, good night kiss. The living room was dark, and Mom was pacing back and forth in front of the plate glass window, chewing her nails and mumbling her worries to no one.  My heart sank. All memory of my wonderful evening vanished.

“Mom, what’s the matter?”

With pained words, she blurted out, “Your dad and I had an argument, and he hasn’t come home!”

I wanted to fix things. I needed to fix things. That’s the role of the “hero” in an alcoholic home.

“Mom, where do you think he might have gone?”

She shook her head.  I ran into my room, stripped off my dancing clothes, and pulled on my jeans, sweatshirt and some snow boots, at the same time scanning old memories as to where he might be…the store...the bar at the Minden Inn…some other place?  I wasn’t driving yet, so I could only walk the few blocks to see if he was nearby.  I pulled on my jacket with hood and headed out.  As I came to the CVIC Hall where we had been dancing just minutes before, I saw my friends still in their prom clothes getting into their cars.

 I contrasted my circumstances with theirs, and it didn’t compare favorably.  I was searching for my father who probably had been drinking. He wasn't a sloppy drunk, and I didn't know if anyone but family knew he drank. His outer life was filled with community service like head of the Chamber of Commerce. But that night I was filled with mixed feelings.  On the one hand I felt “put upon,” sorry for myself, and on the other, I felt proud that I was unique. I was acting as my mother’s champion.  I would make things better.

I didn’t find my dad that night.  I came home cold, wet, discouraged and apprehensive. Not a good ending for a “champion.”

“Mom, I’m sorry I couldn’t find Dad.” She just nodded sadly. I went to my room and somehow managed to sleep with what felt like a hole in my mid section the size of a cannon ball.  I wonder if experiences like this led to my taking on projects that were too difficult for me later on, still trying to prove my worth, and often failure came with my attempts.

Sometime in the night he came home, but it was too late to be the hero. I felt like the goat.

Brad and I continued dating, and one of the things he liked me to do with him was drag racing.  We would meet some of our friends after dinner out on Highway 88, a north-south highway out of Minden going over Carson pass and into California.  There was almost no traffic there in the 50’s.  The guys would line up their cars next to each other, two at a time, rev their engines as if they were getting read to blast off, and with tires squealing, charge up the road as fast as they could go, slamming the gear shift into first, second and third so rapidly, you could barely see their hands move.  I sat next to Brad, tense and nervous, wishing I was somewhere else and at the same time my heart beating fast with excitement.  Every ounce of male determination, energy, muscle, and grit went into this for the guys.  It was competition to the max, and I was along for the ride.  My role was to be a cheerleader for all this testosterone. Today I’m grateful there were no accidents, and I shake my gray-haired head at our daring.

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