You're On Your Own Kid, Part Five: A Hail Mary

 Principal Galas and Counselor Mrs. Ward gave me the bad news.  They were not permitted access to my transcripts from Our Lady of Peace because of the unpaid tuition.  The most horrible part of this news was that not only were my 11th grade transcripts being withheld, but my 10th and 9th grade report cards were being withheld as well.  Because there was no official record, going back to the beginning of high school, I would have to start all over again as a 9th grader. Hearing this news was like being slapped in the face. I thanked the ladies for their time and effort and got up to leave.  Mrs. Ward stopped me from leaving.  They had come up with an idea, a truly "Hail Mary" idea, and I was the only one who could pull it off. She explained that everyone, even Sister Edward Mary, had a boss. My mission was to go over her head and talk directly to the big boss:  The most Reverend Bishop Leo T Maher, head of the entire San Diego County Catholic Diocese. She gave me his working address and a pep talk.  I took it and told her I'd think about it.  

This was a crazy idea for many reasons. I was very shy and quite intimidated by authority figures.  The past year had been hellish, and I really didn't feel like anything would ever go my way. No one just shows up unannounced and uninvited to the Bishop's office for a surprise meeting.  Who did I think I was, anyhow?  Sister Edward Mary didn't care.  Why would the Bishop care? I figured that it would be a big humiliating waste of time.  But Mrs. Ward did describe it as a Hail Mary play.  I really had nothing to lose.

The next day, I got on my unreliable moped and rode through Mission Hills, down Juan Street to Old Town, over to Morena Blvd, and then up Linda Vista Road to the University of San Diego, a Catholic college set high on a hillside that overlooked Mission Bay.  The Bishop worked somewhere on that campus, and I intended to find him. I found the prettiest, most ornate building and started there.  My instincts were correct.  This was where he was!

I made my meeting request with the receptionist.  She called the secretary, and both of them told me a meeting wasn't possible.  I persisted, asking for just 5 minutes of his time.  One of them made a call, and a priest came out of an office, followed by another.  I stood there in my blue jeans and peasant blouse and calmly explained that I only needed a couple of minutes to tell the Bishop my problem and ask him for help.  One of the priests left the reception area for a few minutes and then came back to escort me to see the Bishop.  I was in!  Now I needed to convince the Bishop that I was worthy of a break.

I walked into the Bishop's large office, feeling very nervous and suddenly undeserving.  Bishop Maher was sitting behind a large wooden desk that had very neatly stacked piles of papers and files.  He seemed tall, even though he was sitting down.  He was thin, even in his fancy Maroon-colored  multi-layered Bishop attire. He looked at me and asked me to take a seat and explain why it was so important to meet.  I took a deep breath, remembered that this was my only chance, and started to talk.  I told him of our family struggles, how my stepdad left and took all our money, how my mom was unable to pay the bills and that Sister Edward Mary would not allow me to return for my senior year, and that I wanted to graduate from public high school but had no proof that I ever attended high school at all.  I asked him if he could call Sister Edward Mary and get her to release my grades.  And then I waited for his answer.  

The Bishop had a very controlled poker face.  I could not tell if he believed me, if he cared, or if he wanted me to go away.  He looked down, rubbing his chin and sighing.  After many minutes, he looked at me and said he didn't think there was much he could do. I thanked him for his time and got up to leave.  Before I reached the door, something got hold of me. That something was called Desperation. I turned around and got down on my knees. It was time to beg. It was the final second of the Hail Mary.

"Please, I am really begging you to just consider talking to her about it," I pleaded.  "I want to get my diploma.  I want to move ahead of my past.  I didn't get in trouble, or get pregnant, or use drugs, or do anything to get myself into this situation. Please give me this last chance to fix the past." 

That was it.  I could do nothing more.

The Bishop was moved.  "Let me make a few phone calls," he said.  I thanked him and left his office. 

Two days later, Mrs. Ward called me with the great news.  All of my OLP transcripts had been sent to her, and upon review, she found that I had already fulfilled so many requirements, I would need to complete only four classes!  Hallelujah! 

I began my final semester of High School in January 1979.  I took Biology, Home Economics, Reading, and Civics. Piece of cake.  I was done five months later.  All A grades. No drama. And believe it or not, I was asked to speak at the commencement ceremony.   Every kid in my graduating class was there because they had fallen into trouble and someone had given them a hand up.  So it seemed appropriate to speak of adversity, of second chances, and of acceptance. 

There I am on the right, one of six speakers.

I started the speech this way:  

"On this graduation day, I am reflecting on my first day at Garfield.  Coming from an All-Girl's private school, I knew right away that this school would be very, very different!"  The crowd roared with laughter.  Then I said:

" I was expecting the worst, but actually I found the best.  The best teachers, counselors, people who actually cared about me, about us." 

 And then the crowd exploded into cheers and applause for the wonderful people who cared enough to help us problem kids out of our tight spots.

a grainy shot of me up there making a speech

I never thought I would end up speaking at my high school graduation!

Mom, Aunt Sadie, and big sister Lynda came to see me graduate.  Lynda made me a beautiful white graduation cake, and I saved the topper.

Me and big sister Lynda, graduation day

They made a statue for the Bishop in 1991, after he died. 

 In the end, I realized that the people who help you when you need it the most are not necessary the people that you expected.  Mom wasn't there for me and I didn't dare ask Lynda for any help, because Mom would go ballistic.

 It was, instead, four unlikely people: Mrs. Woods, my grooming customer, Garfield Principal Dr. Galas, Counselor Mrs. Ward, and Bishop Leo Maher who came to my aid.  In the 11th hour, thanks to those four, I finally wasn't on my own after all.  

 

You're On Your on Kid, Part Four: More Hurdles

January of 1978 started out with drama. It was pouring down rain and close to midnight when Brother Skippy took a drunken walk on the freeway. He walked up the freeway onramp to the 5 down by Old Town, and staggered into oncoming cars.  His legs were broken in several places, but the skilled doctors at County Hospital put them back together with pins and rods.  His breaking and entering thievery days were clearly over, so he needed a new way to get money without working for it. 

The community colleges were handing out Pell Grants, and there was an additional program that paid you to take Racial justice-themed classes, so he signed up.  Mom thought I should get in on the free money too, so she took me to Mesa College and signed me up for the Pell Grant. Since I enrolled in Chicano Studies class I received some other free money as well. By the end of January, I was a Mesa College student, even though I was a high school dropout, and Skippy spent the days sitting in his wheelchair with a bunch of other freeloading stoners outside the cafeteria, smoking and sharing stories.  

On the first day of Chicano Studies class, I recognized one of my new classmates. He had recently started showing up for choir practice at my church.  After class he came over to introduce himself.  His name was Lou Jack.  He was 20 years old, soft spoken and cleancut. He apparently raided his Dad's closet, because he wore threadbare polyester old man's pants and a raggedy button down short sleeve shirt.  He looked like a dork, but he was very polite.  I figured since he went to church he must be okay.  I would come to regret my assumption in the weeks to come.  I will write a separate story about Lou Jack in a future posting.

I also had been cleaning house for a couple named Jack and Jan who lived down the street for many years.  After they moved into a house in University Heights, Jack would come to pick me up once a week and bring me to his house for a two hour cleaning.  I would also come to regret taking that job.  I will write my story of that experience in the future as well.  

By the end of March, I was not feeling well.  The stress that I had recently endured had worn me down.  I caught a cold that quickly turned into something serious.  I woke up dizzy, coughing, and unable to catch my breath.  Mom finally took me to Kaiser Emergency Room, where I sat for hours in the waiting room until I lost consciousness.  When I came to, I was being wheeled on a gurney to the XRay lab.  I was diagnosed with bilateral bacterial pneumonia, bronchitis, and anemia that was so severe, the doctors thought I may have internal bleeding.  I didn't, I was just undernourished. The Doctor's admonished Mom to feed me better, and then sent me home with antibiotics and iron pills.

   My get well card from the Chancel Choir (yes, I still have it!)

It took me two months to recover.  I spent most of that time on the couch, with Mom cramming me full of foods like yogurt, canned spinach, liver, and chicken.  I had to drop out of Mesa College, of course, but I didn't care.  I didn't feel like I should have been there anyhow.  I was still just a high school dropout. And things were getting way too creepy with Lou Jack.

When graduation time came around at Our Lady of Peace, I hopped on my moped and headed over to campus.  I stood in the back, behind the crowds of happy parents, and watched unnoticed while my former classmates walked up to get their diplomas.  I was sad, but it gave me a bit of closure.  Their time at the school was at an end, and after that final visit, I could finally let go of my sadness and regret.

Summer was spent clowning at Big Oak Ranch with my sister and Vernon the Clown.  I was back to grooming lots of dogs every month.  And I started looking into taking GED prep classes at Midway Adult school. Then, a week before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Woods, one of my grooming customers, had a talk with me.  Mrs. Woods was a social worker.  She knew that I had left school after 11th grade, and wanted to tell me about a new school that could be my ticket to a High School diploma.  The school, Garfield Independent Learning Center, was actually on the same street as Our Lady of Peace, about 5 blocks south.  She knew the principal and told me she would get me an appointment if I wanted.  I said yes please.

I met with Principal Galas the following week and explained my situation.  She was very encouraging.  She believed that three years of college prep high school classes would translate into so many public school credits that I would probably need only one semester of school.  Most of the classes at Garfield were nontraditional.  All you had to do is pick up your textbooks and assignment sheets and work on them until you finished.  And it wouldn't cost me anything. The school was created for pregnant girls and kids that had been expelled from regular high school, she explained.  She recommended that I keep to myself and don't make friends or get involved with any of the boys there.  After what I had just gone through with Lou Jack and Jack, I was in no mood to made any friends. It was good advice and I thanked her for giving me a chance.  All she needed to do was to call up Our Lady of Peace and request the transcripts, and then I could start in January.  That seemed easy enough.  But it wasn't. 

Sister Edward Mary refused to release the transcripts until Mom paid off the unpaid tuition for my 11th grade school year. And once again, Mom didn't care. 

You're On your own, Kid: Part Three, Knocked Down

Summer, 1975:  I had finished my freshman year at Our Lady of Peace, barely squeaking by, and then spent the next month helping my frantic mother try to get the house ready for the Love of her Life, Paris Burton Young, to be released from prison.  

Mom was more than ready.  She had adorned her bed with red satin sheets.  She went to Fredericks of Hollywood and bought a bunch of slutty negligees and estrogen creams. She arranged for us three kids and the dogs to be out of her hair for awhile.  The big day occurred on July 11, 1975. She drove to the  downtown Greyhound bus station to pick up Paris and his paper bag of belongings.  Then she took him shopping for more street clothes. Once he was all dressed up in his baby blue polyester Leisure suit,  they immediately drove to the Wedding Bell Chapel in Hillcrest for a quickie confidential wedding. After that, they want to the Chevy dealership in Mission Valley and she bought a brand new giant four door camper special pick up truck. They spent the next few days honeymooning and looking for a building to rent for their upcoming A-1 Young's Welding business.

A week after their marriage, we kids and the dogs were retrieved, and suddenly we had a new dad.  We were only used to seeing him cuddling with Mom at a concrete picnic table on a grassy field, surrounded by high fencing, barbed wire, and prison guard towers.  Now he was in our house, driving our new truck, drinking beer, and cooking hamburgers on a big grill that he welded with his new equipment in the rented auto garage that was soon to be his welding shop.  

We immediately embarked on a road trip to Ephrata, Washington, to visit Mom's sister Amy and her husband Edward. This was a trip filled with firsts:  Fishing, camping, roaming through the forest, and hunting for frogs with newfound campground friends.  I had never felt so good, so free, and so happy.  Mom was all wound up with her new husband, and I was free to be a 14 year old girl. The one problem that I noticed was that Paris always had a can of Budweiser in his hand as he drove the truck all the way North to Washington.  I knew that drinking and driving was dangerous and illegal, but Mom didn't seem to be concerned, so I pushed away my nagging worries.  That month-long trip was the best summer I had ever experienced.  But it had to end in mid-August, because it was time for me to return to Our Lady of Peace for my sophomore year. 

I felt pretty good about my upcoming school year for many reasons.  I was prepared this time. I was going to be on time from the first day on, and never get any more detention slips for tardiness. Mom had a man now.  They had a brand new welding business, where she would work the front desk and he would do the welding repairs.  Mom wouldn't need to hang with me every minute, and I was hoping I would be allowed to have friends, maybe even a boyfriend.  I pledged  to myself that I would work harder on my schoolwork and try to reverse my horrible first year. I felt confident, hopeful, and excited to start school.

It was late August.  Time to go back to school and by golly, I was ready this time. The night before my first day of 10th grade, I let the poodles out for a final potty break.  As I stood on the front porch, waiting for them to finish, the door opened, and Paris came out on the porch to smoke.  He lit a Raleigh, took a long drag, and exhaled. He said nothing, he was just looking at me.  I immediately felt weird.  Then he came over and asked for a kiss goodnight.  I cautiously went to kiss his cheek, and he pulled my face forward into his and did a full on kiss. His gross tobacco flavored tongue tried to get in on the action.  I pulled away quickly, called the dogs, and hurried into the house and back to my room.  Suddenly, my thoughts were not on school.  I tossed and turned most of the night, wondering how I was going to be able to stay away from Paris, and if I couldn't, how was I going to break it to Mom that her prince charming was a child molester.  It would break her heart if she knew.

Continue this part of the story by reading "A Blessing in Disguise," my November 23, 2017 post.

Sophomore school ID

August through November had been a period of sleepless nights and terror.  Amazingly, I kept my head above water at school, barely.  But the carefree feelings of summer were long gone.  On August first, I was thinking about making new friends and getting into school activities.  For the months of September, October, and November,  I was wondering how I was going to avoid being raped and impregnated by Mom's husband. And then, The Blessing in Disguise happened.

1976 arrived with Mom, depressed, laying in bed, hardly able to cope with the aftermath of her terrible decisions.   It took just a few weeks before all of Paris Young's horrible prison friends began to come calling, one after another, and Mom fell back into the trap of Prison Angel.  In other words, Stupid Sucker.  I squeaked through the last semester and once again, it was summer.  It was an exciting time to be alive:  We had the Bicentennial celebrations that culminated on July 4th of that year. Right after that,  there was some of the most exciting Olympic events ever.  Nadia Comaneci got the first perfect 10s in gymnastics competition. While I spent time watching the Olympics,  Mom was going to night class at San Diego State University, because suddenly she had decided to become a clown.  By the first week of August, she had graduated and started pulling us all down into clown life with her. Life on Eagle Street revolved around clowning jobs, Tehachapi prison visits, and sharing our home with ex-cons and other criminals, addicts, and oddballs. 

Late  August had arrived, and my Junior year was about to begin.  Believe it or not, I was still cautiously optimistic.  I was not a smart kid, and I certainly wasn't athletic.  I never did pursue cheerleading, and since Paris disappeared, Mom was back to smothering me, so I was not allowed to hang out with my schoolfriends.  My one remaining friend from St Vincent's Elementary School days was, for the most part, frightened off by events that took place during the November 1975 Showdown in the Desert. The possibility of having a  real boyfriend was completely out of the question.  After what I had gone through, I was not at all trusting, and Mom told me that having a boyfriend meant I was a whore, so I concentrated on my Poodles, my grooming business, clowning at parties, events, and parades, and church. Mom allowed me to attend church, and I sang in the youth and adult choirs, and sometimes helped with the kids choir. Church activities were the only sane moments in my life back then. It was crazy to think that in two short years, I would be out of high school and getting on with life.  I couldn't wait to be away from this awful situation.

Junior School ID

What I didn't yet know was that Mom had already sealed my fate at Our Lady of Peace.  

One Friday afternoon in October, I was sent to the Principal's office.  Sister Edward Mary was a small, greyhaired lady who ran a tight administrative office.  I soon realized that I wasn't the one in trouble-Mom was.  Sister Edward made it was clear that Mom had not paid any installments on the tuition costs yet.  She also had not signed up to volunteer, and she was not answering their phone calls or letters.  The Principal asked me to have Mom call her so they could get caught up on payments.  When I talked to Mom about the problem later that night, she told me to not worry about it because she would take care of it.  I didn't think any more of it until one Friday in November, just before Thanksgiving week.  

Sister Edward called me to her office after lunch.  She told me that Mom had not made any contact, and she hadn't paid any of the bills they sent her.  I was warned that something would have to happen if the bills were not brought up to date.  When I mentioned it to Mom that night, she brushed it off, telling me that she would take care of things after Christmas.  She didn't.

In January of 1977, I was again called to the office.  Sister Edward was calm and professional when she told me that since they had not received any payment or contact, they have made a difficult decision.  She went on to explain the issues which led to her decision. The only other Catholic girls high school, Rosary, was shutting its doors in June.  There were a number of Honor Roll Rosary girls who wanted to do their senior year and graduate from Our Lady of Peace.  They were A students, bound for college, and deserved admission in a school with so few available spots. Their parents paid their tuition bills on time.  There was no upside to keeping me on, what with precious few openings for new students.  Therefore, I would be allowed to complete my Junior year, but I was not invited back to finish my senior year.  

I sat there, just listening to her.  What she was saying made complete sense.  It was quite logical. Why would anyone want me here?  I was not an asset in any kind of way. The Principal calmly explained that it wasn't personal.  This was a business decision.  I nodded, said okay, and got up and left. I did not even try to offer an excuse, beg for mercy, or let her know the complete hell I had endured at home. Sister Edward Mary would not have cared.  My problem was not her problem.  At least they wouldn't be calling me into the office every few weeks to try to get blood out of a stone.  The truth was, Paris had emptied the bank account when he left, and Mom was using what money she had to continue supporting convicts.  I was not on any priority list. 

That final semester was difficult to get through.  I told my few schoolfriends that I wasn't returning for my senior year so there was no sensible reason to get a class ring.  I even chose to sit alone in my homeroom while the ring ceremony took place on the other side of campus. Ring Ceremony was a really big deal at OLP.  The girls could come to school that day in nice dresses instead of our usual white and navy uniforms.  Father Grace held a Mass and blessed the rings before handing them out. It was another traditional rite of passage that drew the classmates together.  I just couldn't bear to attend.  I had to start emotionally separating myself from my school world. So I showed up that day in my uniform and pretended that I didn't care about rings, or ceremonies, or anything.

 It soon became too painful to even go to school, so I started missing quite a few days.  I made it to the end with average grades, and made sure people signed my yearbook so that I would have something personal to look back on. Word had gotten out that I was leaving for good in June, and I was amazed to learn that many girls, even those who didn't hang out with me,  felt very bad about it.  The girl who we voted to be our

Senior year ASB Vice President actually approached me and asked if there was anything she could do to convince me to stay.  I couldn't tell her my whole disturbing story, so I just thanked her and told her there was nothing that could be done. She signed my yearbook with a very touching message that still bring tears to my eyes when I read it. 

And then, junior year ended, I said goodbye to the school that I had grown to love.  

I spent the summer working as a clown on weekends for an old retired Ronald McDonald who renamed himself  Vernon the Old Fashioned Clown.  He had a contract to entertain at huge company parties that were held at The Big Oak Ranch in Dehesa, an area in east El Cajon.   Summer temperatures always ran 100 degrees or more, and it was not a fun or healthy way to spend hot summer days.  My little sister and I did the job, and Vernon gave us a check to give Mom.  I have no idea what we were paid, because we didn't see a penny of it. 

When August came around, I figured I needed to go finish high school.  I went to San Diego High School to sign up.  I was not prepared for the stark difference between private and public school.  I went from a safe, clean, small, quiet, calm, Godly, and friendly environment to a huge, crowded, tense, loud, violent, dirty, and graffiti-filled hell.  And that was before I even signed up for classes.  I ran away from that school and never looked back. 

By the time September came along, Our Lady of Peace was in the rearview mirror.  I had moved on.  I was grooming about 25 dogs a month. I started cleaning houses for old ladies, and I began caring for an old neighbor named Mrs. Sprinkles. She had gone to Kaiser for gall bladder surgery, suffered a brain injury in the process, and was suddenly bedridden and demented.  This was a 40 hour a week job that required sponge bathing, bed pans, emptying her catheter bag, hand feeding her liverwurst sandwiches, and listening to her speak utter nonsense all day long while we watched her favorite soap operas. Three months into that job, suicide was starting to look like a viable option for me, so I quit.

 The year 1977 closed out with me dropping out of high school, working nearly every day and contemplating death.  I went from Honors at Entrance to the Academy of Our Lady of Peace in 1974, to high school dropout in 1977.  And Mom couldn't have cared any less. I was a Social Security check for her, and I contributed to her monthly income by clowning and running her Poodle breeding business. That was my worth to her. And that was all that mattered.

You're On Your Own, Kid. Part Two: Fresh start for a Freshman

During the summer of 1974, we spent alot of time driving 400 miles north to Soledad, California, in order to have family prison visits with  Mom's true love,  career criminal Paris Young.  All that idle time in the car gave me plenty of opportunities to think about my high school plan.  Even though I was usually an Eeyore type of girl, always looking at the glass half empty, I decided to let myself think positive this time.  OLP could be a clean slate.  Starting over fresh.  No Warriner had ever attended Our Lady of Peace, so I would not be arriving with a bad family reputation.  I was going to begin the school year on the Honor Roll due to my surprisingly good entrance exam scores.  It occurred to me that I could rebrand myself.  I could be one of the popular girls.  Maybe try out for cheerleading, or join some clubs.  Things could be different.  I felt hopeful.

In July, Mom found me a used OLP navy blue uniform skirt in the San Diego Union Thrifty ads.  My white blouses from St Vincent's still fit me. We went to Thom McCanns Shoe Store and got some uncomfortable hard leather black and white saddle shoes.  And we kept making those 400 mile trips to Soledad Correctional Facility all summer long. In between trips, Mom waited every day for the mailman to bring her another love letter, and when she got one she would spend the rest of the day reading and re-reading it. Once a week she would sit by the phone for hours, waiting her the anticipated long distance collect phone call.  This nonsense took most of Mom's energy and attention.  She was like a love-sick teenager. Nothing else seemed to matter to her. 

 I am guessing that when she received my new student orientation packet, she only read the uniform requirements list. If she had read the entire thing, she would have known that I needed to attend an orientation day in mid-August where I would receive my class schedule, learn where my classrooms were located,  buy my textbooks, learn the Alma mater song, sign up for various types of tryouts, and get a locker.  Mom also would have seen that OLP started its fall session the last week of August. But she didn't read the packet, and I didn't  know there was a packet to be read. August came and went, and I was blissfully unaware that school life started without me.  Mom had just assumed that my high school schedule was the same as my younger siblings' St. Vincent's schedule, which began after Labor Day. She was wrong, and once again, 

I was doomed to fail from the very beginning. 

One hot September morning, Mom rushed into my bedroom and woke me up in a panic. "Get up right now, "she shouted. "You have to go to school!"

I was still enjoying the great summer feeling that comes with sleeping in late. This was like having a bucket of freezing water dumped in your face.  I threw on my uniform, grabbed my bookbag, and ran outside to the car. There was no time for breakfast or questions. But there evidently was time for a first day photo. Then we jumped into the Volvo and took off. Mom was making excuses as she drove up Washington Street, to Park Blvd, and right on Adam Avenue and left on Oregon Street. She dropped me off at the curb in front of the school and drove off, leaving me alone to deal with what to do next.  

First day of high school.  I was already 2 weeks late, so what's another couple of minutes to stop and get a polaroid photo of the beginning of what ended up being an awful day.

OLP. A crazy mix of old estate mansion, Spanish buildings, and modern classrooms. There's alot of  structures crammed onto this canyon rim.

I entered the main building and found the secretary's office, and checked in with the woman behind the desk.  She took my name and perused a roster list. "Yes, here you are, we were getting ready to remove you from the rolls, dear," the nice woman calmly stated.   "Where have you been?" Before I could answer, she handed me a piece of paper containing my class schedule.  I looked at it, trying to decipher it.  There were room numbers and building names, but I didn't know where anything was located. Then she handed me a list of books that I needed to purchase from the campus bookstore. This was all new to me. At St. Vincent's, all your textbooks were handed out to you on the first day of school.  Mom didn't give me any money to buy books. I just stared at the list, bewildered.  There were obviously many things about high school that no one had told me about.  Then the old lady told me to go see Sister Mary Louis at the typing classroom.  She was the person who handed out the locker assignments and combination locks.  Since I had no idea where the typing room was located, I looked at my schedule to figure out where I was supposed to be at that very minute. 

As I roamed the silent halls looking for my classroom, the bell suddenly rang.  Doors popped open and hundreds of girls exited the classrooms, laughing and talking as they briskly moved about towards their next classroom.  They all seemed to know exactly what they were doing. We didn't exchange rooms at St. Vincent's.  I was clueless.  I stood there, just watching, as the girls crowded the halls, slammed their lockers shut, and quickly left for a different floor, or a  different building, as other girls arrived from a different floor or different building and took the space that the previous girls had vacated. And as quickly as the chaos had started, it was finished.  Everyone scurried into classrooms, the bell rang again, and the classroom doors were closed. Again, it was silent, and I was in the hallway all alone. 

As it happened, the classroom that I was supposed to be in was right in front of me, so I opened the door.  Everyone looked at me. Ms. Franzese called me over and asked my name.  She found my name on the roster, marked it "tardy," quickly filled out a detention slip, and told me to find a seat.  I took it and went to sit in an empty desk in the back. This was my French class.  I did not have a textbook, and as the teacher went on with the day's lesson, I looked at the detention slip and wondered what I was supposed to do with it.  I looked at all the other girls, who were reading French words along with Ms Franzese.  My stomach was grumbling from hunger.  I just sat there as class went on, hoping no one would hear my noisy tummy.  Then the bell rang, and everyone jumped up and exploded out the door to get to their next class. 

My next class was Algebra, and of course it was in a different building somewhere on campus.  I found myself rushing through the halls, just like all the other girls, but they knew where they were going.  I didn't. The bell rang, the doors closed. And I was still looking around, in the silent halls, all alone. I saw a janitor and asked her for directions.  She looked at my schedule, pointed me to the next building, and I ran as quickly as I could.  I arrived about 5 minutes late and went through the same drill with Mrs. Thrailkill. So now, I had two detention slips, still no textbooks, still starving, and no idea what the teacher was explaining to the class. 

Then there was homeroom.  I didn't even know what that meant, but I made it there on time and spoke with the homeroom teacher about my detention slips. She explained that I would have to serve two separate detention punishments, which meant I had to stay after school for an hour, either doing homework or doing chores. Unlike the teachers at St Vincent's, the OLP teachers didn't humiliate you in front of the class or spank you with a paddle, and for that, I was happy.

That first day included being herded down to the bleachers to hear some speeches and to sing our school song.  Everyone knew the words of "Villa Montemar," but of course this was the first time I had heard it, so I stood there feeling like a disembodied soul. I also discovered that if you wanted to eat something, you needed to bring a lunch, or have coins for the vending machines. Mom didn't think to send me off to school with either of those things.

When Mom picked me up later that day, I told her how horrible everything went.  She didn't seem to think it was all that bad.  The next day, she sent me to school with a blank check for the bookstore clerk to fill out when I purchased my textbooks.  I got to school very early and headed straight to the bookstore.  Sister Mary Lawlor, a calm whitehaired old lady, took the list and started making checkmarks on it.  "Sorry dear, but we are out of the Algebra, French, and American Short Stories books," she said.  "We sent the extras back last week." This was getting worse and worse.

"What am I supposed to do now," I asked.  I really wanted to just turn around and walk away from OLP forever.

Sister Mary Lawlor looked at me with sincere empathy. "I think the only thing you can do for now is to  borrow from a classmate. Maybe you can go over to her house and you can do your homework together," she suggested.  She told me to return in a week to hopefully pick up the reordered books . I politely thanked her and walked away.  I did not know anyone, I was painfully shy and felt like a big loser. None of these girls lived in my neighborhood.  Mom never let me go to other kids houses. At this point, my Eeyore thoughts resurfaced and squashed the plan to reinvent myself.  Any hopes that I had nurtured over the summer were dead.  

It took almost a month to get my textbooks.  By then, I had flunked several tests, failed to turn in my homework, and no one, not Mom, not even my teachers, bothered to try to change my doomed trajectory.  As expected, my first quarterly report card was dismal. The grades were mailed to my house.  Mom could see that the only class I did well in was Piano. But she didn't sit me down to talk about my grades. She was currently working on trying to get her fiance released from prison, and that took every ounce of her energy.   By October of 1974, only 3 months into high school, it hit me.  I was in over my head.  Mom didn't care. I was on my own.

After Christmas, Mom signed up to be a lunch monitor, because volunteering a couple days a week would knock some money off the tuition.  She was assigned to walk around upper court, where the Juniors were supposed to take their lunchbreak. She was lazy, however.  Instead of walking around, she would grab one of the picnic tables and sit there with her can of Tab. After a few days, she insisted on having me keep her company.  I was supposed to be eating lunch with the rest of the Freshman on lower court.  Luckily, I had made a friend who decided to rebel and sit with us on the Junior Court.  Mom's work-for-a-discount schedule didn't last more than a couple of months.

The high school photographer captured it perfectly and the memory is preserved in the 1975 yearbook. Mom with her Tab, sitting with her back facing the courtyard that she was supposed to be observing.  And me, with a pained look on my face, wishing I was somewhere else.

My Freshman year at OLP started with me being an Honors at Entrance student, and ended with me being a mediocre C & D grades loser student.  At OLP, D grades were considered failures which required repeating. It was suggested that I attend summer school to make up for my failure in Algebra and French.  Mom had other plans.  She had succeeded in getting a release date for her beloved. Paris was getting out in July, and it was all hands on deck to get the house decluttered, painted and cleaned, so that Paris would have a nice new place to live after getting out of Soledad Correctional Facility.  There was no time for summer school. But there was another reason for not attending remedial classes. I would have to go to a public school for the summer session.  Mom seriously hated public schools.  I myself was terrified of going through another new school experience, so I quickly put the need for summer school out of my mind.  I needed a strong Mom who thought about her kid more than her romantic plans, because I certainly wasn't strong enough to do what was necessary for myself. It was easier to just stay home and clean house. And Mom was fine with that.

As I spent hours repeatedly running the Rug Doctor machine over our hopelessly filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, I thought about starting the 10th grade in a couple of months. I already knew when school started, so I wouldn't be two weeks late ever again.  I already had my class schedule, and I knew now that I needed to show up on orientation day to buy my books and get my new locker assignment.  I would start the year with a new father.  Mom's wildest romantic dreams would be fulfilled, and she could be with Paris Young all the time.  Maybe she would let me off the tight leash that she always kept me on. Maybe I could have friends, go to school dances and football games.  Maybe things would be looking up for me when I started my Sophomore year in August of 1975.  I was still harboring a bit of hope.  I had no idea of what was in store for me. 

You're on your own Kid, Part One: Elementary School

One of the sad and frustrating aspects of growing up on Eagle Street was that we had a mother who did not value her children's educational opportunities.  On the surface it appeared that she did, because she put her children in Catholic Schools.  But the reason for her school choice was not to give us a better education.  The reason was selfish:  back in the 60s and 70s, there were no school counselors in Catholic school.  There was no one to keep an eye out for signs of abuse or despair.    Mom had learned early on in the 50s that public school teachers snooped in your business and made reports to child protective services if they thought something nefarious was going on at their student's home.  Those reports ended up with investigations and some of her older kids going to foster care. Mom wasn't going to repeat that mistake with us youngest three kids.

I was doomed to fail from the very beginning. 

I am a December baby, which means that I would either be one of the youngest or one of the oldest kids in my class.  Nowadays, I would not have been allowed to start first grade as a five year old.  But in 1966, things were a bit more lax.  I was tiny, skinny, and shy.  Not really emotionally ready to sit at a desk all day amongst kids who were bigger, older, and more secure in their social status.  But I had something none of my classmates had.  I could already read.  

Mom began teaching me how to sound out simple words using giant flashcards a couple of years earlier. She used an method kit entitled, "Teach Your Baby To Read," and it worked.  At age four, I could read these flashcard words easily.  I still remember some of the flashcards that Mom would hold up to form a sentence:

Everyone     knows      that      nose    is     not       toes

The page from a copy of the book "The New Our New Friends," that the priest had on his desk 

I could read Dr. Seuss books, and Little Golden Books,  and the only reason why Dad was still reading the Sunday Funnies to me was because I pretended I couldn't read the words. I was a one trick pony, and Mom thought that one trick meant I was ready for school.  She applied for me to start first grade at St Vincent's in September of 1966.  The school at first declined the application because they felt I was too young.  I remember Mom having me read a book into a microphone while a reel-to-reel tape machine was recording my tiny squeaky voice.  Then I remember Mom taking me to the priest rectory for an interview.  The kindly priest asked me if I could read, and I nodded my head.  Mom handed me one of my books, and I read it to him, making sure I read with expression, as Mom called it.  The priest smiled, but he obviously thought I was reciting by rote.  He handed me a reader from a stack of books on his desk, and asked me to read any page I wanted.  I opened it up to a page with a cute yellow kitten on it, and read the page of text to him.  The next thing I knew, Mom and I were at the uniform store shopping for a green plaid jumper and white blouse. My one trick got me in.

My reading was always advanced.  Arithmetic, however, was another thing altogether.  By 2nd grade, I was falling behind. I couldn't concentrate during math class.  Miss DeTellum might as well have been speaking Spanish.  I would stare out the open windows of my 2nd floor classroom and wish that I was like Sister Bertrille, the Flying Nun from TV. In my daydreams, the breeze coming in the window would lift me up and float me on out of there.

The basketball hoop marks the location of my 2nd grade room. I wanted to fly away from it

 I was having trouble with my math homework too, and started giving up on it.  Miss DeTellum was not happy with me, and threatened to wash my mouth out with soap the next time I failed to turn in my completed homework.   I went home with a stomachache and fretted all evening.  Mom did not seem to care much when I told her about it. 

                     First Grade. Big Sis Lynda is in the background, ready to drive me to school

The next morning, I was beside myself with fear.  I was holding my gut and crying when sister Lynda appeared like a fairy godmother and asked me why I was so upset.  I sobbed through the details.  She hugged me and said, "I'm coming to school with you today, and I am going to meet your teacher."  I felt so safe and secure in her protective arms.  My stomachache disappeared.  Lynda gave me a pep talk as we walked towards the building.  I stayed out on the playground while Lynda went inside to find Miss DeTellem.  I don't know what she said, but I was never threatened by that teacher again. 

                         There's Miss DeTellem Top Center.  I am in middle row to the left of the cross.

I scraped by in Math every year.  Voices from my teachers are still fresh in my memory. "She is so difficult to reach," said Mrs.Frawley, my 4th grade teacher.   In the Spring of 4th grade, I was ambushed at the church rummage sale by the Math and Science teacher for grades five through 8:  "You will be in my Math class next year.  I have heard how stupid you are.  Just you wait until 5th grade.  Just you wait,"  threatened the evil Mrs. Anderson.  I was sick and stressed all summer, waiting to see what Mrs. Andersen was going to do to me. Mom and Dad were very distant from my problems.  Dad was working night shifts, was tired, unhealthy, burned out on life,  and not very patient. The few times he tried to help me, he looked at my worksheet and grumbled, "I hate this New Math!"  Mom just seemed to think my problems were not her problems.  At this point in time, Lynda was married and had a toddler and another on the way.  I was on my own. 

4th Grade.  Mrs Frawley gave me my first Detention slip. I am under the books on the right

                                      5th Grade, I am bottom left, next to our scary Principal 

Mrs Anderson. She wasn't mean to only me.  I could write an entire article on the mean-spirited, cruel and humiliating ways she treated certain students.

Dad suddenly died the week before I started 6th grade.  Horrifyingly, I was to be in Mrs. Anderson's homeroom.  On my first day of class, I told her about my Dad, and she didn't even look up from her paperwork when she casually remarked she would have the priest say a Mass for him.  Then Mom tried to kill us all, changed her mind and called the fire department to rescue us, then pulled me out of school  to go to her sister's in Washington state.  She didn't bother to ask for any school work, so I missed some of September, all of October and some of November. And then in the Spring, I caught a bad case of chicken pox and was out for another 2 weeks.  Again, mom didn't think to ask Mrs. Anderson for any worksheets. I never caught up with Math again. Mrs. Anderson threatened to flunk me that year.  I didn't know if I had been promoted until the final day of school, when Monsigner Mimnagh came to our class to hand out report cards. I guess I was smarter than I thought.  I was promoted, but two of my classmates flunked.

                     So thankful to be promoted from 6th grade.  I am on right, 4 rows down.

                8th Grade, Top Left.  So glad I made it out of there.  It was not fun if you're dumb

During 8th grade, my final year in elementary school, Mom decided that I was to attend The Academy of Our Lady Of Peace High School for my freshman year.  One Saturday in March, she woke me up early and told me I was going to have to take several hours of entrance exams.  The testing went on from 8 AM until noon, if I remember correctly.  I was really hungry, and didn't have any idea what the testing would be like.  I just remember the big classroom, the tall ceiling, the smell of hundred-year-old wood, and the sputtering of the radiator as a bunch of strange girls and a few familiar faces took one test after another. And after spending 8 years wearing a uniform, I felt uncomfortable wearing junk store clothes at school.  

After the test day, I didn't think any more about it.  All I knew about the school was that they only admitted smart girls,  the classes were hard, and I wouldn't have to worry anymore about creepy St Vincent's boys pulling up my skirt and trying to pinch my butt. 

Graduation from 8th grade was held in the church, where we walked up to get our diplomas.  It was a big deal.  The awards ceremony was held downstairs in the hall.  That was the time for teachers to bestow special certificates to some of the favorite students.  Of course, favorite students were always the smart kids.  Their parents were active in the church and school, and the teachers liked them.  In my case, I was not a favorite for many reasons.  I was not Catholic. I was not an academic standout.  Mom did not participate in school activities, except for the annual rummage sale. The only time she attended Parent-Teacher night was when I was in 3rd grade.  And if they had kept their records, they knew I had an older brother who did some time at St Vincent's and had not been a favorite either. 

          There I am on the left, coming back from the procession to the altar

            Graduation day with Sister Machtilde, I am right, My friend Mary MacPherson is left.

In the noisy basement hall, I sat in the front row with my classmates, looking at the stage, ready to get out of St Vincent's and leave behind all my negative baggage. The Principal, Sister Ursula, a aptly-named terrifying little bear of an Irish nun, appeared on stage issuing various accolades to the usual good kids.  Sister Ursula was my 8th grade Homeroom teacher.  She did not like me at all and didn't attempt to hide her feelings.  Mrs. Anderson was sitting with the other teachers on stage and I could swear she was smirking at me. I didn't care.  I was done with her and all the humiliation that comes with being the smallest, youngest and dumbest kid in class. 

I was feeling very comfortable sitting in my seat on the floor knowing that I would never have to get up on that stage and sing or perform in a play against my wishes ever again. Surprisingly,  Mom was in the audience.  She was feeling better about herself since falling in love with a convicted robber and losing a lot of weight. She was always self conscious about being so fat.  I was glad that she had actually put on a nice dress and attended my rites of passage.

Aunt Amy made my graduation dress.  Mom felt confident enough to dress up for the event

The Principal started giving out awards for the kids who scored the highest on their high school entrance exams.  "Honors at Entrance Award for the Academy of Our Lady of Peace goes to: Tammy Warriner?" She phrased it as a question.  My classmates looked at me and said, "Whaaaaa?" My friend Mary gently shoved me and said, "Get up there, you are getting an award!"  I was mortified, but hightailed it up on stage, accepted the Certa-FICK IT, as the Irish nuns pronounced it, and hurried back to my seat. Somehow, without any help or support, I not only got through the first 8 years of school, but I also aced OLP's entrance exam.  Honestly,  I couldn't believe it either.

Pandemic Dreams

 I haven't been inside my Eagle Street home since the house was sold in 1987.  But the memories of that place and the ghosts that still live within its walls continue to call out to me.  For nearly 25 years, I would have occasional dreams about the house. Those dreams always involved a large cat.  Sometimes it was a Lion, sometimes a Tiger or Bobcat but mostly it was a Mountain Lion. In every dream,  I would walk into the house to visit Mom, but instead find myself being chased down the hallway, through the den, and out to the pool deck, where the wild cat would lunge at me, grabbing my neck in its jaws.  I would always awaken as it sunk its fangs in and started to shake me.  Mom was never in those dreams. It was always just the wild beast that always caught up with me and killed me.  A few years went by before I realized that I hadn't had an Eagle Street nightmare in a long while. The Covid era seemed to affect dreams, and I had an interesting Eagle Street dream during the pandemic.  This one, thankfully did not include a killer cat:

I am at the Eagle St house.  I don't live there, but it must still be in the family because I go up to the front porch and go inside. Mom may or may not live there anymore but she is still around.  I know she will be coming over to the house too. Now suddenly she is in the living room with me.  She is in the shape she was in during her romance with Paris Young in 1975. She is a youthful middle-aged woman with long curly golden-colored hair and a curvy cute figure. She is energetic and agile. Her back is no longer damaged. She can walk normally.  She is not deathly pale and wheezing from congestive heart failure. She is not old, sick and dying. 

She has a life of her own now and does not need my undivided attention.  I feel that she is leaving soon and I want her to know that even after everything we experienced and endured with each other, I still love her.

She gets up to leave, as she is scheduled to go meet up with someone. I give her a big hug. During the hug, I was silently sending her four thoughts. The feelings I was conveying to her were love, regret for our past problems, hope that she feels the same, and especially,  hope that today is the beginning of a new, healthy and happy relationship.  

These hopes were successfully conveyed to her. I did not, however receive reciprocating feelings back from her.  Although I could feel fondness coming from her, there was also a distracted feeling. She was done here, and was ready to move on with a new life.  Clearly, she no longer had a desperate attachment that required her to control me and make me feel guilty all the time.  She was free of the need to suffocate her loved ones.  I was happy to feel that, but at the same time I wished that she had the same regret that I felt for our wasted, troubled years, but she didn't.

The embrace ended, and she hurried out the front door to her life that did not include her children.  I turned back into the house, feeling a bit sad because it seemed our relationship was still unresolved.  

I walk into the kitchen where I found a skillet with hash browns on the stove, frying unattended.  My younger sister walked in, saw me, and said, " Yeah, Mom still walks away from what she started and doesn't worry about seeing it through."

This dream, which occurred November 21, 2021, seemed sad in some respects, but it also gave me a great deal of closure.  The Catholic part of me interpreted it as Mom's time in Purgatory coming to grips with her Earthly issues had reached its completion. Any regrets and penitence were between her and God, not me.  She must have served her penance and vowed to not continue her manipulative controlling behaviors, and could now live in a different way. A freer way. 

Interpreting the dream in this way has given me freedom as well.  Did Mom come to me in a dream to tell me that the demons in her that caused her to hurt so many people in her life had been rendered impotent?  That her spirit was cleansed, and that I can now be free of the residue of her destructive entanglements? I am going to go with that interpretation.

The Purgatory concept is strong in a second Pandemic dream that I had several months before the dream of Mom.  This dream did not include Eagle Street, but it included brother Skippy.  I wrote about Skippy in my July 20, 2018 post.  Skippy was a drug addict and a career criminal. Any goodness and love he may have had as a small child was completely replaced with lawlessness, evil, and addiction in the early 60's. He died of a heroin overdose in 1986, and I was not sad to learn of his passing.  I never dreamed of him when he was living, or after he died.  He just did not matter to me at all.  So when I woke up from this dream, I was quite surprised:

In the living room of my house, there is a mail slot in the wall near my desk.  I keep a wicker basket on the desk to catch the mail as the letter carrier pushes it through the slot.  I am sitting on the couch, when I hear the sound of the mail slot opening.  Thinking that the letter carrier has brought the mail, I look up to see what is going to fall into the basket.  There are no mail pieces.  Instead, a flat Stanley version of Skippy slides through the mail slot head first, floats over the mail basket and rights himself in front of me.  He is now a standing up, regular human form Skippy, not a cardboard cutout Skippy.

He is clean, with tidy hair and clothing.  He no longer stinks of Camel cigarettes, Thunderbird wine, injection site abscesses and rotten teeth. His tattoos are gone, his eyes are sparkling, and I realize that the last time he looked like that was in 1965. 

He smiled and excitedly said to me, "I got out!" And just as soon as he said that, he morphed back into Flat Skippy, and was quickly sucked out of the mail slot and disappeared. 

I vividly remember these odd dreams because of the strong negative impact these two people made on the family and community.  Both Mom and Skippy took advantage of kind people and stole at every opportunity from strangers and loved ones alike, with no remorse. Both worked together to commit their crimes. Both caused so much damage and disruption over so many decades. Neither one could ever be trusted. And both died within four months of each other in 1986.  When I had the Flat Skippy dream, I woke up and immediately said, " Wow, Skippy just got out of Purgatory!" Then a few months later, I had the Mom dream, woke up and immediately thought the same thing.  Seems like they served about the same length of sentence. And now their souls are both out there somewhere, experiencing the next chapter. They were a powerful wrecking crew here on Earth. I hope that wherever they are now, they using their powers for good instead.

Bob's Donuts

 In my November 1, 2019 post, I introduced everyone to a strange character named Bob who came over one day in 1976 to buy a dog for his roommate and then kept coming over for a decade. Bob was clearly a lonely man.  Mom was lonely too.  She was still being buffeted by waves of distressing memories and regret in the aftermath of her stormy marriage and costly break-up with career criminal Paris Young. She never admitted the truth of that relationship to her few friends.  It was just too embarrassing to admit to being so naive.  Instead, she bolstered her self esteem by inviting some of the quirkiest oddballs on the planet into our home.  Her expert interrogation techniques drew out their stories, which in many instances were even odder than our own family secrets. Bob was, by far, the weirdest and most disturbed visitor. His story was revealed gradually, over hours spent in our living room, week after week, year after year.

                               Fall of 1976- Bob brought these puppies over to Eagle Street for grooming

At first, the only things we knew was that Bob was Chicago Polish and that he was a Navy veteran who worked as a welder for NASSCO, San Diego's biggest shipyard. He was in his 40's, never married, no kids, and lived platonically with a female roommate in a tiny old house on San Diego Ave in Old Town.  But every time Bob dropped by for a visit, we learned that there were many layers to his story.  He evidently had a very sad childhood. His father never connected with him.  That could have been because his dad was serving during World War II and just wasn't around much. Bob believed that his dad didn't like him because his mother dressed him up like a girl. Whatever the reason, the family did not stay together.  Bob said his mother died and his father remarried to a woman who didn't like him either. Bob enlisted as soon as he was old enough, to get away from the stressful family house.

Apparently Navy life was not the escape he was hoping for. He served during the Korean War Era.  Although he never shared anything about his actual service, one day he revealed the fact that he was forced to leave the service due to his temper.  It took weeks to get the story out of him, but eventually he told us that he would have fits of rage whenever anyone teased him.  He told us that one day he picked up a hammer and threw it at one of the guys who was making fun of him, causing a very serious head injury.  As time went on, we would see firsthand what Bob was like when he was triggered.  

Bob enjoyed the newest electronic gadgets that were coming out in the late 70's.  He would take his paycheck and go buy a tv, a pong video game, and BetaMax videotape players.  He liked to  bring his newest toys over to show them off.  He and Mom got into sharing and trading BetaMax and VHS movies.  He never seemed to spend his paycheck on anything other than electronic things. His clothes were filthy and ragged. He had one pair of work boots. His little Datsun pickup truck was old and dirty. None of those things mattered. But his interest in the newest and best electronics was never ending. 

One night, out of the blue, Bob called Mom on the phone.  He was screaming and crying and yelling.  Mom held the receiver away from her ear, and we could both hear the sound of things being smashed.  Mom asked him what was going on, and Bob answered, sobbing, stuttering, and crying, "Th-th-th-they were m-m-making fun of m-m-me again! Then we heard a Smash!, Smash, Smash! Mom yelled into the phone, "Bob, what are you doing?" He came back to the phone and yelled, "Smashing m-m-my B-B-Beta, and TV with a h-h-h-hammer!" Mom tried to calm him down and talk him out of destroying his things, but it didn't stopped him.  He screamed and smashed until everything was ruined. Then he hung up the phone. The day after his next payday, Bob showed up to our house, opened up the hatch of his camper shell, and brought out all the brand new replacements. He proudly carried each thing into the house, opened the cartons, and showed us his new TV, VCR, and games.  This scenario played out at least a dozen times.  Each time we heard him in the midst of his violent outbursts, I wondered about the servicemember that he injured. I bet that guy, if he survived the hammer to the head, never teased him again.

One seriously gross thing about Bob was the fact that he rarely cleaned himself up.  He smelled terrible.  Not a sweaty kind of terrible.  This man honestly smelled like crap.  Sometimes when he came over and planted himself in one of Mom's recliners, I could swear I saw pieces of dog poop on his shoes, his pants, and sometimes even his shirt.  One time when he came over, he had an actual piece of poop stuck to his hair.  Little sister shouted out, "Hey Bob, is that poop in your hair?" He kind of grunted and reached up to pull it off, and he dropped it into the little trash can that mom kept by her chair for used kleenex. It didn't even seem to surprise him. As a teenager, it made me almost barf. The Poodles that he lived with were similarly covered in their own feces.  I groomed them every few months and it really made me sad to see their paws were encrusted with crap, just like Bob's shoes. We wondered what it was like to be inside Bob's house. One day we found out. 

As time went on, Bob felt comfortable enough to share that he wanted a sex change. He said that ever since he was a small boy, his mom dressed him in girls clothing because she had hoped for a daughter. I guess this somehow imprinted on him. Mom asked him if he was attracted to men or to women.  He said he wasn't interested in either sex at all. After leaving the Navy, he tried to get Johns Hopkins Hospital to give him a sex change so he could be like Christine Jorgensen, but they would not approve it because of his severe anger issues. He said that he tried several times, but could not pass the mental health interview. When he started renting a room in Old Town in the 70's,  he shared his desire with his roommate, a woman who worked as a nurse at a nearby hospital. She started smuggling injectable female hormones out of her workplace and gave him shots.  These shots, for a while, gave him some semblance of female breasts, but after several months, the hospital realized they were missing their drugs and started to investigate.  His roommate decided that giving breasts to Bob wasn't worth losing her job, and the shots abruptly stopped.  Bob never dressed like a woman in public.  He always wore his pee stained, crap-covered blue jeans and ripped, dirty shirts. He was stout, and extremely hirsute.  We could actually watch his beard grow as he sat for hours stuttering out his life story. There were so many layers to this person that we were discovering, bit by bit. Our first impression was that he was a shy, stuttering, smelly, hairy little fat man.  Then we learned that he was extremely angry and prone to violent temper tantrums. And now we knew that he had what they now call gender dysphoria.  

One hot summer Sunday afternoon, Bob called Mom and asked if she could drop off some of the movies she had borrowed.  Old Town was just a couple of miles away, on the way to the FedMart where Mom liked to shop, down on Sports Arena Blvd, so Mom collected the tapes, and us three kids, and headed down Ft Stockton to Juan Street to Old Town.  We had never been to Bob's house before, and I couldn't wait to see it.  San Diego Avenue is the main business street in Old Town.  Bob's place was an old ramshackle house that sat next to the historic graveyard.  Mom parked in the alley behind the house.  The backyard was enclosed with a short sagging chain link fence. Chickens pecked around in the dusty, grassless yard.  Mom told us kids to get out of the car and drop off the tapes.  I grabbed the tapes and the three of us approached the gate.  

As we entered the yard, a giant aggressive rooster ran over to defend the territory.  Little brother quickly retreated back to the car. As the rooster focused on him,  Little sister and I proceeded to the rotting wooden back porch and knocked on the door.  We heard the yipping of a dozen little poodles from inside.  We knocked again, and soon we heard a shuffling from behind the door.  The door opened just a bit, and we were hit with a horrible wave of stench.  Like Bob's smell, only magnified.  The Poodles were trying to get out the door, and I looked  down at them, only to notice the floor, which was a compressed mixture of newspapers and dog poop. Then my sister screamed and I looked up to see why.

There stood round, hairy Bob, with his signature five o'clock shadow, wearing a flowery pink and orange MuuMuu.  His dirty fat feet were crammed in heels. He was wearing a filthy tousled blonde wig, and lipstick and eye shadow that looked like a toddler applied it. It was not a good look for him. When my sister screamed, Bob screamed. P-p-p-put the tapes on the s-s-steps'" he urgently ordered.  Then he slammed the door. We dropped the tapes and ran through the dusty yard, past the scratching hens and the menacing rooster, shimmied out the bent gate, and jumped into the car.  "What the hell happened," asked Mom.  "We'll tell you later, just get us out of here," I answered, out of breath and thinking about all the things I wish I could un-see. 

Bob usually worked the all-night shift at NASCCO.  He got off work after 7 AM.  Sometimes on the weekends he would come straight to our house from work.  Once a week or so, he would stop at the Winchell's Donuts up on West Washington St and buy a dozen donuts .  It was always the same scene.  Bob would let himself in the house and with a big grin, present the big box of donuts.  He would walk over to Mom's desk, put the box down, open the lid, and stand back silently, arms folded across his chest, looking at whoever was in the living room. We kids loved donuts.  Mom rarely bought them for us, unless she was using them to entice us to go to church or to go to the Doctor for a shot. As much as we loved donuts, we knew that if we didn't act fast, the donuts would be inedible.  Because after opening the box and looking at us, Bob would reach in with his greasy unwashed hands and pick up each donut, turn it over and around, and then put it back in the box, before taking a couple for himself.  So we learned that if we wanted an unblemished clean donut, we had to immediately praise and thank him for the treats, and then get on in there and get the ones we wanted. There could be no second helpings, because as soon as we picked out a donut, he would start in with the contamination process. 

One summer morning in 1979, Bob came over bright and early. Mom was busy in the kitchen, but the front door was open, so Bob let himself inside. He had a big cardboard Winchell's Donuts box, and as usual, he proudly pranced through the door, set it on the desk, opened the box, and took a couple steps back. Little brother, sister, and I came over to see what we could choose from, and to our great surprise, the  entire box was filled with luscious glazed round jelly donuts.  A whole dozen! The most coveted donut, yet the rarest, because they were more expensive. We didn't know what the special occasion was, but we were thrilled!  "Ooh, jelly Donuts!  Thank you Bob," I laid the praise on thick.  The three of us moved in and each of us grabbed a donut.  

Suddenly, Bob's smile turned into a frown.  He moved towards the desk, pushed the cover down, and grabbed the box with nine remaining jelly donuts. "M-m-m-my donuts! Th-Th-they are m-m-mine," he screamed.  Little brother ran out the front door and took off.  Little sister and I stood in shock as he clutched the box to his chest, squishing it, screaming over and over, "M-m-m-mine! Th-th-they are m-m-my donuts!" Jelly started to squirt out of the crumpled box onto his clothes and his hairy chin, and red gooey globs started dropping to the floor.  Mom came running out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. Little sister and I quickly retreated down the hallway. Mom took one look at Bob, with his smashed Winchells box and donut jelly dripping all over the place and calmly asked, "Oh Bob, what happened to your donuts?" 

"Th-th-they took them! Th-th-they took my donuts. M-m-my donuts," Bob exclaimed.  He was furious and broke into tears.  My sister and I were ready to lock ourselves in the bathroom at the end of the hall if necessary, so we stayed just outside the bathroom door watching what was happening in the living room.  Before Mom could calm him down, Bob, still clutching the ruined box of donuts to his chest, ran out of the house.  He jumped into his truck and sped off. 

"Well, I guess we won't see him for awhile," surmised Mom and I took a paper towel and started wiping up the mess he left for us.  His instant rage was unexplainable, and really frightening.  I looked at the jelly donut that was still in my hand and thought to myself, "jelly donuts are good, but not good enough to put up with crazy temper tantrums from the nut who brought them over." And then I ate it. 

Less than an hour later, Bob's pickup truck pulled up in front of the house.  We were all in the living room as he headed up to the porch, holding a new Winchell's Donut box.  He let himself in, pranced over to the desk, opened the box, and stood back, his arms folded across his chest,  just like he always did.  Inside the box were a dozen shiny new jelly donuts.  He looked at us.  We looked at him and didn't move a muscle or say a word. After at least a couple silent minutes had passed, he moved towards his box, closed the cover, looked at us, and said, "M-M-MY D-Donuts!  We learned our lesson, and never took any of Bob's donuts again. And to this day, any time I see a jelly donut, I think of Bob and his donut meltdown on Eagle Street.