The End of Mom's Story

 

Mom did not live a long life.  Her lifespan was probably doomed by genetics, but lifestyle and circumstances didn't help matters.  Although she had enjoyed a brief  reversal of all of her chronic health problems between the years 1973-1976, it was not destined to last. In the months after her third and final husband emptied her bank account and stole away on December 1, 1975, Mom's temporary remission from high blood pressure, diabetes, and obesity suddenly did a 180, and by 1977, she was back to where she started before she began her ill-fated relationship with a convicted and imprisoned felon.

                                Mom during her healthy years. A 1974 Christmas prison visit.

She quickly fell into bad eating habits after she was deserted. It was back to pizza, fried chicken, See's Candies, crackers, brownies, all washed down with Tab.  The weight came back on, the diabetes returned, and with the weight and the salty food came high blood pressure.

The chest pains started coming in 1977, then the mild heart attacks.  This was around the time her health insurance had been changed from a PPO to Kaiser HMO.  I drove her to Kaiser Emergency many times.  It was scary, sitting in the waiting room with the siblings, wondering with each cardiac event whether this one was going to be the one that killed her.  We kids were previously scarred by Dad's one and done heart attack in 1971.  Mom, it appeared, was going to have several of them. 

 Kaiser, to its credit, tried to steer Mom to an offramp and toward health by assigning her to weight loss classes, diabetes management classes, and the like.  Mom, however, was resistant.  She made me attend the weight loss classes with her and would not allow herself to be weighed. She insisted that I, a skinny size 7  kid, get on the scale in front of all the chubby middle aged ladies.  I don't know if it made them feel bad about their own weight, or if they quietly ridiculed her for hiding behind her skinny 16 year old daughter. Mom bristled at Kaiser's interference, and instead went back to her previous doctor. He was not a Kaiser doctor, so she had to pay out of pocket for every appointment.  She preferred her private physician, Dr. Hunt. The handsome prematurely gray haired doctor with piercing blue eyes patted her hand and offered soft spoken sympathies when she sat in his exam room and cried about her sad life. That was not the kind of care that she needed, but it was only care that she wanted. 

In 1980, I had to leave home.  I was 19, eager to be free from  the responsibility of siblings, Mom, and chores.  Mom did not want to share me with anyone, even for a few hours.  No dating was permitted, and time away from her was not allowed unless it was for work, church,  or school.  I was being smothered, and any of my requests to Mom for the tiniest amount of freedom was met with chest pains, dizziness, and trips to Kaiser ER.  My simple plan to go to the Festival of Animation at the Kensington Theater, just  4 miles away, set her off, because she knew I wanted to go with a male friend. That was the day I learned that my suspicions of being adopted were real.  Mom angrily lashed out at me, saying that it was understandable that I wanted to go out with a guy because I was a whore like my real mother.  She shouted out a random stranger's name and told me to go find her.  She expressed disappointment in me, she said, because when she adopted me she assumed that I would be the daughter that would care for her in her old age.  

That moment woke me up to reality.  I was so happy to finally know the truth about my place in the Warriner family.  I also had doubts about whether Mom was really having heart attacks every time she clutched her chest.  And I also realized that if I wanted to be free to live my own life, I needed to start planning my exit.  One day in April, 1980, I had reached my limit, and I simply walked away. After my last class of the day, I left without even packing a change of clothes.  I got a Greyhound ticket for a far away state and left without even saying goodbye.  I still have mixed feelings about it to this day, but at the time, I felt there was no other choice but to make a clean quick break. 

During the 19 months that I was living on a small chicken and rabbit farm in Indiana, Mom grew older, fatter, and sicker.  Her two youngest kids were into drugs and alcohol and making bad choices. Mom  was also getting pressure from some of her older kids who wanted money from her. I came to visit once, and saw the turmoil she was going through with some of the other kids. I knew that it was time to move back to San Diego.   Indiana was not working out for me. Between the weather, the terrible job shortages, and pressure from Mom whenever she called me long distance, it all added up to a return trip on the Greyhound bus in November 1981.  At that point, I was stronger, and felt I could stand up to Mom's mind games and guilt trips. 

By the time I had returned to California, Mom had a new medical problem that couldn't be alleviated.  She had fallen and hurt her back.  I don't know if it was a disc problem, but it seemed likely. She was in constant pain, was quite immobile, and the injury didn't appear to be fixable.  She had bought herself a couple of electric mobility scooters to get around at the neighborhood bank and grocery store.  

                                                       In 1985, Mom got around this way. 

Older brother Darwin had attained a contractor's license and had talked Mom into letting him reroof the house and install solar heating for the swimming pool.  She paid him for the job, and he did it.  But the work was shoddy all the way around.  The roof leaked into her closet, ruining everything inside.  The pool never got warm enough for her to comfortably swim.  Historically, she kept the pool between 90 and 95 degrees.  After the solar panels were installed, she was lucky to get the pool up above 80 degrees.  She quit swimming after awhile, and her back pain intensified. To make matters worse, the plumbing for the pool had somehow been screwed up to the point where she could no longer backflush and properly maintain the cleanliness of the water.  By 1985, the pool was a green disgusting swamp. 

Also by 1985, Mom had developed a new disease.  She had to stop to catch her breath just walking from the living room to the kitchen.  She could no longer lie down to sleep, because her lungs filled up with fluid and would literally begin to drown her. She got brief spans of sleep if she slept slightly reclined in her La-Z Boy chair. Her beautiful peaches and cream complexion had turned grey and sallow.  Her eyes showed her exhaustion from lack of sleep and the chronic back pain.  Luckily, Mom's insurance had changed again, to a plan that allowed her to once again go to Dr. Hunt for care.  He diagnosed her with congestive heart failure, and prescribed medication that did not seem to alleviate any of her horrible and debilitating symptoms.  And really, congestive heart failure can't be cured.  One must live with it until the heart gives out.  And that is what happened. 

In 1986, I had a new job.  I worked the all-night shift at the Midway USPS processing plant.  As a new flexible employee, I had to work 6 days a week, weekends, holidays, 10-12 hours a day.  I would check on Mom before work, to feed all the rabbits, dogs, cats, and birds that Mom still had in the house. Then after work in the morning, I would make another Eagle Street stop on my way home to my apartment in Hillcrest. Many times, as I was coming up the front steps, I could hear her arguing with my older brother.  He would be badgering her for money, and she would be telling him that she had no more money and begged him to stop bugging her.  As soon as I opened the screen door and walked into the living room, the badgering would stop and he would leave.  This kind of thing was happening quite regularly during her final year of life.  

                              In July of 1986, Mom was still handfeeding orphaned bunnies.

One day in mid August, around noon, as I was getting ready for bed, Mom called, out of breath, complaining of heavy chest pains.  I got dressed, ran downstairs to the parking lot and jumped into my Green VW bug. I sped down Washington Street to her house.  I lived about a mile away, so I got there quickly.  She was in distress when I arrived. She was having trouble catching her breath, and she appeared quite frightened. I had taken her to ER at least a dozen times before, but this time seemed different, more intense. She seemed terrified. I called 911, told them what was happening, and got no help.  The operator said that if she was conscious, it was my responsibility to get her to the hospital myself.  I slowly helped her down the steps and literally stuffed her into the passenger seat of my tiny super beetle.  She wanted me to take her to Hillside Hospital, because that is where Dr. Hunt had practicing privileges.  We got there in one piece, even though my master cylinder was failing and my breaks were extremely iffy.  According to the ER doctors who ran the tests, Mom had suffered a heart attack at home that morning.  She was admitted for care.  For several days, I visited her both before and after work.  

On the evening of August 19, I visited her between 6 and 9 PM before leaving for work.  There had not been any talk about when she may get released, and although I was in denial about it, Mom clearly had inklings that she would never be returning home.  On that particular night, she seemed very sad and regretful.  She tearfully mourned the fact that her children did not get along with each other.  She said that her desire all along was that we could be a close, loving big family, like the Waltons. She cried when she said that she didn't understand why most of her kids abandoned her or were cruel to her.  Then she made me promise that upon her death,  I would not let my older siblings know about it.  She also instructed me to not put an obituary notice in our local newspaper.  She wanted her obituary to be posted in her hometown paper, but no place else.  She warned me that the older kids would start telling me bad stories about her, and that I shouldn't believe anything they had to say about her.  I just sat and listened to her as she quietly expressed woeful remorse.

It was remorse about the wrong things, however.  Here she was, crying about how everything turned out, with most of her kids choosing to go no contact.  She still could not admit that the estrangements happened as a result of her deceit, abuse, and head games. Thoughts and memories flooded my mind as I sat there at her bedside, holding her hand. She had attempted to kill me and my younger siblings in 1971, then retold the story in later years, stating that it was her oldest daughter Patti who tried to kill her own young son and daughter. Mom's memories of events were molded into different versions that did not include her involvement.  She was always the victim, never the antagonist.  Even now, she could not admit that she had hurt so many people.  Instead, she held on to her identity as the widow with young children.  She never took any responsibility for her major role in the family drama that drove all of her children away from her.  She refused to see it.  She never apologized and asked for forgiveness or understanding.  She insisted that her greatest wish was to have a big and happy family, that she loved us all and wanted the best for us.  This was not the time to debate history.  I simply hugged and kissed her, told her I loved her and would see her in the morning. Then I left for work.  I never saw her again.

August 20th arrived.  I had been at work since 9:30 the night before.  Instead of clocking out, my group had been given after-tour overtime downstairs to work in a dirty, dusty operation that was referred to as the Spider.  Someone had a radio on, and we heard a breaking news report of a mass shooting at a post office in Oklahoma, with 14 postal employees killed.  This was one of the first examples of someone "going postal." Then a song came on, Peter Cetera singing, The Glory of Love.  At that moment, someone from the Attendance office came downstair looking for me.  As I heard the verse,

"Sometimes I just forget, say things I might regret,

It breaks my heart to see you crying

I don't want to lose you

I could never make it alone,"

The attendance officer gruffly called my name and when I answered him, he shouted, "Urgent call from the hospital about your mom.  The Doctor said you gotta get there fast, I'll tell your supervisor, now clock out and go!"

I rushed to the hospital and ran from the parking lot to her hospital room.  Doctor Hunt was standing in the hall outside her room. He came over to me and gently said, "I'm sorry.  She had a massive heart attack this morning.  We worked on her a long time, but we couldn't bring her back, she's gone."  

He asked me if I wanted to see her.  She always had said that she never wanted anyone to see her once she was dead, so I declined.  I guess the doctor thought I needed to know she was ok now, because he told me that he had been in the room with her, and when she died, she had a very calm expression on her face, and that she was no longer in great pain. 

I thanked him, turned to leave, and then broke down and cried.  I didn't cry because she was a wonderful Mom. I wasn't sad that I was going to miss her friendship, understanding, and emotional support. She wasn't wonderful. It had been quite difficult to navigate our relationship because she was always sabotaging it. All of us kids knew that earning her love was difficult and expensive. I cried because I regretted the fact that she wasted her whole life manipulating people, stealing from them, lying to them, and alienating siblings from one another, all in an crazy attempt to keep everyone under her control. She wanted everyone to love only her and would stop at nothing to attain that goal. Her obsession with deception and manipulation actually drove everyone away.  I cried because it could have been so simple to love and respect Mom and receive love and respect from her in return, but her narcissism and sociopathy wouldn't allow it. And I cried because I knew the fight over her estate would drive bigger and more jagged wedges between her already estranged children. 

We held a small memorial service for her at the same chapel that held Dad's memorial in 1971. I was too broken up to read the short paper that I had written.  I think the director of services read it for me.

 

When we first got our swimming pool in 1969, Mom made sure we always wore our life vests for the first year.  The thin little zip up vests were not cumbersome, and we didn't mind wearing them. They provided just enough buoyancy to lift us to the surface of the water if we stopped moving our limbs.  I remember the first time she allowed me to swim without the vest.  I swam out to the deep end, suddenly feeling very light, but when I stopped paddling, I began to sink.  I quickly realized that nothing was here to help keep my head above water anymore. It was all up to me now, and I started swimming. 

When I met Dr Hunt in the hospital corridor on that warm morning of August 20th,  the minute he told me she had died, I felt the oddest feeling inside, eerily similar to that day in 1971 when Mom took my life vest and let me swim free:  Suddenly light, then a sinking feeling, wondering what to do, and then just doing it. You have to keep going.  There was no alternative.  Not in the pool on Eagle Street  and not at Hillside Hospital 15 years later. 

I never could locate Mom's out of state obituary, so I included one here.

Carol Jane Martindale, Tompsett, Warriner, AKA Angel Jane Young, and finally Carol Warriner again, died on August 20, 1986.  She was  64 years old.

Carol was born in Marinette, Wisconsin October 31, 1921. Although she changed her birth year many times throughout her lifetime, this was the real one. She had four older and  four younger siblings. 

She married in 1939 to Bill Tompsett, and during their marriage four children were born.  A fifth child was born 6 weeks after Bill's suicide in 1949. This child was most likely the son of Peter Arnett. 

She married Darwin Stone Warriner twice in 1950 but the anniversary they observed was May 17th. They had one live son, one stillborn son, then adopted me to replace the dead baby,  then acquired two other babies who were never formally adopted. 

After Darwin died in 1971, She took on an alias, Angel, when she began a pen pal relationship with a convict named Paris Burton Young,  who was serving time at Susanville State Prison. She married him on  July 11, 1975, the day he was released. The former armed robber soon cleaned out her bank account, taking the nest egg which came from Dad's life insurance money, and disappeared forever on December 1, 1975. She told her family and friends that Paris died in a welding explosion and that the stress caused her to suffer a miscarriage.

She became a professional clown in 1976, taking the name Angel as her clown name.

She had many grandchildren.  I am truly not sure the exact number, because most of her children were estranged with no contact for many years, but I am guessing when she passed in 1986, she had 14 grandchildren. 

She was the ultimate salesperson. She bought and sold antiques, collected and redeemed Blue Chip and S & H Green stamps, sold things at the swap meets, and produced rabbits, parakeets, Poodles, and Manx cats for sale. She could sell anything to anyone.  

She believed in seances, psychics, faith healers, and Ouija board communication. She enjoyed her soap opera "programs," reading the National Enquirer, playing Yahtzee, and leaving her Christmas decorations up all year. She loved opals and despised politicians from both parties. 

She was, at the same time, the nicest and most generous person, but also the cruelest and most devious person.  She showed a different persona to different people, depending on the setting and what she needed from each individual person on any particular day.  This made her quite sweet, but scary at the same time.  Mom was a major force in a tiny 4' 10" body.  She could build you up and destroy you in the same day, without batting an eyelash, while insisting that she herself was the victim. Her children loved her, but were also terrified of her.

I am sure she is wreaking havoc even now, wherever she is.

 

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 own, 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.