Liz

Life on Eagle Street is not only about what it was like to live there as a member of the family, but it is also about those people who were a part of our life experience. Some came and went quickly. Others lingered a bit longer.  All had an impact on our lives.  Here is my memory of Liz:

After being away for about a year, brother Darwin returned to San Diego sometime in 1973.

Around 1972-1973, we used to pack up KFC and drive an hour east through winding mountains, stopping occasionally to let Jeff and Tabatha out to throw up, so that we could visit Darwin on Sundays.  He never liked his photo taken, and none of us was aware that Jeff had the Kodak and snapped this rare shot. That is Tabatha on the bench, and Tammy in the green dress. Mom is sitting next to Darwin, hidden by the KFC. It was hot and there were lots of lizards.  Once he moved back to San Diego, he met Liz.

 One day he brought a girl to Eagle Street to meet Mom.  Her name was Liz.  Liz had two things going against her immediately.  Number one: she had already had a baby.  And number two:  Darwin liked her.  I was about 12 years old when Darwin introduced us to Liz.  And I already knew, based on past history, that Mom was not going to like her.  

It wasn't that long ago that Mom had made it quite clear that she did not approve of brother Tim's first wife Christine. She even tried to prevent their marriage by contacting his commanding officer in the Air Force. Then she hated Tim's girlfriend  and subsequent second wife Dolores. She had called Delores an old retired barmaid.  She had also become upset when Darwin took an interest in Dolores's daughter Barbara.  Mom had expressed displeasure with Lynda's husband and also had nothing good to say about Susan and Patti's husbands.  It was pretty apparent that Mom did not want any of us to ever have romantic relationships.  The reasons were not because of race or religion.  It was simply this: Mom just didn't want to share her kids with anyone. She needed to know we loved her more than we could ever love anyone else. The only way to prove our love for her was by not becoming close to any other human being. She was unhappy enough if it was merely a closeness to our siblings or a best friend, but it was especially risky business to attempt a romantic relationship.  We were permitted to love only Mom and no one else.  Darwin's new girlfriend was guaranteed to get off on the wrong foot.

Liz was the same age as Darwin, about 20 years old.  She had the typical early 70's look. Naturally pretty,  she was skinny and had waist-length straight brown hair and green eyes.  I liked her instantly.  She was calm, friendly, and confident. Knowing my brother the way I did, I wondered what she saw in him. I also wondered what he found interesting about her.  They did not seem well suited for each other.  

Mom was polite and kept her manners during their visit.  But after Darwin and Liz left, Mom launched into an angry tirade. She was disgusted that Darwin took up with a girl who already had a baby.  She yelled that Liz was probably a whore, since she obviously had already engaged in sex with some other guy. Her anger escalated as she started describing all the different sex acts that she was sure was going on between Darwin and Liz.  I was not interested in getting sex education from Mom in this manner.  It was embarrassing.  While she ranted, I made a mental note to think twice before getting into a relationship with a boy.  It probably would not be worth the trouble.  As Mom went on and on, I wondered why she was so disturbed about her son meeting a girl who already had a baby. When Daddy died in 1971, Mom revealed to me that he had been her second husband, and not the biological father of Patti, Susan, Tim, Lynda, and Skippy.  So her attitude seemed terribly hypocritical. Knowing that there was no way to calm her down,  I blocked Mom's angry remarks out of my earshot and thought about my own problems.

The biggest issue I had with Mom at that time was that I was 12, in the 7th grade, and needed to start wearing a bra. When the school year started, I had approached her shyly and asked her if she would get me one.  She instead bought me a package of thin little girl tank top undershirts, telling me that I was way too young to think about being a woman and that I needed to remain her baby.  At my Catholic school, the 7th and 8th grade girls were required to wear a white blouse and plaid skirt.  My classmates could see through my blouse and teased me about my stupid undershirt.  Mom's answer was to dig out my old one-piece plaid jumper, which I had worn during 1st through 6th grade. Despite my objections, she made me squeeze into it and wear it to school. That worked for only one day.  Sister Stanislaus sent me home with a note for Mom which demanded I wear the proper uniform.  So I had to resort to wearing a sweater over my blouse every day, no matter how hot it was outside.  It seemed that Mom did not want me to grow up and would do whatever it took to keep me permanently pre-teen.  We were at an impasse.

Within a few months, Darwin and Liz moved into an upstairs unit in an old Hillcrest apartment building on Pennsylvania and Third Avenue. The building was owned by Grandma Balistreri, the old Italian widow who lived across the street from us and acted as our surrogate grandmother.

Grandma's Apartment building today.  Darwin and Liz lived upstairs on the right side. 

Since the young couple lived less than a mile away, they stopped by for visits fairly often. Sometimes they would bring government-issue food, which back in the day were plain metal cans with a USDA emblem on them and a label that described the contents as powdered eggs or dried milk.  It was really gross for humans but perfect for weaning puppies and kittens.  So Mom would give them a little money for it.  She would also would give them food and other things.

Liz did not seem intimidated by Mom at all.  In fact, it seemed like she didn't even know that Mom didn't want her in Darwin's life.  After a few months of regular visits,  Mom started softening up to her.  One day, when Liz and I were the only ones in the kitchen, she asked me why I never wore a bra. I felt my face turning red as I told her that Mom refused to get me one because she didn't think I needed one yet. Liz didn't comment on it and the subject was changed because she could obviously see that I was embarrassed.

About a week later, Darwin and Liz came by to pick up a jar of Mom's homemade salad dressing. I had forgotten about our conversation of the week before.  As Liz and Mom were placing the glass jars of dressing into a bag, Liz just point-blank said, " Tammy needs a bra.  What are the boys at her school gonna think of her, going braless like a hippy or something."  I froze, wondering what Mom was going to say.  Mom stopped what she was doing, looked at me, and then said, " Yes, I was going to take her to Fedco to get her a couple of them today." As Mom turned away to close the fridge,  I glanced at Liz, who looked at me and gave me a silent Mona Lisa-style smile. Thanks to Liz, I became a proud bra wearer by the end of the day.

In late 1973 and into 1974, Mom had found her new love interest,a convicted armed robber named Paris Young.  At the time, he was incarcerated in Susanville, California, and whenever Mom flew to Reno to go visit him, she needed places to dump me and the two little kids.  Occasionally, she left us with Darwin and Liz.  When I stayed briefly with them, I noticed that Liz had a job that she had to go to, while Darwin got to do fun things, like driving around in his cool frosted blue VW bug, assembling stereos known as Heathkits, and collecting sea life for his amazing salt water aquariums. He visited Mexican beaches like Cabo San Lucas, coming back extremely blistered and sunburned on one occasion.

Meanwhile,  Liz had a job at Accurate Answering Services. One day I happened to have the opportunity to pop briefly into the building with Mom, and watching Liz at work was quite bewildering.  It was a cramped and windowless room that had a big switchboard, and ladies were plugging and unplugging wires into a wall and answering phone calls. At the time, I don't think Liz had a driver's license.  Either that or she didn't have her own personal car.  She would get on a bike and pedal to work, which was located on University Avenue and Texas Street, right next to a 7-11.  Even when she became pregnant with Darwin's first child, her condition did not deter her from getting on that bike and riding down the narrow and traffic-congested thoroughfare to get to her job.

I was only 13 years old, and therefore I was viewing their relationship with immature eyes, but it seemed to me that they did not have equal footing in the relationship.  And my big brother certainly wasn't like our Dad, who had a full time union job with benefits and worked like a dog, without ever taking a vacation, in order to buy a house and support a big family. Darwin was still acting like a young, fun-loving college guy. Liz, who was the same age as Darwin, seemed to be much older.  She definitely was the serious half of the partnership.

In the summer of 1974, Liz was getting ready to have the baby.  They moved to a little old rental house two blocks away from us, on Eagle Street and University Avenue.

The tiny house is long gone, replaced by luxury condos.

Her daughter Jennifer had recently turned two years old, and Mom had accepted not only Liz but also the little girl into the family. On a very hot day in early August, the new baby was born.  I heard Mom talking long distance to Aunt Amy on the phone about the event.  She was excited to have a granddaughter, and at the same time she was expressing disgust with Darwin.  She told Aunt Amy that Darwin had his hopes up for a son, and was so upset that the baby was a girl that he turned and left the hospital. Then after he pouted for a while he went back and named the baby Samya because he wanted her to have an Arabic name. I think the baby had some kind of problem with her legs because at some point, there were casts on them, but I really don't remember much more, because the family did not stay together.

I was in school, busy with my own problems, not involved much.  So I only recall flashes of memories:  Mom worried and upset because the two little girls had marks on their bodies from being spanked too hard. Darwin getting rid of his VW bug and getting a Mustang, his prized possession.  Liz wanting to learn to drive it and the two of them arguing about it.  Darwin turning every cupboard and closet in the Eagle Street rental house into marijuana greenhouses.

The last time we kids stayed with Darwin and Liz was in July 1975. Mom had married Paris Young after his release from prison and Mom and our new step-father were on their honeymoon.  And then one day, I remember a shouting match that took place outside of my house on Eagle Street.  And there was a message in lipstick written all over the windows of Darwin's beloved Mustang. I think that was the end.

After that, I never saw them together as a family ever again.  And then the story repeated, with new characters. There was a new woman in Darwin's life.  Her name was Mary and she had a kid named Chance.  And again, Darwin tried to convince Mom to accept this new girlfriend and her child.  But Mom could not understand how a man could abandon his own flesh and blood child and replace her with someone else's child.  She never accepted the new woman in Darwin's life.  Her loyalties remained with Liz.

We didn't see Liz or the two girls for a long time.  The summer of 1976 came along.  Mom was enrolled in an evening Clowning class at San Diego State University.  I stayed home with the two younger siblings while Mom was at school.  And on one warm summer evening, when it was still light outside, Liz showed up at the door.  She was by herself.  She was stick thin and was wearing what we girls all loved to wear in the mid 70s:  a thin and comfy little dress which had a white background and tiny colorful flowers, and had a shirred tube top.

The most popular dress in the 70s.  Inexpensive to make and easy to wear.

She let herself into the house, said hello, and asked if she could take a bath.  I shrugged and told her to go ahead.   She quickly bathed herself and washed her long hair, then dried off and slipped her dress back on.  As she got ready to leave, she calmly told me she was going to try to find Darwin and see if they could get back together.  I thought she was being delusional.  Darwin had been living with his new girlfriend for some time now.   He wasn't interested in Liz anymore and had angrily screamed those words at her during the Eagle Street fight that I vaguely remembered.  I was so shocked by the out-of-the-blue visit that I didn't think to ask Liz where the girls were until after she exited the house and headed toward Washington Street. By then, she was gone.

I didn't see Liz again for over a year.  And when she came back into our lives in the summer of 1977, she had a new baby.  He was a beautiful blond haired boy named David who was born in July. She told us that Darwin was the father.  Mom was overjoyed to have a new grandbaby, and didn't have a doubt that he was Darwin's child.  I don't remember her bringing the girls with her when she brought the baby to show us.  We didn't get to see Jennifer and Samya for many months.  The next time we saw them, they looked very different because they had grown so much and both had short hair. They both seemed very shy and did not talk, like kids who are meeting new people for the first time.  I had the distinct impression that they had not been living with their mother until recently, but I was 17 years old at the time and didn't ask questions.

Samya is on Cherub's shoulders, Jennifer is on Sad Sam's shoulders, and little David is with Tabatha, playing with a kitten. This is sometime in 1978

In the summer of 1978, Liz had popped back into our lives. Mom asked her to drive with me up to Northern California to pick up some Poodles that we had loaned out for a year to dog breeder friends.  It was in August.  Mom watched one year old David during the week that we were gone.  I don't remember the two girls being in the picture.  Liz and I had a nice easy drive to Mendocino County, which is in between San Francisco and the Oregon border.  While we stayed for a few days at the dog breeders compound, Liz seemed very Zen.  She spent her time lounging in her cool dark bedroom and was reading The Thorn Birds, by Colleen McCullough.  On the drive back to San Diego, Liz revealed to me that she was pregnant yet again with Darwin's child.  I heard her say it, but I couldn't wrap my mind around it.  Darwin was still with the other woman.  I really thought Liz was living in her own little world and was not being honest with herself. But I was wrong.

The following April, Liz gave birth to Sabrina, a beautiful little girl with curly hair just like her father Darwin and grandmother Carol.  She had the big brown Warriner eyes.  There was no denying that the child belonged to my brother.  I was very confused, and also very sad that those children were never going to have a father to help raise them and to care for them.

I found this photo in Mom's desk. I don't know when it was taken.  

Sabrina at Eagle Street house with one of our Collie mix puppies

Liz brought the kids by at Christmas, I think this was 1983.

Mom, of course, was very happy to have these precious kids in her life.  Liz brought them around for visits quite often in the early eighties, then disappeared again for a time.

The girls liked Mom's electric vehicle and piled onto it for a photo

 Liz resurfaced again during Mom's waning years, this time with a new man and two new children, Patrick and Reva.  Even though these two new babies were not Darwin's kids, Mom fell in love with them just the same.

Patrick, Samya, and Sabrina

Grandma Angel (Carol) with Samya and Sabrina and their new baby sister Reva, around Christmas 1985

 The last time I saw Liz was when I took Mom over to their La Mesa house to see the newest baby.  It was around Christmas time, 1985. Mom passed away the following summer, and I never saw Liz or the kids again.

I will always remember Liz with fondness and sadness. In the beginning, Liz was a young mother with a calm maturity and confidence.  She wasn't afraid to work. Unlike the other partners and spouses of my siblings, Liz was able to break the ice with Mom and maintain a lifelong warm relationship. But something happened to her along the way.

In the novel, The Thorn Birds, the character Meggie falls hopelessly in love with a man who was devoted to a different life path and gave her mixed signals.  She spends her entire life obsessed with the man, and manages to have his son so that she at least has a piece of him that he cannot take away.  In the end, she loses that beloved son, and does not end up with the man that she loved for a lifetime. Sadly,  Liz followed Meggie's path.  She loved Darwin with an obsession that seemed to be her undoing. She had children with him, knowing he was with someone else, but probably hoping that he would someday return to his family. When that wishful fantasy never became a reality, it seemed to break her spirit.  And I am certain her children suffered the consequences.

Smorgasbords

Mom loved to eat.  But she didn't love to cook.  Before Dad died, most of our dinners were either frozen TV dinners or canned Spaghetti O's.  After Dad passed away, we ate lots of fast food from Der Wienerschnitzel, Jack in the Box, KFC and Arby's, and of course, tons of pizza.  But at least two or three times a month we were treated to a smorgasbord meal.

In the 1970s, there were three competing all-you-can-eat businesses in San Diego. Mom's favorite was called Sir George's Smorgasbord.

A newspaper ad from 1971

 I can't remember where it was located because it was out in the county and required a bit of a drive.  My faintest memory tells me it was somewhere in La Mesa.  Sir George's food was great.  There were lots of salads and vegetables.  I loved veggies, and since we didn't get too many vegetables with our fast food meals,  I always loaded up when we went to Sir George's. They also had the most delectable fritters.  They were delicately crispy on the outside, soft and slightly sweet on the inside.  Mom always filled a plate with fritters. But the item that drove her to distraction was the chicken. She could not resist those crunchy golden pieces of fried chicken piled up in a rectangular silver steam table pan.  Unlike Colonel Sanders' chicken, which was salty and had too many secret herbs and spices,  Sir George's fried chicken had a mild seasoning and a thin breading.    Mom couldn't get enough of it.  The prices were a very reasonable two bucks a person, and little kids prices were even cheaper.  We were never allowed to order a drink other than water, however,  because drinks cost extra.

Perry Boys Smorgy was a newcomer to San Diego in the 70's.

A newspaper ad from 1973

 It opened up in Kearny Mesa, just off the freeway that Mom always called Highway 395 even though it had been renamed 163 sometime in the 60s.  Compared to Sir George's smaller floor space, Perry Boys was huge and could serve twice as many people.  It had the regular daily staples like fried chicken, mac and cheese, and mashed potatoes and gravy.  But there were rotating menus as well.  Tuesday was Italian night, Wednesday was Chinese night, Thursday was Mexican night, etc.    Perry Boys had big red vinyl-covered booths that sat six. The food was definitely not as tasty as Sir George's, but it had two things in its favor that had us kids hooked on the place:  The soft drinks and soft serve ice cream were included in the price, and we could serve ourselves.

 The bad thing about unlimited trips to the soda fountain and dessert table is that we had no self control.  I will always remember our final trip to Perry Boy's Smorgy. Mom let me bring one of my friends.  The four of us kids engaged in a session of soda and ice cream gluttony that ended up with my little six year old sister Tabatha suddenly complaining that her stomach hurt.  Mom told her to stop eating, but it was too late.  She whined that she was going to throw up.  Mom looked across the expansive floor towards the restroom and realized that she would never get there in time.  She told her to hurry up and get under the table.  Tabatha ducked underneath the booth and threw her guts up, while I sat there rolling my eyes at my horrified friend. Suddenly none of us felt like eating anymore. As soon as my sister was finished vomiting, Mom quickly got us up and out of there, leaving a disgusting mess on the floor under the table, and no tip for the unfortunate person who was stuck with the clean-up. We didn't return to that buffet again.

The other all-you-can-eat place was the Bit of Sweden Smorgasbord.  It was located up on busy El Cajon Blvd, amid the car dealerships, furniture stores, and funeral homes, just a few miles away from Eagle Street.  Bit of Sweden was in a very small building, with round wooden tables that had real tablecloths and sat four people.  There were colorful wooden clogs and a framed old map of Sweden mounted on the wall. The buffet table was very small and featured mostly exotic stuff like cucumber and dill with sour cream and Swedish meatballs with gravy, but they also had roasted chicken, which made Mom happy.  This food was too fancy to suit the palates of small children. We didn't go to this buffet very often because there really wasn't enough variety of food to choose from.

Whenever Mom took us to Sir George's to eat, she had a plan in mind.  The plan was to not only fill our stomachs, but to fill other things too.  She gave each of us kids a canvas sack, which we were required to keep folded up and hidden when we entered the restaurant.  Walking through the buffet line with our plates, we kids could take what we preferred to eat, but we had to leave room for the pieces of fried chicken that Mom would pile onto our plates. After returning to our table,  we would then pass our sacks under the table to mom.  She would look around to make sure no one was watching, put a paper napkin in her lap and unfold it. Then while we kids were chowing down on our meal, she would snatch a piece of chicken from someone's plate, drop it to her lap and roll it up in the napkin.  Then she stuffed it in a bag.

 Over and over she did this, until our bags were full.  She would strive to leave the restaurant with at least five or six pieces in each bag, and she usually took only breasts, never legs or wings. In her bag, she placed a dozen or more of the tasty fritter balls. When it was time to leave, each kid would have to carry out a bag of fried chicken.  We always left very quickly, with our food bags under our jackets.   When we got home, she would take the bags to the kitchen, remove the chicken from the napkins, place them in big Tupperware container and store it in the fridge. The fritters usually were eaten up that same night, but the chicken would last for days before it was all gone.

I don't remember us kids ever eating any of that stolen chicken.  For one thing, the only part of the bird I liked were the wings, and she never stole wings.  And also, we didn't really like fried chicken all that much.   I think that Mom probably ate all that chicken herself, while we kids ate our preferred Pirate Picnic or Safari Supper frozen dinners. Once the chicken was all gone in a few days, we would resume our fast food visits for dinner.

Sir George's suffered the most from Mom's kleptomania.  Perry Boy's food did not really appeal to her as much, although she did fill some to-go bags there too. I always felt pretty guilty about being an accomplice to these thefts.  Mom justified her actions by saying that the prices were so high that you could hardly blame a poor widowed mother of three to try to get value for her dollar by taking a little extra.  To me, it felt wrong.  But Mom said that it was ok to bag a little extra chicken at the buffet, so long as you don't get caught.

One night, Mom took us kids to the Bit of Sweden Smorgasbord. As usual, she armed each of us with a tote bag and we knew the drill. But I was getting older, almost a teenager, and getting an attitude. I really did not want any part of it anymore.   As she drove us there, I defiantly told Mom that I didn't want to carry a bag.  This irritated her to the point where she swatted me and told me I would be carrying a bag.  I said nothing else about it until we were at the tiny restaurant eating our meals.  Mom had already filled three bags with roasted chicken, but I refused to pass mine to her.  She couldn't say a thing to me but her glaring eyes told me that there would be a whipping when we got home.  I didn't care.  I was through with Smorgasbord shoplifting and willing to take my punishment.

We all got up quickly to leave.  As we passed by the front desk, we were stopped by the manager, a tiny old woman with a foreign accent, who ordered us back into the dining room.  "Attention guests," she loudly announced. " I would like you all to see these thieves and what they stole from our restaurant." Then a tall man came from the kitchen and stood in front of the door so we could not bolt.  "Come here, and show everyone what is in your bags," she demanded. Everyone in the restaurant stopped eating and turned to watch. Mom meekly dumped her bag of chicken on the table.  Then my stunned little brother and sister dumped out their bags of chicken. It was my turn.  I walked over to the table, turned my empty bag upside down, looked at the guests and at Mom, and defiantly smiled as nothing fell out. "Now, take your bags and your children, leave, and never, ever return.  If we see you again we will call the police," said the woman.  We turned and ran out of the Bit of Sweden, with Mom shouting out, "We didn't really like your food anyhow!"

This could have been used as the "watch for these people" posting at Smorgasbords in 1973

The former Bit of Sweden, now a little French café.

Needless to say, that was the last time we ate at Bit of Sweden.   We never spoke of that humiliating event.  Mom may have kept up with her food stealing, but she never made us carry bags for her again. And no, I did not get a beating that night.

Friend to the Friendless- Meet Bob

It was the summer of 1976.  Mom had a lot going on that year.  She was getting over her disastrous marriage from the year before. She spent the first three months closing down the welding shop. She then became a clown. She was still breeding Poodles, and was still posting ads in the paper nearly every weekend to sell things. In August, she placed an ad to sell one of our female Poodles, a beautiful show quality girl named Princess.

  Princess was pretty and sweet, but she had a gene for luxating patella, which meant that her puppies could come out crippled if the father dog had the same gene. She had already produced one affected puppy that had to be put to sleep. As a breeder she was worthless and needed to go to a pet home.

A woman called to inquire about Princess.  She said she was a nurse at a nearby hospital and wanted a pet, and would send her roommate to take a look at the dog.  Within half an hour, a small Datsun pickup with a camper shell pulled up in front of our house.  We had assumed her roommate was a woman, and we were surprised when a man got out of the vehicle, briskly walked up to our front screen door and knocked.

He looked to be in his early forties, short and plump, with black hair clipped in a military-style flattop. His face was greasy and he had a couple days growth of thick black stubble covering his face and neck.  He wore big oval-shaped tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses that gave him an owlish expression.  His torn and filthy t-shirt looked and smelled as though he had been wearing it for days.  His jeans were similarly dirty and his steel-toed work boots were caked with dried mud. Mom gave me that look that indicated she really didn't want him to come inside, but in the interest of selling the dog, she was polite and invited him in.

He timidly walked into the living room, then walked back to the door as if to leave. He then turned around and took a couple of short steps towards us and staying near the door, he said,

"I-I-I-I- c-c-came to see th-th-th-P-P-P-Poodle. I-I-I- am B-B-Bob, P-P-Portia's roommate."

Clearly the guy was very nervous and shy, and he had a terrible stutter.

I brought out Princess, perfectly groomed and wearing pink bows.  She ran over to Bob and jumped up on him in greeting, her little puffy tail wagging happily.  Bob picked her up, looked her in the face, and then put her down.

"P-P-Portia will like her. Here-here-here is the m-m-m-money."  He took out his wallet and pulled out $50 in cash.  As he reached over to hand the money to Mom, I noticed Bob's hands.  They were hairy, and his fingers were blackened with greasy filth.  He wasn't just dirty from a hard days work in the garage.  His appearance and body odor suggested that he may not have bathed in weeks.  He was a weird, dirty, and all-around gross little man.  But, he was a cash-paying customer, and the sale was made.

Mom took down his name and address and wrote up a receipt.  He took the receipt, picked up Princess and without another word he abruptly walked out the door.  Mom commented on how weird and quick the sale went, and that was that.  We probably wouldn't have given Bob another thought, except one hour later his truck pulled up in front of our house again.  I figured that Portia didn't like the dog and was making him return her.  Bob got out of his truck, walked to the back, and opened up the door on the camper shell. Out jumped three shaggy little dogs.  Princess was not with them.  The three dogs followed Bob up our front steps and onto the porch where I stood, dumbfounded.  I asked him if they were his dogs.

"Th-th-th they're P-P-Portia's dogs," he replied.

I gathered the three friendly little Poodles up in my arms and looked at them. They seemed healthy enough, but they had not been groomed in several months, if ever. One was silver, another was chocolate, and the third was black and white.  Bob seemed very proud of them and introduced them as S-S-S-Socrates, Chi-Chi-Chi Chiffon, and Na-Na-Na-Napoleon. I couldn't let them leave Eagle Street in their current condition, so I opened the front door and asked Bob if he minded if I took them in the back and cleaned them up a bit. Mom gave me a funny, "why are you leaving me alone with this guy" kind of look, but then invited Bob to have a seat, and she brought him a can of pop and a brownie.  For the next 2 hours, while the matted dogs were getting clipped and bathed, Mom sat and listened to Bob and started to learn his story.

Bob worked as a welder for National Steel and Shipbuilding Company. He lived in nearby Old Town with Portia the nurse from Sharp Hospital. He was born in Chicago, and his mother, who had wanted a girl but got a boy instead, died when he was a little kid.  His father, who could not relate to him and called him a sissy, subsequently married a woman who didn't like Bob either.  The two of them mocked him and put him down all the time.  He knew they did not love him or want him around, so he joined the Navy to get away from home. Now 43, he had never had a close physical relationship with anyone, not even his roommate Portia.

When I came out with his dogs, Mom had us pose a couple of them on the couch for a photo.

When he left for home, Mom told me his story, and said, "I don't think we have seen the last of Bob."  She was right, because the following weekend, Bob came back, this time with four MORE matted Poodles for me to clean up:  Ru-Ru-Ru Rusty, Il-Il-Il-Ilya, and two unnamed puppies.

And in the four hours that it took, he shared more and more personal stories.  Mom lent her sympathetic ear and kept the snacks and sodas coming.  Bob, who was so timid and smelly and odd,  felt comfortable and accepted in our house.  He instantly became part of our life on Eagle Street. For the next 10 years, he dropped by unannounced at least twice a week, and Mom became a friend to this friendless man.

One ironic twist to this story is about Princess.  She had puppies the following year for Portia, and when Bob brought them over for me to groom, I examined their knees and found nothing wrong with any of them.

After a few months, Bob let his guard down and got silly for this photo

Bob was a mysterious person with deep secrets.  But Mom enjoyed the challenge of drawing out stories from complex characters like Bob, and as years went by, we learned more than we wanted to know. His strange and sad story cannot be summed up properly in one article. Stay tuned for more.

Friend to the Friendless: The Story of Dottie

Mom did not like to socialize in the normal sense.  She wasn't into church and all the fellowship that came with it.  She helped with the school rummage sale every year yet kept her distance from the other moms at St Vincents School.  I can remember only a few bingo parties that she and Dad held at our house when I was very young. She occasionally turned on the creepiness with the seances that she hosted at our house with her psychic friend, the Reverend Cecil Cawthorne, running the show.  The only neighbor she allowed into our house was lonely Grandma Balistreri, the old Italian lady who lived across the street. Mom didn't want people knowing our business. Mom's oldest sister Amy, who lived in Ephrata, Washington, was her best friend and only confidante, and they talked long distance on the phone fairly often. But even though she didn't have close friends, she was rarely alone on Eagle Street.

Most of Mom's interactions with people came through her weekly sales and purchases.  Most of those transactions were one time deals, and we never saw the person again.  There were a few people, however, who answered an ad and then kept coming back.  And Mom was okay with it.  Normally, the person would call to inquire about something Mom was selling, they would come to see it, and usually buy it.  And then they would keep coming over, for weeks, months, and even years.  Usually these people were on the fringes of society, either down on their luck, or strange and misunderstood.  Mom filled their need for someone to talk to.  Mom was like a neighborhood bartender.  She would offer someone a comfy chair, a bottle of pop, and a snack, and before long, that person would share their entire life story. Their stories were never ones of success. Over repeated visits, we would soon learn of their dreams, their conflicts, and their disasters. Mom was a very good listener, and made these folks feel welcome in our home.  She was a friend to the friendless. There were many people who drifted into and out of our lives on Eagle Street. One such person was a woman named Dottie.

In July of 1974, Dottie answered an ad and bought one of our silver Poodle puppies for $85.  She was 50ish and had red hair.  She said she was a dog groomer and had a shop in Logan Heights.  A few weeks after the purchase, her puppy's AKC registration paper arrived in the mail. Mom decided to drive down to her shop and deliver it in person.  When we got to the National Avenue address she had given us, what we found was a vacant storefront with a small hand written sign on the door that said "Dottie's Grooming."  It was on a gritty, sad street in the bad part of town, surrounded by similar dirty old buildings.

Mom parked the car and I got out to go take a closer look.  I looked through the grimy window.  There was just an empty dark space.  In the rear of the building, I saw a faint light.  Then I heard a dog bark, and saw our puppy running towards the window.  Dottie appeared from the back room and I waved to get her attention.  She unlocked all the latches and let us into the dim and empty space.  That was when we realized that she had no grooming shop.  She was living in the back of a dilapidated empty store, with just a dirty old toilet and sink.  She had a cooler to hold her food.  A suitcase of clothes and a blanket and pillow lay on the worn tile floor.  After getting over the initial shock, Mom invited her to come over for pizza that night. And that's how Dottie became a familiar face on Eagle Street for the next decade.

Over many visits to our house,  Dottie eventually shared that she had four failed marriages, with a child born from each husband. Her great love (and her biggest impediment to success) was Las Vegas. When she spoke of this mysterious place, her eyes sparkled, and she got very excited, the way we kids acted when we were begging mom to take us to Disneyland.  She admitted that her four divorces and four lost homes were due to her gambling addiction.  But she didn't seem to understand that she could change her life simply by staying away from Nevada. Her youngest daughter lived there and was a cocktail waitress at the Hilton Hotel and Casino, so there was always an excuse for Dottie to go back for a visit. She spoke of her oldest son and daughter, who sounded like responsible people and were living their own lives somewhere. I am sure they had tried to help their mom many times over the years.  Her youngest son Alan, who seemed like a really nice guy,  had just ended a relationship and joined up with his mom in the daily struggle to stay off the street.

Dottie and Alan handling some business in our cluttered Eagle Street living room sometime in the 80's. Alan was always pensive.  Dottie however, always remained positive that her big break was just around the corner.

As time passed,  Dottie and her son Alan bounced between Los Angeles and San Diego. They were always on the move, chasing some business scheme that never panned out. In San Diego they hopped around nearby neighborhoods of  North Park and City Heights, going from one rental to another, month after month. Back in those days, it was so easy to rent a place in San Diego. They could always come up with the first month's rent, but then things fell apart and they were hurriedly packing up their few belongings and moving on.  Eventually, Alan figured out he had one last chance to escape his situation. He was nearing the age deadline to join the military and at the last minute he signed up and was sent to Montana.  Alone again, Dottie scraped and hustled.  She rang the Salvation Army bell at Christmas and was able to skim enough change from the kettle to get by. She painted houses and did whatever she needed to do to earn some money.  She always remained cheerful, no matter how messy her life was. And no matter what, she always gravitated back to Las Vegas.

One summer day in either 1984 or 1985, Dottie called Mom to give her some exciting news.  After the conversation, Mom hung up and announced that Dottie had found her golden goose.  She had told Mom of her good fortune in meeting Ralph, an ancient man who was very hard of hearing and was almost 40 years older than she was. She met him on a sweltering hot day, while he was handing out religious tracts in front of a North Park grocery store. He was all wrapped up in a winter coat and wearing a woolen hat and muffler.  Dottie stopped to talk to him and discovered that he owned a little house on nearby Mississippi Street. She offered to go home with him, cook him a meal and do his laundry. That was an offer he couldn't refuse. She basically moved in with him the day they met.  Within weeks they were married and before you could blink,  the house was sold despite attempts by his worried adult daughter to stop him.

That was the last time we saw Dottie because the two newlyweds took the money and moved away to----yes, you guessed it---Las Vegas.  In July of 1986, one month before Mom passed away, she received one final call from Dottie, informing her of Ralph's death.  He was 100 years old.  Where Dottie ended up next is anyone's guess.  But she will always remain an Eagle Street memory.

July 4th on Eagle Street

There are many ways people on Eagle Street celebrated Independence Day back in the 60's and 70's.  One family went sailing, others spent the day looking for a spare patch of sand at the beach. A few went on simple picnics at Presidio park.  There was the Del Mar Fair or Belmont Park for others who liked to visit crowded amusement parks. The general idea was to situate yourself early in a place where you could enjoy the fireworks later on that night. Mom wasn't into any of that kind of exhausting nonsense. We stayed home.

July 4th was usually a frustrating day for us kids, because all the other kids on the street were off having fun with their families and we had no one to play with. The worst part, however, was that we always wanted to see fireworks, but never could.  No amount of begging could get Mom to leave the house.  Our holiday was always spent at home, end of discussion. So this story is not about anything noteworthy. The reminders of Eagle Street July 4th celebrations are a bit subtle, but they still exist.

These things were always a part of our yearly celebration:
Swamp coolers
Swimming pools
Corn on the cob
Shasta soda pop
Watermelon
Temporary suspension of the Streetlight Rule
Road flares
Goodyear Blimp

July 4th was usually very hot. Someone in the family would have to go down to the scary basement to retrieve the huge old swamp coolers and then set them up in the front room windows for Mom. The wires were frayed, and the machines were old rust buckets.  But somehow, Mom and Dad were able to repair them enough to keep them going summer after summer. We had to keep the big machines filled with Mom's distilled water to keep them working properly.  They would blow damp, cool air into the front room where Mom sat watching TV.

We spent lots of time in the pool.  During most of the 60's, that meant splashing around in a little inflated kid's pool in the yard.  We enjoyed a huge upgrade in 1969 when the real pool was installed in our backyard.

By July 4, 1970 we were out of the kiddie pool and in the enclosed, 98 degree real pool. Jeff is on the slide and Tammy is climbing the ladder. We could swim like fish, but for the first year, Mom made us wear life vests and buoyancy belts.

Mom rarely cooked. But on July 4th she always served up corn on the cob.  It was the one day of the year that she would dig her metal pressure cooker out from the back of the cupboard.  That thing was terrifying. It made noise,  and Mom was always having to check the pressure gauge.  I didn't want to be in the kitchen with it because I was always afraid it would blow up. But it made really tasty cooked corn. I had no idea that there were other ways to cook it until I grew up and discovered a pot of boiling water works fine too.

Mom never strayed from her daily diet of Tab. But for us, she bought Shasta by the flat because it was really cheap. We returned to the fridge all day long to get our favorite flavors:  Black Cherry, Crème, Tiki Punch, and Root Beer.

An old newspaper ad from the late 60's. This was before we had aluminum cans. These cans imparted a slight metallic taste to the drink, and you could really screw up the pop top if you didn't pay attention while opening the can.

No Independence Day would be complete without watermelon.  This was before the personal size, the seedless and striped varieties hit our local grocery store.  Back in the day, watermelons were dark green, huge, and loaded with black seeds.  Mom loved watermelon. For herself, she would remove the rind and seeds, cut the watermelon up into small cubes, and eat it from a bowl.  For us kids, she would make huge half moon slices, rind and seeds intact, and make us go outside to eat it.

At sunset, when the street light came on, and the first star appeared in the sky, my little brother and sister and I would start hearing the first sounds of unseen fire crackers and fireworks. Mom would hand us our watermelon wedges and tell us to sit on the curb in front of our house.  Then she would go to the garage and get a road flare.

At 20 cents, a road flare, Mom's idea of Fireworks,  was bargain entertainment

She lit it and placed it in the street a few feet from where we were sitting. Normally, we were required to be in the house when the streetlight came on, or face swift punishment.  July 4th was the one and only day that this rule was suspended. We could sit outside to cool off in the dark and watch the flames without fear of the belt.

The road flare burned calmly in the street, as fireworks popped somewhere far away. We swatted away mosquitoes and competed with each other to see who could spit their watermelon seeds into the flame.  A road flare takes about an hour to burn out, but it kept our attention during that hour, because that was all the "fireworks" that we were going to get.  I watched it and daydreamed about all the places I would take my kids to when I grew up.  I had it all planned:  I would take them to the Fair, to the beach, to the park, and to any place where we could watch fireworks with everyone else in town.

As the road flare sputtered and began to die out, we heard the familiar low-pitched hum of the Goodyear blimp.  It flew overheard and its animated Super Skytacular show flashed colored lights that were fun to watch.  The blimp flew around and around our neighborhood.  Sometimes the lights created a waving American flag, sometimes the lights flashed stick figures, or hula dancers, or geometric patterns. We kids felt that the blimp brought the light show to Eagle Street just for us, since we were the only ones out on the street to see it.

After the flare died and the blimp drifted away, Mom came out to herd us inside.  Another July 4th in the books. Just like the year before, and just as the next year would be.  It was our simple way of celebrating the day on Eagle Street.

Send in the Clowns

Cherub and Angel

We didn't start out as a clown family. There was one year when big brother Skippy donned a clown costume and became "Beepo the Clown" for my 6th birthday.

Tammy and BEEPO

But that was a one time thing. My little sister was absolutely terrified of clowns.  Ronald McDonald was not someone she ever wanted to meet, even if he was giving out free balloons. She would scream hysterically if a clown suddenly appeared at a Sears sidewalk sale or a business grand opening gala.

So it seems a bit strange that we all ended up being clowns years later. Here is how it all began:

Mom had recently come out on the other side of a very bad relationship that ended in 1975 and had not only had left her broken-hearted but also broke.  She spent a good part of 1976 crying, talking long distance to her sister, and taking up with a parade of paroled felons who swooped in looking for  any spoils that my step-father Paris Young may have left behind.  There was a small window of time when she was in between bad relationships, from June until August.  With no man to occupy her time, she was free to spread her wings a bit and try something different.

School let out for the summer. It was the Bicentennial and the whole country was excitedly planning  patriotic celebrations.  The Summer Olympics in Montreal Canada was getting ready to take over my attention. And Mom decided to sign up for Clown College.

San Diego State University offered a 3 unit course in clownology. It cost about $90, not including make-up and costume, and lasted a couple months.  I don't know how Mom discovered it or why she decided to go for it. Starting in June,  she drove to SDSU for evening clown classes for the whole summer.  She would come home very excited, telling me about what they learned in class.  There are many things one must have in order to become a proper clown.  Make-up, costumes, and props are the big three.  One must think up a proper name, and then design a costume which reflects that name.  Mom, who was given the name "Angel" by the swindling, good for nothing, felonious man who had abandoned her the previous December, decided to hang on to the moniker, not only in real life but also for her clown name.

Mom met many very nice people who were also studying clownology.  In July she hosted quite a few parties, where her clown classmates would converge on the scene and practice putting on make-up.  I was pulled into the group, where they practiced on me too.

I was the make-up guinea pig

I was 15 and had other things on my mind that didn't include hanging out with a bunch of older people who wanted to paint my face and teach me how to make balloon animals.  But I didn't have much choice in the matter. I got to know these folks and was impressed by the things they did in real life.  There were dentists, fire fighters, doctors, artists, and business majors. Their enthusiasm was endearing and contagious.  By the time the class graduated, I was a clown too.  And soon after I was pressed into clown service, my younger brother and sister were pulled into the life as well.

The clown students went on many field trips during the summer. We all went to the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus, specifically to watch the clown acts. The students marched in parades. They visited nursing homes and mental wards. They hung out in Balboa Park. People loved the crazy group. It seemed like there was always someone wanting a clown for their event back in those days.

The class made front page news. Angel is under the giraffe head

Mom spent a lot of time and money on her costume.  After a few false starts, she ended up with a square dancing-style dress and added petticoats, wings, and a halo.  There were lots of rules to learn if one wanted to be a proper clown. Some of them I remember were:  No smoking or getting drunk.  All body parts must be covered, either with makeup, wigs, hats, gloves, or clothing.  No bare hands allowed. One must never copy another clown's facial make-up.  And they all had to take a pie to the face. That was part of the final exam.

The Graduation ceremony was held on campus.  I remember that Walt Disney Studios was there to film some of it.  They planned to use some footage in a future Mickey Mouse Club episode.

Graduation Day

Angel with her diploma. There were lots of film crews there

Angel and her classmates, and me

Tammy, Poco, and Angel

In the end, Mom really didn't enjoy clowning too much. She took a few jobs here and there, but we three kids always had to accompany her and do most of the work.

Getting ready to get in the Clown camper to go to a job.  Sadsam, Sunbeam, Angel, Cherub, and one of our tiny Poodles

An inner city street fair

Oktoberfest 1976. Making balloon animals for the kids

We eventually figured out our costumes, make-up, and names. 

SadSam and Cherub

I became Cherub, Jeff was SadSam, and Tabatha was Sunbeam.  I had learned from Poco (the dentist) how to juggle.  I learned from Dr. All-Thumbs (the doctor) how to make balloon animals.  I did not have a pump to blow up balloons.  Back in the day, you had to use your lungs. Jeff learned a few magic tricks, and Tabatha could ride the unicycle really well. I also brought Poodles with me to some events.  We had a tiny blue Honda Civic with an 8 track tape player.  Mom had a tape of calliope circus music, and she blasted the stereo on our way to the gigs.  Kids would come running out of their houses because they thought it was the ice cream truck! They would instead see a tiny car with four clowns waving at them.

Tabatha, Cherub, and SadSam with Nephew Darwin David, and Nieces Samya and Jennifer.  I may be smiling, but I also had a horrible toothache that day and later had to have a molar pulled out.  

Within a few months, Mom was pretty much burned out. She figured out the clowning was not really much fun at all.  Her costume was heavy, thick and hot. It was exhausting work. You had to be upbeat, flexible, and willing to put up with crazy, screaming kids. You also had to be able to work through illness and pain. By the summer of 1977, Angel the Clown had retired and was sending Cherub, SadSam, and Sunbeam out to do the entertaining.

SadSam, Sunbeam, Angel, and Cherub (and Poodle) with nieces Sara and Becky

During the summers of 1977, 1978 and 1979, we worked with Vernon the Old Fashioned Clown (a retired Ronald McDonald) to provide entertainment at huge company picnics. These affairs took place at a Western-style venue in El Cajon called The Big Oak Ranch.  El Cajon in the summertime is miserably hot.  It usually exceeds 100 degrees.  And Saturdays and Sundays found us out there in full costume, make-up and wigs, sweating until our costumes were soaked. I did a juggling act, then inflated balloons and twisted them into animal shapes as quickly as possible for long lines of kids. Sunbeam unicycled to disco dance music on the stage,  and SadSam pulled off rudimentary magic tricks.  Vernon usually handed out candy. We would spend five sweaty hours dealing with hundreds of wild and sometimes bratty kids, watching everyone feasting on BBQ and wishing we could be having fun instead of having to work the party. Then it would finally be over and Vernon would drive us back home and hand us a check to give Mom. We would then spend the next couple of hours scrubbing all our greasepaint off. It was not a fun way to spend summer weekends. We kids truly hated it.

I still have Angel's clown badge 

I learned alot about hard work during our three years of clowning.  You must be patient and you need  to have a good sense of humor. You must be able to work through the worst of days. If you have a cold or, as I often did, a toothache, too bad--the show must go on.  If you are depressed and sad, you must nevertheless act happy. As much as I disliked it at the time,  I appreciate what clowning taught me.  The Eagle Street Clown Crew existed a mere three years, but the work ethic lessons that clowning taught me has lasted for a lifetime.

Tammy's Eagle Street Christmas Story

Late at night every Christmas Eve, I take time out of my busy life to visit Eagle Street. I do this to pay homage to the memories that I made there, and to feel closer to the spirits of my deceased parents.  I park my car a block away and get out.  I am alone. At 9 PM, the street is dark and quiet. I can see Christmas trees glowing in the windows of many of the homes.  I begin my yearly walk in the night, pausing briefly as I reach my old house, then I continue past the other houses north towards my friends childhood home. As I walk in the dark and cold solitude, my mind reaches deep and pulls out some happy memories.  This is a memory of what took place in December of 1971, when I was 11 years old.

I was one of the final three children who lived at 4071 Eagle Street.  By the time the late sixties and early seventies rolled around, the older ones were gone.  Our neighborhood seemed polarized and relations between neighbors were strained.  And although I never knew the origin of the animosity, it was obvious that my family was a big part of the problem.  You can usually judge a family by how many times the cops show up at the door. We cornered the market on police visits.

Mom hated our next door neighbors. She called the south side neighbor "The Witch."  The north side neighbor was simply "Old Lady Mroz." It was obvious that a major war had occurred in the decade prior to my addition to the family, and the smoldering radioactivity continued throughout my childhood. This Cold War periodically reignited into momentary blowups. Insults were thrown back and forth over the wooden fence that separated our properties.  Sometimes the Witch would call the police.  We kids were never allowed to venture south past her house. And Old Lady Mroz yelled at us if we rode our scooters and tricycles past her house. It made it difficult for us when we wanted to go play at our friends' house.  The Manzer family lived one block north, and that block didn't seem to have a witch or a grumpy old woman.  That block also didn't have us living there. 

Our neighborhood friends were only allowed to play with us outside.  They candidly told me that their parents did not want them inside my house.  The only exception was when I had my yearly birthday party.  I guess their folks figured there was safety in numbers at a strictly time-controlled event.

The neighbor kids were allowed to come inside for my birthday, but never any other time. That's me, holding all the cards.

The only neighbor that ever visited Mom was the elderly Italian woman who lived across the street, Mrs. Balistreri. We called her Grandma.  Every Christmas eve, she brought over a big bowl of spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce, and a new pair of PJs for us kids. During the rest of the year, Grandma Balistreri would come over and spend hours crying about her deceased beloved first husband and her recently deceased and despised second husband. No one else would talk to Mom, nor she to them.

Grandma Balistreri (R) (with Aunt Sadie) Her homemade Italian sauce was so much better than Spaghetti Ohs!

Mom didn't want me getting too friendly with the neighbors.  Any time she allowed me to play with the Manzer kids down the street, she admonished me to never answer any questions that their Dad might ask.  So whenever he did ask me where my brothers were, I knew to never reveal their status when they were on the run,  in juvenile hall or in mental lockup. I learned to be wary of adults and to make quiet observations while keeping my mouth shut. 

Christmastime on our block was no different than any other time. Mom and the next door neighbors did not take a holiday timeout from the hate. Being home full time for a couple of weeks,  I could really feel the tension. There was no peace between Mom and the neighbors, and there never would be.  It bothered me, but it was our reality.  So my younger siblings and I spent lots of time around the piano singing Christmas carols.  My favorite song was, "I heard the Bells on Christmas Day." This was based on an old poem written during the Civil War by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old familiar carols play.
And wild and sweet, the words repeat of Peace of earth, Good Will, to men."

 The 2nd verse really hit home with me:
"And in despair I bowed my head. There is no peace on earth, I said.
For hate is strong, and mocks the song, of Peace on Earth, Good Will, to Men."

One year, I got a glimpse of something other than continued war between neighbors.

It was 1971.  Dad had passed away just 3 months before. Our family had been through a lot since his death, including all of us nearly being killed due to a "mysterious" gas leak in our house. We had recently returned from an extended stay at Mom's sister's house in Washington. Mom was still down in the dumps. Dad's empty chair was a constant reminder that something was missing. This dark and depressing feeling draped over the house and us.  

A few days before Christmas, I was down the street playing ball with some of the Manzer kids, when their dad came out of the house. I had been told over and over again to never answer any questions he might ask about our family situations.  Even though we never had interacted much, he walked over and asked me if I wanted to go Christmas caroling with their neighbors that night.  I had never caroled before, but I had heard of it and it sounded fun, so I ran home and asked Mom if I could go.  I must have caught her at a weak moment, because surprisingly, she said yes.

At 6 PM, the Manzers and I met up with the rest of the group at Margaret's house. Margaret lived on the far north side of Eagle Street.  She was a good-natured older lady who always wore a bunny mask on Halloween when she gave candy to us trick-or-treaters.  We gathered there, a mixed group of about 30, and I marveled at the joy and anticipation that seemed to emanate from everyone. There wasn't any yelling, insults, cussing, or threats of police visits!

We walked to Falcon and Goldfinch streets, stopping at about ten homes belonging to very elderly people. At the time they were known as shut-ins.  We sang all the songs that I had practiced on the piano, including my favorite Wadsworth song. We sang the first 2 verses, and then the 3rd verse,

"Then pealed the bells, both long and deep, God is not dead, nor does he sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with Peace on Earth, Good will, to men."

We moved through the cold, dark night as a group, spreading good cheer and bringing smiles to the faces of those people.   I liked that feeling.   And when we were finished we all went back to Margaret's warm house. There was burning wood crackling in the fireplace, the tree was glowing, and the dining room was all decked out for Christmas. Margaret's best friend had prepared a fantastic spread of cheeses, sugar cookies, fruitcake and candies, with steaming hot apple cider with cinnamon sticks for the kids and mulled red wine for the grown-ups. I had never seen such a feast. At that moment in my life, I understood the 3rd verse of my favorite carol. I realized that there were people who want to do the right things, and that peace and good will is possible on Eagle Street.

Mr. Manzer and those other adults gave me something that Christmas that I had never felt before.  I felt like my voice mattered.  I felt like I belonged.  I felt like I was doing something nice.  I wasn't being judged by what my family had done in the past.  For one night, I was not one of the troubled Warriner kids. I was a free and independent person who was chosen to be in a Christmas choir made up of Catholics and Protestants, young and old. It was one of my happiest days on Eagle Street.