Mom's Opinions

I spent lots of time with Mom when I was growing up, especially after Dad died in 1971. She was a very needy and jealous mother. She didn't understand why I wanted to play with children my own age and limited my opportunity to interact with peers. Since I had to hang around with her so much, I got to hear her opinions and thoughts on lots of subjects.  I asked her lots of questions, and got some pretty hilarious answers in some cases. Here are some of the ones I remember: 

During a shopping trip to College Grove Mall, Mom drove past the Jewish neighborhood, which, up until the 80s, was located in the SDSU area of San Diego.  Back then there were a number of Jewish shops, including a large bagel bakery called Super Bagels. They had a big sign out front with a giant bagel on it. I was intrigued. 

Me: Mom, what's a bagel? can I try one? 

Mom: You don't want to try one of those things. A bagel is just a stale donut. 

Me: Why are they selling stale donuts? Aren't they fresh when they first bake them? 

Mom: No, they are always stale. Some people like them. But we like real donuts from Winchells. 

Grocery store trips usually occurred once a month, when Mom got her Social Security check. She preferred the Big Bear on Adams Avenue in Normal Heights. Every time we shopped, I was drawn to the colorful cups of Knudsen yogurt in the dairy section. There were so many flavors. Some had fruit on bottom and some were blended. I wanted to try some. 

Me: Mom, can we get some yogurt? I want to try it. 

Mom: Oh, you would hate it. Yogurt is just sour milk in a cup. 

Me: Why do they put sour milk in little containers? Does the fruit make it taste better? Why do people buy sour milk? 

Mom: I don't know. Some people like to eat things that taste like crap. 

Mom loved chili dogs. There used to be a Der Weinerschnitzel hotdog stand on First and Washington Streets, which was just a few blocks from Eagle Street.  Since it was so close to home, we ate a lot of hot dogs for dinner in the 70s. Mom received coupons in the mail every so often. These coupons were usually for discounts on plain dogs or chili dogs.  I had recently noticed something called a kraut dog on the menu and was curious about it:

Me: Hey Mom, what's a kraut dog? Can I try one of those this time? 

Mom: Yuck. Sour Kraut is rotten cabbage. Do you want rotten cabbage on your hot dog? 

Me: Some people must like it because they sell them. Are you sure it is rotten? 

Mom: That's why they call it sour kraut. It is sour because its been sitting around for months getting rotten. 

I loved flowers.  I used to look at the flower gardens that our neighbors lovingly tended everyday, and I wanted to grow flowers in our yard too. One day, after getting scolded by a neighbor for picking one of her Easter lillies, I decided we needed to have our own.

Me:  Mom, do you think we could plant some flowers in the front yard, maybe by the Jasmine bush?

Mom:  What a big waste of time! What the hell is a flower good for? It lives for a couple of days and then it dies. That's useless!  If you want to plant something, plant something we can eat, like a tomato plant. 

(I ended up finding some fake flowers at the church rummage sale and planted them by the Jasmine bush, but it just wasn't the same)

It was always difficult to ask Mom questions about health and hygiene, because her answers either made no sense, caused me embarrassment, or were about her. After watching a TV commercial for lipstick, I had a question: 

Me: When I get older, can I get some lipstick to wear? 

Mom: Women who wear lipstick look like they have a chicken butt on their face. Do you want to look like a chicken's butt? 

Then when I started getting acne as a young teen, I asked Mom if I could go to the doctor for some treatment:

 

Me: Mom, my friends at school went to the doctor and he gave them some cream that dries up their zits. Can you take me to the doctor too? 

Mom, while stroking her own face: I don't know why you are having skin problems. I have always had a beautiful complexion. See my face?  This is what they call a peaches and cream complexion.  You have olive skin.  You probably just need to wash your face more often.

And then there was this: 

Me: Can you get me one of those Daisy Women's razors so I can shave my legs?

Mom, while looking down at her own legs: I never had much of a problem with hair on my legs. Look how nice and smooth my legs are. 

After watching a commercial for feminine hygiene products, there was no way I wanted to broach the subject, but Mom took the opportunity:

Mom:  When the time comes for you, I will make sure you use napkins.  You cannot use those Tampax things, because then you will never be able to find a husband when you grow up.

Me: Why?

Mom: Because they only want virgins.

Here are mom's vocal opinions on other things: 

Tattoos: Anyone who has a tattoo probably is a criminal, a drunk sailor, or a whore.

Cigarettes: You have to be out of your mind to smoke. And a women who smokes sends the message that she carries a mattress on her back. Men who see a woman with a cigarette in her mouth know she is loose.

Alcoholic drinks: Women should never drink.  I went to the Women's Temperance Legion meetings.  We took a pledge:  "I promise not to buy, drink, sell or give, alcoholic beverages while I live."  

When Mom said the word, "public," it was obvious that to her the word had a derogatory connotation.  For instance:

Mom: I can't stand those Catholics, but their schools are so much better than a public school.

Me:  Why are they better?

Mom:  Public schools have to take all the bad kids.  You will catch head lice from public schools.  And you can't trust public school teachers. They try to find out your personal business and then they will have you taken away from me and put in the receiving home, and you will catch head lice there.

And then there is this example:

Mom:  We are getting our own swimming pool put in the backyard, because I don't want you kids in a public pool.

Me:  But my friends get to go to the pool, and they like it there.

Mom:  It's public!  That means you got strangers in the water with you. When I was a kid you caught polio from swimming with strangers. Now there are other diseases in the water.  Do you want to get VD? (Then she dug out a 50s era photo-filled booklet describing sexually transmitted diseases and showed me some pictures to make her point.)

As a child, I often thought about future career options.  I got lots of input from Mom.  First of all, she didn't believe you could "have it all." Her opinions:

 

Working Mothers: They are bad mothers because they use someone else to raise their kids.

When I was in 2nd grade I loved watching The Flying Nun, starring Sally Field.  Her ability to fly made me want to be a nun when I grew up:

Me:  I think I want to be a nun like Sister Bertrille  when I grow up. 

Mom: You would hate it.  Nuns are very unhappy. They were trapped by the Church. The reason why you always see them shopping in pairs is that one will tell on the other if she talks about leaving.  And their heads are shaved so that if they do manage to escape the convent, they are easier to find.

The only working mother on Eagle Street in the 60s and 70s was a nurse. Since her kids had their own boats and got to ride horses and go skiing, I figured maybe their mom might be on to something:

Me:  Maybe I could be a nurse and work in the hospital when I grow up.

Mom:  A nurse? Forget it!  They are nothing but maids. They have to clean bedpans all day. If you want to work in a hospital, be a doctor, not a nurse. They get to boss the nurses around.

And one of the weirdest things Mom said to me, which she repeated quite often as I grew up:

"Stay Wood."

It took me a few decades to figure that one out.

A Hundred Years Since

Mom, aka Carol Jane "Angel" Martindale Tompsett Warriner Young was born on October 31, 1921. It has been 100 years since her blueprint was laid out and put into flesh and blood, 100 years since her creation which resulted in the family members who read this blog. Even those of us who are not "true blood" were affected by her being. If not for her, we would be members of other families, with different memories and different life stories. When she chose to add us to the family,  we became an inescapable part of it forever. 

 Mom was a force to be reckoned with. She was a paradox. She was loved as well as feared. She was also to be pitied, because in her quest to be idolized and adored, she drove nearly all her children away. I have spent many decades sorting out the good and bad memories, as well as the mixed feelings that I still have for her. I no longer wish to never have been adopted into the family, because I know that everyone is assigned to a life experience before birth, and the test is to see how one deals with the hand they are dealt.

Mom's impact on all of us was profound and continues even now.  When she splashed onto the planet she created a ripple that has grown and spread.  Those who are currently navigating the ripple may not know how it started.  This blog was started so that everyone who came after Mom can learn some clues about it. 

I wish I knew what made Mom the way she was. In 1986, after Mom passed away, I tried to get some of my questions answered. No one knew Mom's early years better than her older sister Amy. Unfortunately, Aunt Amy was in the beginning stages of dementia when I contacted her with some "why" questions. Either she could no longer remember, or her old-fashioned sensibilities dictated her short answer to me: "It is all over with now. There is no use bringing up the past." I don't subscribe to that way of thinking. 

History repeats itself if you don't know what happened and why it happened. Knowing your history allows you to deal with mysterious fallout that blankets not only you but also future generations of descendants. Some of the future articles will be quite short, as I will be sharing whatever memory pops into my head. Other articles will explore the final days of her life. 

The Energy Scare of 1973

 In the summer of 1973, when I was 12 years old, our country was having all sorts of big problems.  There was talk of an upcoming fuel shortage and people were being advised to drive less and to turn off unnecessary lights in their houses. Then an oil embargo, which started in October, put the energy conversation front and center. As the weather turned colder and the days got shorter,  everyone was being told to conserve electricity and gasoline. Households were ordered to lower their thermostats.  Everyone was advised to forego putting Christmas lights on the house.  Stores were shutting down some of their lighting.  There was talk on the TV news about going back on Daylight Saving Time. The city streets were darker at night because fewer street lights were operational.  The speed limit was lowered to 50 mph on the freeway.  President Nixon then suggested a possibility of gas rationing, and that started a panic where suddenly everyone felt a need to keep their vehicle tanks topped off.

During this time, service stations, especially the mom and pop stations, began to run out of fuel. That resulted in many stations imposing a limit of 10 gallons per customer.  They also limited gas pump hours in order to avoid running out in the middle of the day. Most of our local stations would close on Saturday or Sunday.  At that time, the majority of cars on the road were gas guzzlers and everyone had to fill up often. All of a sudden, the simple chore of filling the tank became an event. You had to strategize and plan for long waits in a line of cars that sometimes spanned several blocks long.  You never knew if there would still be gasoline available by the time you made your way to the pumps. Angry shouting would erupt when the attendant was spotted coming toward the pumps with his crudely hand painted "Out of Gas" sign.  

                                                   This was a familiar sight in 1973

Seemingly overnight, gasoline had become a precious expensive commodity, and electricity was suddenly something we couldn't take for granted. But I was young, and this stuff didn't cause me to lose any sleep.  When Mom gathered all the kids into the Volvo station wagon to drive down to a Pacific Highway gas station, I didn't mind. Even though it was a probability that we would have to sit for an hour or two in the gas line, I always packed my little tote bag with three books: A Red Cross First Aid Guide(just in case of emergency), a dog book,  and a word search puzzle book.  I loved the little pocket Dell word search books that could always be found next to the cigarettes at every grocery store check out.  Mom knew I loved those puzzles and she bought me a new one every month when we did our major grocery shopping. Thanks to those books, the time spent the car went faster.  While the little kids fought and argued and bugged each other in the back seat, I sat shotgun with my pencil,  circling one hidden word after another until we reached the front of the line.  

It had become just another weekend chore to find a gas station that had both gasoline and a reasonable line. I would have forgotten all about those days, except for one particular Saturday which cemented the memory in my mind.  Mom's plan was to get to the line in time for the station to open at noon.  In the meantime, though, one of the Poodles was being sold and needed to have a bath.  I always bathed the dogs in our large kitchen sink.  There was a good sized but always cluttered countertop on either side of the sink. I shoved all the dirty dishes out of the way so I would have room to dry the dog on the counter.  At that time I used a little handheld metal Oster hair dryer.  Hand held dryers were fairly new and this one was slow-drying by today's standards.  But it was better than the dryers of the 60s, which were plastic bag bonnets connected by a long plastic tube to a box that produced warm air but blew too gently and were useless for drying Poodles.

As I lathered up and then rinsed the little dog,  I didn't notice that among the stacks of dirty dishes and cups that I had moved out of the way, one of the cups had overturned. A stream of water from the cup flowed along the backsplash, until it reached the hair dryer on the counter.  The dryer, which was plugged in and ready to go, was wet, but I was busy bathing the dog, and did not notice.

I toweled off the dog, picked up the dryer and hit the switch.

Immediately, I was in a different reality:

Something huge had yanked me up off my feet.  My mind was telling me a giant had grabbed me, lifted me up, and was violently shaking me.  I was powerless.  There was no escaping its grip. I knew I was going to be shaken to death. Then, I was instantly propelled to the ceiling. I was lying prone, as if doing a deadman's float in water, looking down at my convulsing body.  I no longer felt anything, I was just watching, detached from myself.  I wanted to reach down and help her, but I couldn't.  I wanted to scream out for it to stop, but nothing came out of my mouth.  

And then:

With a sudden thud, I was no longer suspended from the ceiling.  I was on the floor.  Mom was standing over me yelling at me to wake up.  As I came back to consciousness, I felt as though I was stuck in a slow motion state.  I couldn't move for a while, and Mom's voice seemed to be coming not from her mouth but from a different spot in the room. I looked at her and my brain tried to understand what she was saying, but nothing made much sense.  She grabbed my arms and pulled me up.  The hair dryer, its plug disconnected from the power source, lay quietly on the floor. The Poodle, shivering and wet, was still in the sink. 

Her voice continued in the back of my brain, " You were being shocked!  I heard a blood curdling scream! I have never heard a scream like that before! It wasn't your voice! I ran in the kitchen to see who was there and saw you were being electrocuted!  I ripped the cord from the wall! Oh my God, you could have died!" 

She guided me to her blue velvet La Z Boy chair and pushed me gently into it.  She gave me the Poodle, now wrapped in a towel, and told me to hold her until she was dry.  I could not think.  I was okay with not being able to think. 

After awhile, Mom packed my tote bag with my favorite word search books, pencils, and a roll of Life Savers candy.  Then somehow I ended up in the front seat of the car, with my young siblings in the back seat as usual, and Mom drove to the gas line. As we settled in for a long wait in a line of cars that spanned over two blocks, I could just barely hear the banter of Jeff and Tabatha in the back seat.  I took out my word search book and opened it up to a new puzzle.  But looking for words seemed impossible.  Each letter was just a single letter.  I couldn't connect any letter to another. Combining them into words would be too challenging that day.  I closed the book, leaned against the closed window, and just sat there, my brain calm and quiet, during our time in the line and for the rest of the day. 

There I am, months later, with the dryer that almost killed me.

  

I didn't stop grooming dogs after my terrifying brush with death, but I was very frightened for months.  Mom had to turn the dryer on to show me that everything would be alright.  I also stayed in her sight while using electrical grooming equipment for about one year.  The terror finally wore off, and I was able to work unsupervised after a time, but my energy scare on Eagle Street had a permanent effect on me. I have great respect for the power of electricity, and even more respect for the Power that brought Mom to my rescue.  

The Silent Visitor

Every person who spent time at our house on Eagle Street impacted us in one way or another. There were the relatives, friends and customers who visited frequently.  But also important were the firefighters or cops who showed up only once.   Each encounter, whether good or bad, taught us kids something that we could take with us into adulthood. This is why I write about all our visitors.  Because each event that taught me something about life deserves to be remembered and shared.

It was the early 70s.  Brother Skippy, the lifelong career criminal and drug addict (read Skippy, July 20, 2018) had recently gone through yet another vocational rehabilitation training program. This time, the program found him a job at the county hospital.  County hospital, now known as UCSD Medical Center, was located just across the canyon from our house.  They used to have a mental lockup there, and Skippy had been taken there in a straightjacket on more than one occasion. Now, though, he was going there voluntarily, in a white lab coat with a name tag, doing some sort of orderly work.  He didn't keep the job for very long, of course.  I don't think he lasted even a month.

One day, Skippy dropped by after getting off work.  He was carrying a brown paper grocery bag.  I figured he had gone to Food Basket and was going to make some fried pork wontons, which was the only thing I had ever seen him cook.  Instead of heading to the kitchen, however, he stayed in the living room, where Mom sat in her La-Z-Boy recliner watching TV and drinking a Tab. He pulled a large glass jar out of the paper bag and said, "Look what I found at work."

In the jar, floating in a clear liquid, was a perfectly formed tiny human baby.

Mom took the jar and looked closely at the specimen.  "Never seen anything like this before," she said.  "What are you gonna do with it?"

Skippy always had a motive.  "I don't know," he replied.  "Wanna buy it off of me?"

Mom reached into her pocket and pulled out five dollars.  "This good enough?"

Skippy was fine with it, and he quickly pocketed the money.  "Go on and put it up on the mantle by the clock," Mom instructed him.  Skippy put the jar with the baby in it above the fireplace next to the anniversary clock.  And then, with five dollars burning in his pocket, he quickly left the house.

This happened around the same time the Roe Vs Wade was in the news.  I hadn't given much thought to the whole issue because I was a just a kid and was obsessed with my dogs and my grooming business.  But I also had a great curiosity about diseases and liked to read medical encyclopedias, so this hospital specimen attracted me immediately.  I went over to look at it.  There was a label on the jar, which identified the baby with a number.  The tiny human was about the length of a banana, with perfect hands and feet. It was a little boy.  He was thin, in the fetal position, and his eyes were closed.

My piano had been moved into the living room, just to the east of the mantle.  Everyday, when I did my hour of piano practice, my eyes wandered over to the baby on the mantle.  And my mind wandered as I played.  How did he end up in the jar?  How long has he been in there?  Did he ever have a real name lined up for him? Who were his parents?  His siblings?  Do they know what happened to him?  Are they sad about it? I have always hated open ended stories and in his case, I knew his mysteries would never be revealed.

Mom decided to use a little rude humor to give him a story.  "That's the boy my daughter miscarried," she told visitors, a few weeks after the baby came to be on our mantle.  I knew that was a big lie, and it was a hurtful and kind of horrifying thing to say.

I chose not to try to guess his story.  And I didn't think it was right to make something up.  I never gave him a name, just in case he already had one. To me, that tiny naked baby, who would float forever in his formaldehyde-filled jar, could now have a story as part of our family.  I wanted him to experience Christmas, so I put some tinsel and ornaments around his jar.  The Christmas carols we kids sang as I played the piano were for not only for us but also for him.

We had the baby in the jar for months.  He quietly slept next to the Anniversary Clock.  His presence in our living room was a constant reminder that some people, for whatever reason,  don't get a chance to live.

One day, Mom was in an agitated and panicked state.  I don't know what had made her so nervous, but she decided that the baby had to go.  Skippy by now had been fired from the hospital job and was back to stealing and selling the stuff to Mom.  One day when he was at the house begging for money to buy smokes, she threw him a wad of cash and said, "Take that damn jar with you too.  I want that thing out of my house, now!" She went to the mantle and roughly grabbed the jar, turning it on its side. The baby bounced and bobbed against the sides and the liquid rolled back and forth.  She shoved the jar in a paper bag and thrust it at Skippy.  "I don't care what the hell you do with it, but get it out of here," she growled at him.

Skippy took the bag, walked out the door, and just like that, our silent visitor was gone.

Fresh Air

The Schick Fresh Air Machine was a popular gift item in the early 70's.  It was an ingenious battery-operated device that promised to keep a house smelling "Spring Air" fresh all the time. The little 6" high white plastic box had an opening in the back for a special-sized aerosol can of air freshener. When the spray can was correctly placed inside the unit, the Fresh Air Machine would depress the sprayer every 15 minutes, spritzing a bit of air freshener into the room.

Since we had cats and dogs, we also had litter boxes and playpens full of puppies.  In other words, our house had a tendency to stink. So the Fresh Air Machine seemed like a great idea to me. I decided to get Mom one for Mother's Day.  I saved up money from my little dog grooming business, and while Mom was busy buying nonpareils and milk chocolate drops from the candy counter at Sears, I headed over to the small appliance area and bought one.

We always had puppies and kittens in the living room in the 70's

Mom was amused when she opened the gift.  She set it up and placed the device on the mantel above the fireplace, next to the anniversary clock.  Then she and I sat and waited to see what would happen.  The little gadget worked as advertised.  Every 15 minutes, the white box would suddenly make itself known with a pronounced, "Psstt," as it expelled its scented aerosolized droplets about two feet out. For us kids, it was a funny little toy that was sort of like a Jack-in-the-Box. We would stare at it in anticipation and then jump and squeal with delight when the "Psstt" happened.

The Fresh Air Machine lived on the mantel, near the Anniversary clock. Mom is standing in front of it.

 A hand-carved antique cuckoo clock hung on the wall in the adjacent dining room and had been noisily teaching us how to tell time for years. The old German clock now had a new noise-making partner. They worked together as a team to make our house seem like a living, breathing thing. 

The old cuckoo clock, when it lived in another house.  I don't know if the women is related to Mom or to Dad.

Mom never synchronized the two of them to do their thing simultaneously.  So at the top of the hour, the cuckoo would pop out of the clock to let us know what time it was: "Ding, Cuckoo! Ding, Cuckoo! Ding, Cuckoo!"  Not long after the cuckoo went back into the clock, the Fresh Air Machine would reply from the living room with a perfumed little sneeze, "Psstt!"

Every month, Mom would replace the canister with a new one, changing up the scents so we would enjoy some variety of fresh air. The living room would smell either "Spring Air," "Lemon-Lime," or "Garden Air" fresh.  After a few months, the novelty wore off, and soon my siblings and I no longer paid much attention to the little machine on the fireplace mantel.

One quiet Sunday afternoon, Mom, my two little siblings and I were in the living room.  There was a small wooden portacrib full of playful Poodle puppies near the loveseat. I was ripping the Sunday newspaper into shreds and dropping handfuls of it into their enclosure. The little kids were sitting on the oval rag rug that took up a good part of the floorspace.  They liked to pretend that the stripes on the rug were roads and they pushed their Hot Wheels around and around on it. Mom was writing a letter.  Everything was calm.

Suddenly, there came a powerful knock on the door.  I had heard that knock before. It was the knock of authority. Mom got up and cautiously peaked through the old yellowing curtain.  "Oh great, it's the cops," she announced.  She opened the door and sure enough, there were two police officers standing on the other side of the screen door. One was older and very tall.  The other one was younger and a lot shorter. We kids gathered behind Mom in order to take a closer look. There they were, complete with their holsters, guns, and nightsticks. They were an intimidating pair.  Mom told us to move back, and we all jumped onto the love seat and stayed quiet, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Are you Mrs. Warriner," asked the tall cop.

Mom nodded, "What do you want with me," she snapped at them.

"We are looking for your son," he said. "Would you let us come in and ask you a few questions?"

Mom shrugged and unlocked the screen door and the two cops strode into our living room. It seemed very weird and scary to have them there. They stepped around the toys on the rug.  Their eyes scanned every corner of the living room. Then they looked towards the dining room and the hallway.

"We have not seen him.  He hasn't come around for a long time," Mom told them.

They didn't believe her, and decided to apply a bit of pressure.  "We know you are hiding him.  You don't want to get into trouble for hiding him, do you," the tall cop asked.

Our older brother was a thief, a burglar, and a drug abuser.  He was a criminal, we knew that.  But we also hadn't seen him in weeks.

 "What did he do this time," Mom asked.

"You don't need to know that.  What you need to know is that there is a warrant out for his arrest," the tall one answered.

Mom got a bit annoyed.  She puffed up her chest and said, "How many times am I going to have to tell you guys..." She was cut off by the shorter cop, who applied his own tactics.

"How many times," the short cop asked as he started pacing like an agitated wolf in front of the fireplace.  Back and forth.  Back and forth. As he paced, he said, "How many times?" Well, let's see, we have all the time in the world.  We can stay here for as long as we need to, until you tell us where he is."

We kids sat spellbound on the loveseat and watched Mom stand her ground with our two formidable visitors.  The living room no longer felt comfortable and safe.  It felt more like the Principal's office, where we were sent to get paddled when we got into trouble at school. There was a thick tension in the air.  Every sound seemed louder. Time stood still. And then from the dining room:

"Ding, Cuckoo! Ding, Cuckoo! Ding, Cuckoo! Ding, Cuckoo! Ding,Cuckoo!"

The short cop continued in his threatening tone as he paced near the fireplace.  He stopped and looked at the anniversary clock, with its hypnotically rotating pendulum,  then turned to face Mom and said, "If you don't cooperate with us and tell us where to find him, we may have to take you..." and at that moment,  from its spot next to the anniversary clock:

"PSSTT!"

Our Schick Fresh Air machine spritzed right on schedule, and right into the short cop's ear.

The cop grabbed his ear, jumped into the air, and turned to face the mantle. "What the hell was that," he screamed.

The littlest sibling shouted out, " It's our Schick Fresh Air Machine!"

The tense intimidation immediately disappeared.  We kids covered our mouths to suppress our giggles.  The tall cop started to laugh, then Mom started to laugh.   The shorter and now red-faced cop, in an attempt to redirect, said, " I guess he isn't here, but if you see him, you must turn him in, do you understand?"   Mom didn't have time to answer, because he and his tall partner hurried sheepishly to the front door and departed without saying another word.  Mom quickly closed the door behind them and we all exploded in rollicking laughter.

I don't know what ultimately happened to our little air freshening device.  After a while it became difficult to find replacement canisters, and like so many trendy gadgets, it fell by the wayside.  It may be long gone, but every time I see a commercial for air freshener, I remember our dependable and mighty Schick Fresh Air Machine. I will never forget that with one little "Psstt," it was able to not only give us fresh air, but it also de-escalated a scary situation that happened in our living room a long time ago on Eagle Street.

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.