Skippy

Our family was a little ahead of its time I suppose.  Nowadays it isn't weird to have siblings who aren't entirely related to you.  There is no stigma involved in having different fathers for your various kids today.  But back then, the nuclear family of one mom, one dad, and a bunch of genetically related kids was the normal family. I saw many normal nuclear families at my Catholic elementary school.  Even as a small child, I liked seeing families where all the kids looked a bit like their mom and a bit like their dad.  Even the bad traits that seemed to be shared by whole families, like buck teeth and pigeon toes, seemed okay to me because they all shared a common characteristic, which to me meant order and belonging to a group. To me, the typical normal family seemed like a smooth blanket with uniform stitch work and a complimenting color scheme.  It was a nice, drawn-up plan with a pattern.

Our family, however, seemed like a rough patchwork quilt carelessly thrown together without a plan, with uneven squares, loose or absent stitching, and batting here, but not there.   And in spite of the obvious, we all had to pretend that it was perfect. Even before I knew anything about our family secrets, I was aware of this.  And I got weird nonverbal hits from outsiders, who didn't say anything out loud, but somehow I picked up on what they were thinking.

Truth eventually emerges, but usually not all at once.  For my first 10 years, the story of us was that there were 10 kids in the family and that we all had the same mother and father.

Then, I was told that the first 5 kids had their own father who killed himself when kid #5 was two months away from birth. Then Mom married our Dad, and they had kid #6, number #7 died at birth, and then miraculously, kids #8, 9, and 10 were born.

After that,  I was told that kid #9 had a different mother, and kid #10 was really my niece.

A few months later,  I learned that kid #9 was totally unrelated by blood, and that his adoption was botched and never finalized.

Finally, when I turned 18,  I was told that kid # 8 (which is me) was legally adopted and completely unrelated by blood to anyone in the family. (I was relieved to learn of this truth)

I think there is still more to our family story.  It has to do with kid # 5:  Rodney James Tompsett.

Rodney was never known by his first or his middle name.  Since he was a toddler, he was always called "Skippy." He was born May 22, 1949.  He joined a family with 4 older siblings, whose mother had become a widow less than two months earlier when her first husband "Bill" Tompsett committed suicide in his car.

Skippy was a cute little blonde haired, blue-eyed boy. Mom told me that he had suffered a botched circumcision, and that is why she did not believe in the procedure. By Lynda's accounts, older brother Tim was the favored boy who could do no wrong, while Skippy seemed to find trouble with every step. And when little Darwin came along 3 years later, it seems that Skippy became just another kid, stuck in the middle and not as important as either the oldest son or the baby of the family.

Mother's Day, maybe 1959 or 1960 from left:  Skippy, Mom, Darwin

Summer 1963 Skippy and Darwin with their balloon project

Skippy got a bunch of awards from camp that summer

Bepo entertaining my classmates and neighbor friends for my 6th birthday

My earliest memory of Skippy was when he dressed up as a creepy clown for my 6th birthday party in 1966. He was a tall lanky clown dressed in hobo pants, a cone hat, and a big wide tie emblazoned with his clown name "Bepo."

Tammy and Skippy (Bepo) 

I don't remember much about the party, but I do remember having familiar flashbacks to that day while watching "Homie D. Clown" on the comedy show "In Living Color" for the first time in 1990. Get on YouTube.com some time and watch the first Homie D Clown video. That skit is strangely similar to my 6th birthday with Bepo the Clown. At the time of my party, Skippy was almost 18 years old.  He had never spent much time with us during my youngest years. And he disappeared again not long after he clowned at my party.

Skippy was one of the problem boys in the family.  Mom and Dad never talked about him except when they were having to deal with his being in trouble. Sometimes there would be a late night phone call from Skippy asking to be picked up or bailed out. They were having to go downtown to either wire him some money or pick him up from the Greyhound Bus station. He was constantly outrunning the cops, who would often show up at our house looking for him. It was always something with Skippy.

Mom used to coach me on how to answer questions about Skippy if nosy neighbors were to ask me about him.  I was not supposed to tell them when he was being held in the mental hospital for acting crazy.  I couldn't tell them when he was in jail for various theft and burglary offenses. I was only allowed to say he wasn't home and nothing else.

I am certain that Lynda has some normal memories about Skippy.  But I don't,  because he started taking drugs in the 60s, and he never outgrew it.  He started with marijuana and alcohol.  Then he took uppers that made him act crazy.  Then he took stuff that made him see things that weren't there. Then he got into downers, and finally, heroin. He went to prison many times for stealing everything that wasn't bolted down.

He hung out with like-minded people-- strung out druggies, thieves and prostitutes.

One time he brought home a skeletal white-haired prostitute with only 1 front tooth.  She asked to use the bathroom, then came out scratching her crotch and complaining that the cream didn't kill all the lice.  Mom blew up and kicked them out of the house, then she grabbed a bottle of bleach and splashed it all over the toilet seat and the floor of the bathroom and had me wipe it all up.

Another time he brought over an old whore who had just been released from what we called Patton Insane Asylum. She had killed her baby and was found not guilty by reason of insanity.  She had a weird taste for Arby's Horsey sauce.  We had several packets of it in the kitchen, and she asked for a glass of milk, then started squeezing the horseradish cream into the milk. And then she stirred it up and drank it down.

It isn't that the state of California didn't try to help Skippy. He was sent to rehabilitation therapy.  He was given occupational rehabilitation again and again.  He received grants to go to Mesa Community College. The taxpayers must have wasted hundreds of thousands of dollars on him, and none of the efforts to give him a chance for success did any good.  He couldn't stay out of trouble long enough to give  law-abiding living a chance to take hold.  It appeared to me that he was living his dream: drifting, partying,  and committing crimes of opportunity. It also seemed to me that as much as mom complained about his thieving ways, sometimes she took advantage of it.

One example occurred when he was in between prison stays.  Aunt Louise, an in-law of Mom's sister Amy,  passed away in July 1972.  She was a rich lonely widow and was going into the ground in style.  Mom drove Skippy and me to the Lewis Colonial Mortuary on El Cajon Blvd to visit the body.  Mom waited in the car.  Skippy and I went inside and the somber funeral director showed us to the darkened viewing room.  The room reeked of the huge rose sprays that decorated the room. Aunt Louise was in a dark wood casket with ornate carvings on the outside, and soft cream-colored velvety bedding on the inside. She was all decked out in a fancy green dress, with her hands folded across her chest. All her familiar rings were still on her fingers-huge diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.

Skippy wanted those rings, and told me she wouldn't miss them where she was going.  He said he wanted to get in the casket with her and take off all her jewelry. He approached the body and reached out to her hand.  I normally didn't say much to him but I was horrified and this time I spoke up. I told him quite forcefully that if he took anything off of her I would run to tell the man at the front desk.  I must have sounded serious, because he stopped, looked at me for a second, and then backed away, saying, "Well, lets go then, there is no reason to stick around." I had the feeling that stealing her jewelry was the only reason Mom drove us there.

He and his stinky runny-nosed hippie friends sometimes would rent a truck and drive it to a department store to do a little shopping.  But when Skippy shopped, he never paid for anything. One time, he backed a truck up to the loading dock of the Montgomery Wards, which used to be in Mission Valley shopping center.  There were cases of electric typewriters just sitting there, and he loaded them all into the truck and pulled away.  He then came to Eagle Street to drop off his load. Mom gave him money for the goods, and I got an electric typewriter for my birthday that year.

Skippy could never be trusted alone in a room, because he would steal whatever he could get his hands on. He stole pennies from my purse.  He stole the framed first dollar bill that little brother Jeff earned.   His crimes were sometimes petty and needless.

For example, I was scheduled to play some music on the pipe organ for a Christmas recital at my high school's convent chapel one year.  Mom didn't feel like going, so she sent Skippy in her place.  While I was performing, he just couldn't resist stealing my teacher's Bible that had been given to her by her parents went she entered the convent.  I didn't find out he did it until after we got back to school from Christmas break and the teacher was asking the students if anyone had seen it. I just knew he had done it, and found it later in his backpack of belongings that he left at the house.  He had cut out all the pages where her parents had written their dedications to her.  I didn't have the heart to return it with so many pages mutilated.  So I did nothing and just felt guilty every time I saw that poor old nun.

Skippy didn't have any impulse control or conscience.  He couldn't hold any kind of legitimate job.  He never had a real address because he never paid his rent, even when apartments were cheap and plentiful in San Diego.  Drugs were the most important thing in his life, and that is where any money he had went to.

He was the one who introduced Mom to Paris Young, her horrible third husband.  And after he got out of prison for the final time, he spent his days stealing, selling his infectious blood plasma,  buying drugs, Camel nonfilter cigarettes, and bottles of Thunderbird.  His teeth rotted out, his tattooed body was covered with sores from injecting heroin, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a dirty Fu Manchu moustache. He was balding prematurely, and his remaining hair was filthy and straggly. He looked so bad that Mom joked that he looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

One rainy night in January, 1978, Skippy got drunk and decided to take a walk on Interstate 5 near Old Town, and not surprisingly he was hit by a car.  The collision broke his legs in a few places and put him in the trauma unit at County Hospital in Hillcrest.  His social worker encouraged him to file a lawsuit against the poor Doctor who never expected a drunk zombie would suddenly stagger out on the highway in the dark and in pouring rain. He won a structured settlement and every month, he received a check that would have supported him.  But instead, he bought heroin and Thunderbird and lived on the street.

Skippy was not a son to be proud of.  Mom didn't want anyone to know he was her child, and she never wanted him to show up and have to be introduced or explained to new friends and associates. No one in the family who knew Skippy really wanted much to do with him because he was hopelessly lost.  So it was very odd that Christmas season of 1979, Mom was trying to locate him and bring him to Eagle Street.  She was getting a visit from someone she had never spoken of before, a man named Pete Arnett.  She was all excited about the visit and told me that Pete was an old friend from way back in the 40s when she lived in Detroit.  She told me that he still lived with his mother and that he had a big fat sister who was a bitch and was always trying to boss him around and get in his business.  When I asked why she wanted Skippy to come over when Pete was here, she changed the subject.

Pete Arnett and Mom, December 1979. Mom was very affectionate to him when he visited

 Pete arrived and stayed for a few days, and he and Mom seemed to be very familiar with each other.  Pete didn't care about touching base with Lynda, Tim, or Darwin, but he seemed to be interested that Skippy was going to come by. And then Skippy arrived and the three of them visited, with Skippy acting calm and well-behaved, which seemed very weird to me. It was like he was trying to give a good impression.  My instincts at that time were telling me that this man, Pete Arnett, was Skippy's real father. This is just my opinion.  But I would put money on a DNA test proving it. After Pete Arnett went back to wherever he lived, I asked Mom if he was going to be her new boyfriend.  Her answer made me think she had hoped that they could rekindle some spark that first occurred 30 years prior, but she knew it was not to be.  Pete never came back again after that visit.  I think when he saw Skippy, he was pretty turned off, and he choose to once again abandon his son, as he did in 1949.

Another piece of evidence that Skippy was not the 5th and final child of Bill Tompsett is a will that was written by Bill Tompsett's mother in 1964, before all Skip's crimes, insanity, drugs and disappointment became a big part of who he was.  The will acknowledges the first 4 children, but does not even mention Rodney James Tompsett.  If Skippy was truly the final child of her son Bill Tompsett, essentially a gift from the grave,  she would have cherished him and acknowledged him in the will. But she didn't.  The absence of his name indicates that Grandma Tompsett knew Skippy was not her grandchild. And if she knew, Bill probably knew too, and that could have been what led him to kill himself.

In 1984, Skippy came around with a young woman named Marianne.  He said they were married.  There was a baby girl born in October of that year, and he thought he would impress Mom by naming her Angelica, after Mom's fake name Angel. Mom was only mildly impressed.  But she hoped that maybe this woman and baby would make him turn his life around. But they didn't.

I learned from observing Skippy's pathetic existence that it does not matter how many times people bail you out of jail, pay for your rehab and medical bills, train you and place you in a job, or find you an apartment,  And it doesn't even matter if you find a person who loves you and has your child. It's often nothing but a big waste of time, trouble, and money. Because some people cannot be saved from themselves.  Skippy was one of those people who doomed himself to an early death.

On April 14, 1986, Mom got one last call from the authorities about Skippy.  His dead body had been found downtown, leaning up against a San Diego Gas and Electric building, dead from an overdose of black tar heroin.  The Coroner's office asked Mom if she wanted to come down and positively identify the body, and claim it for disposal. She said not unless she had to.  They told her it was not necessary, because his prints and tattoos were good enough. For the final time, the county taxpayers had to foot the bill to take care of the mess Skippy left behind.

Was Skippy just a "bad seed," as Mom often called him? Was he a victim of so much abuse in the home that he turned to drugs and crime as a coping mechanism? Was he truly mentally ill? Did his bad circumcision permanently affect his psyche?  Was he Bill's son, or was he Pete's son?  How many unsuspecting people caught hepatitis from the blood and plasma that he sold for drug money? How many crime victims are still out there wondering what happened to their class rings, watches  and family heirlooms that were stolen out of their homes?  There are many questions about him that will never be answered.  For me, Skippy was a huge life lesson, a cautionary tale, the reason I never experimented with drugs. He is why when I look at the hundreds of filthy, crazy, drunk and high feral people polluting the streets, shooting up, stealing bikes, and setting fires in the canyons,  I know that every single one of them had many chances to recover and reform but made their choice to wallow in misery.   Just like Skippy.

Tiny

There were dozens of dogs who lived with us on Eagle Street over the decades. The alpha dog, and the one who was with us the longest, was a little mutt named Tiny.

Mom had recently suffered the loss of her stillborn son Jody Jim in March, 1959.  The traumatic event left her permanently damaged, both physically and emotionally.  She was no longer able to get pregnant due to the birth injury.  She was likely very hormonal and down in the dumps.  As we all know, there is nothing as therapeutic as a new puppy.  Right around the same time the Warriners were mourning the death of what appeared to be their final child, a litter of puppies was born somewhere in San Diego. Six weeks later,  Mom and Lynda went to take a look at them, and couldn't resist bringing one puppy home. 

Tiny was a small dog.  Mostly white, with tan ears and a round tan spot on the base of her spine, she stood about 13" tall and had a plumed tail that curled up over her back.  Mom said she was a mix of many things, but mostly Poodle, Spitz, and "toy Collie."

Lynda and Puppy Tiny play Tug-o-war on Eagle Street

Tiny was a very smart dog.  She was housebroken within a week.  She would go to the front door and sit down, and that's how you knew she needed to go out.  She never needed a leash, either.  You just let her out, she would do her business, and come right back inside.  Tiny was patient with children and loved everyone in the family.

Tiny is right there welcoming Grand Baby Cathy into the family in early 1960

Tammy and Tiny in the wagon pulled by Darwin, 1963

Tiny and Collette taking a bike ride with Tammy, 1970

Mom believed that everyone living in the house needed to somehow earn their keep.  That included the pets.   Tiny was definitely a mongrel, and there was no way she could be mistaken for any of the purebreds that made up her genetic pedigree.  But Mom soon discovered that if Tiny was bred to a purebred, the resulting puppies would more often than not look just like their sire.

Mom bred Tiny to a silver Toy Poodle from championship bloodlines.  The resulting litter consisted of 3 curly-coated black puppies that started turning silver as their fur grew longer, and one rare pup that was born silver, which almost never happens with purebred Poodles.  These puppies grew into beautiful Poodle-type puppies and they sold out immediately.

Happy customer Sophie with Herkimer, a rare born-silver Poodle pup from Tiny

A breeding to a long-haired cream-colored Lhasa Apso resulted in shaggy Lhasa lookalikes.

Tiny's first litter from a Lhasa Apso father

Here they are at 6 weeks with Darwin

When bred to a tan Chihuahua, the puppies were tiny, shorthaired and tan, with round heads and short muzzles, just like their sire.

Chance encounter on a city street with Pedro and 63 days later, Chihuahua puppies!

After the despised next door neighbor's dachshund, Hansel, paid a clandestine visit, Tiny gave birth to two dark brown puppies with long bodies, short legs, and floppy ears. And even though the neighbor huffed and puffed that her Hansel would never even cast a glance at our dog, there was no denying that the little Doxie lookalikes were indeed Hansel's pups. Mom hated Hansel's owner so much that she didn't take a photo of the two Dachshund puppies before selling them.


Tiny's final litter was a single surprise puppy, born long after a dog is ever expected to be able to reproduce.  We never knew who this puppy's father was, but because he had the same coloring as a St. Bernard, Mom advertised him as a "Toy St Bernard," and we could have sold dozens of them.

Nopey was Tiny's final puppy, born in 1970.  We wanted to keep him, but Dad said no.

Tiny had a false pregnancy one year, which enabled her to raise an orphaned Manx kitten which turned out to be our family cat Fudder.

Tiny and her kitten Fudder, 1963

Tiny loved other animal babies too.  She tried to help Collette with her big litter of six, but it was Fudder who ended up raising the two runts from that litter.

Right after this was snapped, Fudder came to the bed and took the tiniest puppy.

Tiny really loved Dad.  When he was relaxing in his La-Z-Boy with a drink and his pipe, Tiny was usually right there with him.

The usual scene when Dad got home from work, this was in 1971, Dad's final year of life.

In 1969, Mom came home with a mother and daughter silver Poodle duo, Tiny was not amused at all.  She had no problem accepting the calm and submissive daughter, Collette.  But with the mother Poodle, Musette, it was an entirely different story.  Both dogs hated each other and would fight whenever they were in the same room.

 Mom consulted Tiny's veterinarian, who suggested muzzling them and letting them work it out without being able to bite each other.  He hoped that they would eventually make peace with each other.  The two dogs were muzzled and the fighting began.  The dogs sparred until they were drooling and gasping, but they would not stop trying to kill each other. 

Tiny hated Musette, and after this failed attempt, Musette went to a new home

The vet's idea was a failure and Mom quickly found another home for Musette. After Dad died, and Mom started collecting dozens of Poodles, Tiny accepted every single one of them. 

Tiny, Collette, Gidget, Samson and Suzy with Tammy, 1971

When Mom bought an electric dog hair clipper and a grooming book, she experimented on Collette and even on poor Tiny, who did not need to be clipped, but got a Lion trim anyhow.

Tiny, Fudder and Collette with Jeff in 1969. Mom's first try at dog grooming. I didn't think Tiny's brown spot would ever grow back, but it did.

At Christmas time, Mom would hang little cocktail hotdogs on the bottom branches of our Christmas tree, then call Tiny and Collette over  so they could find their treats.

Once the gifts were opened, the dogs could find their treats on the tree.

Tiny came to Eagle Street during a time of great sorrow.  She cheered Mom up and nudged her out of her postpartum sadness.  She was a great watchdog.  She raised an orphaned kitten. She accepted everyone into the family except Musette.  Her puppies were a source of income.  She was there when the three youngest kids were introduced to the family.  She was also there when the ambulance came to take dad away after he died in his yellow chair early one morning.  

In 1974, Tiny suddenly suffered a stroke and couldn't walk.  Mom called Darwin and asked him to take Tiny to the vet to be put to sleep.  She lived 15 good years, had healthy hybrid vigor, and stayed perky until the very end. Tiny was one of a kind. She was the most beloved dog that ever lived with us on Eagle Street.

Fudder

I can't remember a time on Eagle Street when we didn't have a cat. Some cats were with us for a few months and then they were gone.  But our official family cat, the queen of all of our cats, was Fudder.

Fudder showed up in my Easter basket in 1963.

 A beautiful marble tabby Manx cat with white paws and the distinctive M on her forehead, Fudder was from the richer side of Mission Hills, having been orphaned at a very early age.  She was too young to be weaned.  Coincidentally, Tiny, the family dog, had just gone through a false pregnancy and was lactating.  Mom brought the kitten home and gave her to Tiny, who raised her as her own. Tiny and Fudder remained close for the rest of their lives.

Tiny adopted Fudder as her own.  Interestingly, Tiny like to perch in high places, just like a cat.

I don't know who named the kitten Fudder.  Or why.  Its a really ugly name for an adorable kitten.

Fudder enjoyed life during the era where cats were free to come and go as they pleased.  Back in the 60s and 70s, no one had an "indoor" cat.  So Fudder went out hunting for mice, lizards, and birds in our backyard canyon whenever she felt like it. She occasionally had the opportunity to catch a field mouse that ventured inside our house.

In the Springtime, we would hear angry birds making a racket.  We would go outside and see Fudder running towards home while mockingbirds were dive-bombing her. Sometimes they would peck little chunks of flesh off the top of her head to drive their point home.

Pawing in the box for some dinner

An sweet elderly woman who I called "Neighbor" lived two doors down from us on Eagle Street.  She just loved Fudder.  Every Friday was fish day in our neighborhood, and Neighbor would walk to the market and buy 2 rainbow trout--one for herself and one for her even more elderly mother.  She would pass by our house on her way home and remind me that she would leave the heads and tails on her back porch for our cat.  Fudder knew when I was walking over to Neighbor's  house it meant tasty raw fish would end up in her dinner bowl instead of boring Little Friskies, and she usually would follow me there and back.

Fudder loved everyone in the family. She was accustomed to being with children from the start.

Tammy in her dog dress and Cathy, Susan's daughter, who is holding baby Fudder

Tammy and Fudder in a doll cradle

Darwin and Fudder, with Tammy and Cathy

But she had a special relationship with Darwin.

Darwin and Fudder, co-napsters

She was always right there with us for the holidays

Like all cats, Fudder had a fascination with dripping faucets

Fudder even went in the kiddie pool with Darwin and Tammy

Fudder also lived during the free love 60s.  That meant we were treated to kittens twice a year. Manx cats have shorter spines and less cargo space, so they usually have very small litters compared to your average long-tailed cat.  Fudder nearly always had a litter of just three. Usually there were two with short tails and 1 with a full tail.  Mom never had a problem selling her kittens for cash or trading them for Blue Chip or Top Value stamps.

Tammy with the first litter

Tammy had a sandbox in the house.  Not a good idea if you also have kittens

Baby Jeff and Tammy with the 1967 Spring litter

Fudder didn't mind when Tiny hopped in the nest to check on her newborn grandchildren!

In 1971, our poodle Collette had a litter of 6 puppies.  Two of them were runts.  Being half the size of the other four, the two tiny puppies could not get a spot at the dinner table and were pushed into the corner of the bed.  It was apparent that Collette couldn't care for these two babies.  Fudder was currently living in the back of Jeff's closet, nursing a litter of 3 newborns herself.  She was a nosy cat, and couldn't help but stop by the puppy basket to take a look at the babies while Collette was out for a quick walk.  Hearing the wailing of the tiny runt in the corner, she decided to take matters into her own paws.  She grabbed one of the runts by the neck and took it back to her nest in the closet.  I went to get it back, but Fudder chased me all the way down the hall and with a ferocious growl backed me up against the TV in the living room. Later, when Fudder stepped away for a meal, Mom put the other screaming runt in the closet.  And there they stayed for another three weeks, until one day, the three kittens and their two Poodle step-siblings poked their noses out of the closet for the first time.

Fudder with her puppies and kittens

The coolest thing about Fudder saving the lives of the tiny Poodles was that she also trained them to use the litter box.  When they were returned to the puppy playpen with their Poodle siblings, Mom gave them a litter box them to use, and they in turn taught their four siblings how to go potty in the box.  This made that litter an instant hit with the customers.  Mom actually advertised them as "Litter box trained," and they sold like hotcakes.

The climber was one of Fudder's puppies. Notice the big litter box in the playpen

Fudder taught me an important lesson one hot summer day in 1970:  Don't bring strange adult cats into the house. Ever. Or else.  Mom and Dad were friendly with an old widow named Aunt Louise,  who was somehow related to Aunt Amy's husband.  She lived alone in a country mansion with a Siamese cat and a Pomeranian.  When the old lady had to go into the hospital, we went to get her cat and dog to take care of them for a few days.  As I walked into our living room with an animal under each arm, Fudder eyed the cat and went berserk.  She screamed a blood curdling cat scream and took a flying leap onto me. The Siamese cat jumped away and hid behind the couch, as did the Pom.  But Fudder was out of her mind and took her rage out on me.  She hissed and growled as she dug her claws into my bare arms and legs, slicing me open all over my four extremities. There was really nothing I could do about it except flail about and scream. By the time she was done with me, I was a bloody mess.  It took a couple hours for Mom to clean up all my deep wounds with hydrogen peroxide. Then she wrapped my arms and legs up in bandages, mummy style. I still have some of those deep scratch scars to this day, but I didn't stay mad at Fudder.

One day, sometime in 1973 or so, Fudder went out for her usual daytime excursion and never returned.  She was about 10 years old, which is pretty good for a free-range cat.  She never received a single vaccine, and had never been to the vet.  She lived a healthy and natural carefree life.

 Mom had three other Manx cats during the 70's and 80's after Fudder's departure.  They also loved people and dogs, weren't scaredy cats, and had some really cute babies.  But no cat could ever replace Fudder.  Raised by a dog, she returned the favor by saving two puppies. She kept the house mice on the run, loved her people, and ensured that I would never forget the best cat on Eagle Street.

Mom's Identities

In this day and age, reality is not based on facts as much as it is based on feelings.  It is very chic to reinvent one's self and to force others to go along with one's fantasy life. To not accept a person for who they say they are is now considered bigoted or mean-spirited.  We are not allowed to question anyone, even if it is so obvious that their lives are not reality-based. In order to get along, we must enter a person's fantasy world and pretend right along with them.

Mom was way ahead of her time.  She was an original identity-fluid person way before such a thing was cool. She did not really think it was all that necessary to stick with one name, or one birth date, or one story. She had no problem changing things up a bit if it meant getting an emotional or monetary benefit.

Mom told me to never allow the government to take copies of my fingerprints, or to ever get a tattoo.  This advice was for one simple reason:  Both were used to identify a person.  It did make perfect sense to me.  Coming from a family where two of the older brothers were juvenile delinquents serving time for burglary and other crimes, I could see where a person choosing theft as his career choice might not want identifying prints or tattoos on record.  But I think Mom's reasoning was that you could have different identities more easily if you didn't have that big attention-grabbing  tattoo of a black widow spider catching a fly plastered all over the side of your neck.

When I was about 5 years old, Mom came to me with a pencil and paper and told me that I needed to write a letter to some rich guy and tell him how poor we were.  She wanted me to say that Dad had no job and that we didn't have enough to eat.  I kept asking her why I had to write a letter like that when Dad had a job and our cupboard was full of cans. I couldn't wrap my mind around a new identity as a poor, unfed child.  After many attempts, Mom finally gave up on her scheme to get money from someone who was trying to help people in need.

Mom maintained two identities after her confidential marriage to Paris Young.  She kept her Carol Warriner driver's license, but added an additional driver's license under the name Angel Young.  She could then identify as one or the other depending on the circumstances.  Cashing her social security check required the Warriner ID.  But her preferred identity was Angel Young for business ventures like clowning and dog selling.

As Carol, Mom listed her year of birth as 1929, when it was actually 1921.

As Angel, Mom gave 1935 as her year of birth.  She just kept getting younger as time went by. By the time she passed away in 1986, she was the same age as her oldest daughter, who was born in 1940.

Her relatives knew her as Carol, while her newer associates only knew her as Angel. She had a hard time convincing her older friends to call her Angel.  Her story to them was that her parents named her Angel Carol Jane, but her deceased husband Darwin had never liked the name and insisted on calling her Carol instead.  I don't know if they bought the story, and some of them had to continuously correct themselves when they would slip up and call her by her real name.  I knew Paris had come up with that name for her and that she was lying to her friends. I felt bad when they were made to feel uncomfortable if they forgot to participate in her fantasy world. But I couldn't say anything, because if I did,  I would get slapped across the face for pointing out the truth, days later, when I least expected it.

Mom invented different life stories for different audiences.  For example, her newer friends and business associates were told that her only children were Darwin, me, and the two youngest kids.  All the others were step-children that she took on when she married Darwin.  She would lament to her audience that she devoted her entire life to raising his kids, and they grew up to treat her so disrespectfully.  Again, I would hear her tell these lies and knew better than to say a word. It just made me wonder what lies was she telling that I didn't know the truth about.

She told her older associates, the ones who knew for a fact that the first six kids were her biological children,  that her three youngest kids were also her flesh and blood children.

Mom also liked to pretend she was trained in various fields.  She believed that if you thought you were something, you were. Among her fake accomplishments, she claimed to be a barber and swimming teacher, and displayed a fake barber's certificate and a fake swimming instructor's certificate to prove it.  And while she was pretty good at teaching people how to swim, I can attest that she was no barber.

The fluid identity thing permeated the whole family in one way or another.  From the beginning of our lives on Eagle Street, the three youngest kids were not who we thought we were.  I was legally adopted, but didn't know it yet, and the two youngest children came into the family without the proper paperwork. Mom wanted everyone to believe that she had given birth to us youngest three, and even though she always hid behind people in most photographs, she made sure she was photographed holding baby Jeff, and looking 9 months pregnant with the baby that would be born one week later.

Mom wanted this photo to prove that she was somehow able to give birth to two babies in 1966. So she packed a pillow under her dress, and made sure she looked as big as possible.  She wrote on the photo that it was taken November 1, 1966, but overlooked the fact that the printing date on the photo is October.

When Paris entered the scene,  Mom told us our names were no longer Warriner.  We were told to identify with the surname Young. When I went back to school for my sophomore year at the Academy of Our Lady of Peace, I told the teachers that I had a new name.  They didn't buy into it, and stated that until they saw legal papers proving it, they would continue to call me by my legal name.  That annoyed Mom to no end, but she didn't want to push it and get them looking closer at our family. So I was a Warriner at school, and a Young everywhere else.

One of the things I hated about Mom's ever-changing story is that I was pulled into it.  She told her sister Amy that I insisted on calling myself "Little Amy," and photos she sent to Aunt Amy identified me as such.  When dealing with customers who came to buy our puppies or get their dogs groomed, Mom would brag to them that I was so smart that I had skipped high school and was in college studying veterinary science. Even on my high school graduation day, Mom bragged to her friends that I was graduating from college.  It kind of made me feel like my real accomplishment wasn't good enough.

As Mom got older and sicker, she knew her time would soon be up.  And she made me promise not to post her obituary in the San Diego newspapers, because she didn't want anyone knowing her age or how many kids she had.   When Mom passed away, at the age of 64, her friends were shocked that someone so young could have a heart attack. One of them wiped away tears and said,  "She was only 45 years old, what a shame!" I honored Mom's secret and didn't correct her.

Mom's Marriages

May 17th was the day Mom celebrated her wedding anniversary to Darwin S. Warriner.  She always told me that the best way to get married is to get a confidential marriage license because then you don't need to take a syphilis test.  But I always thought that she had other motives.  It got me a bit curious about her marriages, so I did a bit of research.  

When Mom married the first time, it was in September, 1939.  I found an announcement in the Detroit Free Press, dated Sept 26, 1939.  When she married Charles "Bill" Tompsett, he was 18 and she was 17.

Her next marriage was to Darwin S Warriner.  It occurred on May 17, 1950, and even though they lived in Detroit, Michigan, they traveled all the way to Woodstock, Virginia to get it done.

Curiously, she and Darwin married a second time.  This time, it was 6 months later, on November 3, 1950, and they did it in Detroit, Michigan.

Why did they go to all the trouble of getting married twice? I am not certain of their motives.

Many years ago I attempted to verify Mom's marriage to Paris Young and found that the rules are very strict. Confidential marriages are not posted in the newspaper.  A curious person cannot go on a fishing expedition, send off for a search of marriage records, and expect to receive any information. You must provide the exact date of marriage and the exact full names of the bride and the groom.  If you do that, you will receive a letter that will either verify what you already know, or will state that they did not find any evidence of a marriage based on the information you submitted. Since I knew the date of the marriage-July 11, 1975, and the full names of the parties involved, I was able to get verification that Mom did indeed marry Paris Young.

Did she marry anyone else?  I don't think so, but because of the confidential marriage rules, I guess we'll never know for sure!