The Real Santa Claus

Merry Christmas to my awe-inspiring Mom, who was and remains the only true Santa in my life!

It Sure Didn’t Seem Like Christmas

Late Christmas Day, strung out on candy canes and chocolate Santas, Mark moped in the family room. He was dismayed over not getting the drum set that he wanted. In a sulky voice, to no one in particular, he announced:
“It sure didn’t seem like Christmas.”
Mom heard every word.
Normally unflappable, Mom gave it to Mark with both barrels. How could he be so self-centered, thoughtless, and unappreciative? The spoiled little ingrate! Mark cowered on the couch. I froze nearby, as did Dad, Libby, and Johnny. Good behavior was paramount on Christmas, and everyone in our family of six was stunned to have a role in this not-very-Christmas-y scene.

Missing Ingredient

Mom knew what to do. She found a peanut-butter cookie recipe with precisely 12 ingredients. She mixed and baked a dozen cookies, omitting one ingredient per cookie. Mom then arranged and labeled the cookies, each quite unique, in a display box.
I toted this science project to school. When the science-fair winners were announced, I took first place for the second grade! I treasured the blue ribbon and seeing my photo (“Future Scientist”) in the local newspaper.
For the third-grade science fair, Mom experimented with egg yolks. I won first place again! With a pinch of guilt, once more I sopped up the prestige reserved exclusively for the winner’s-circle crowd.

Short Fuse

As he rebuilt his mini-bike, I stepped into the garage.
“Get out!” said Mark, not looking up.
“I don’t have to,” I said. “It’s my garage too. I can be here if I want.”
The exchange intensified. I threatened to tell Mom. Infuriated, he yelled: “I’m going to pound you!”
I delivered my below-the-belt taunt: “I’m a faster runner than you, so good luck catching me!”
Looking wounded, he seethed: “Only because I broke my leg in the first grade!”
I sprinted across our front lawn. Mark was close behind, but I was not afraid. I had gotten his goat, which was fiendishly exhilarating, and that was all that mattered.

Secret Agents

At the neighborhood swim club, we used pens to “open channel D” and interface with one another. Acting out the “Man from U.N.C.L.E” TV series, Sandy was the dark-haired Napoleon Solo to my towheaded Illya Kuryakin.
In the chlorinated water, we employed another espionage device, the swim mask. Inconspicuously, we swam near teenage girls, studied their breasts, and then regrouped in the shallow end to exchange findings.
When a voluptuous girl walked toward the locker room, we shadowed her. Catlike, we waited in the changing stall next to her shower stall. When she ran the water, we peered over and soaked up as much as our spying eyes could absorb.

Animal Noises

“Quit making animal noises,” said Dad, behind the wheel.
I did my chimpanzee call. Mark cawed like a crow.
“Stop,” said Dad, “or I’m going to let you two out.”
We continued.
He pulled over, and said: “Get out!”
“John,” said Mom, incredulous. “You can’t just dump them.”
Though Dad’s move was embarrassingly amateurish, it was unsettling. Mark and I revealed no concern, however, and ran into a grassy field.
Our Chevy wagon pulled forward several feet before stopping. Mom’s window framed her worried face.
Dad got out, and yelled: “Get back in!”
All the way home, the front seat was silent. The back seat was perfectly hushed as well.

Kitchen Passage

Mobilized in the hallway, my older brothers and I heard rapid-fire ice clinking and a constant barrage of uproarious laughter. Cigarette smoke clogged the air and impaired our visibility. We moved deeper into party territory. Our mission: To capture party food and drink without talking to any adults. This was a hazardous operation, which required crossing the treacherous tiled foyer. The only passage into the kitchen, this entryway was adjacent to a living room overrun with party guests. In final attack position, we awaited Johnny’s order to commence the ground offensive. Though the risks were considerable, it was the spoils—mixed nuts, chips, Coke, and 7-Up—that beckoned us forward.

Barry the Teenager

Mark and I watched Barry the teenager wash his car. After buffing it with a chamois, he offered to take us for a ride. He perched us on the trunk, and then slowly drove forward on his driveway. Though electrified, we soon realized that we had nothing to hold onto. When Barry gently braked, Mark’s face smashed into the rear window. Clutching his mouth, Mark started crying. Barry got out, cautiously lowered us down, and said he was sorry. Mark ran home. Not knowing what to do, I ran home too. Mom, angry, said we were not to go to Barry’s house again. He was too old for us, period.

Chew Toys

I boosted myself up on the fence, and peered into our back neighbors’ yard. Earlier that day, their German shepherd, Binkie, had pummeled our dog, George. After biting at each other through the fence’s wooden slats, George stumbled away, his bloody mouth and nose pierced with redwood splinters.
Seeing no Binkie, I dropped down, grabbed the stray ball, and chucked it back over. I then heard ferocious snarling. Heart pounding, I hoisted myself back up and over. In my own yard, I felt a throbbing pain in my heel. Looking down toward my Keds sneaker, I could see that my white sock was drenched with blood.
Binkie: 2
Us: 0

Saved by the Rug!

I knew that I was about to get spanked. As Mom stormed in my direction, I curled up in the far corner of my twin bed and braced myself. She was fuming mad and I was going to get it. Before she could reach me, however, she slipped and fell on the small shag rug on my bedroom floor. I dared not laugh, even though it was the funniest pratfall I’d ever seen. The look of indignity on her face was striking. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she. She was so humiliated that she just got back on her feet, turned around, and left. I was spared!

Snacking: A Study in Contrast

After-school snacks at Sandy’s house included Lay's potato chips and Oreo cookies. After pouring hand-squeezed lemonade, her mother joined us at the kitchen table, rapt to hear all. She was especially curious about my older sister’s dates and whether my dad got a raise like Sandy’s dad. While Sandy shushed her mom, I sponged up the celebrity treatment.
Snacks at my house were mostly inferior store brands. Mom, a graduate student, was engrossed in her studies. So Sandy and I created “peanut butter” with crushed peanuts and margarine. We next stirred Fig Newton chunks into rocky-road ice cream. While I craved Coca-Cola, Sandy delighted in having the kitchen to ourselves.

True Calling

On the front cover of our folders, my third-grade teacher asked us to draw a picture of how we looked that day. I easily sketched and colored in a girl with yellow hair in a red dress, wearing a Monkees badge.
On the back cover, my teacher then asked us to draw ourselves as adults. I was perplexed. Teacher? Stewardess? Nurse? Secretary? Housewife? None of the girl choices were inspiring. I settled, however, and began penciling in a nurse’s hat with a red cross. Then it came to me! With great fervor, I erased the nurse’s hat and then sketched and colored in the ideal adult me: a Go-Go Dancer!

Too Hot to Handle!

We fourth-grade girls assembled in Sandy’s fort, high up in her garage rafters. Together we leafed through the Playboy magazines that Cecilia lifted from her dad. We debated the merits of various playmates, cut out our favorites, and then glued them into binder-paper scrapbooks.
Back in my pink bedroom, I hid my steamy scrapbook under the rug. I next envisioned Mom noticing the bulge and questioning me about her discovery. Realizing that I simply could not account for why I possessed such a booklet, I tore it up. And when no one was looking, I darted out to our garbage can and sprinkled my paper shreds into the stinking mix.

Suburban Strife

On the front lawn next door, I saw Mark and Clay tussling. Clay’s father came out. He smiled, and urged Clay to sock Mark harder. When he lifted Clay onto Mark’s back, saying: “Get him like this!” I ran for help.
“Clay and Mr. Babcock are beating up Mark!” I shouted, bolting in the house. Libby, outraged, tore out of there. I followed.
“Stop it!” Libby yelled. The fight stopped. She faced Mr. Babcock: “Aren’t you ashamed? A grown man! Not only not stopping the fight, but encouraging it!”
A cold war ensued. When the Babcock’s eventually sold their house and boxed up their possessions, no one even said good-bye.

Sensitivity Training

Munger told us that he had something important to tell us. Standing before our class, he was solemn. He would really rather not tell us, he said, because it was private. He then uttered words like colon cancer and surgery and intestinal rerouting. He worried that his colostomy bag might rupture—it happened on rare occasions—and he didn’t want to wait until then to reveal his condition to us.
Seated in front of him, we fifth graders appeared to be discreet and compassionate. The minute we were let out for recess, however, we roared amongst ourselves:
“Munger poops out of his stomach!”
“Eeew!”
“Munger poops in a bag!”
“Gross!”

Accessories

Shortly after Libby departed for school, Mom handed me my older sister’s Barbie case. Mom instructed me to be exceptionally careful with Libby’s prized doll and attendant wardrobe. She also beseeched me not to disclose our little arrangement to anyone.
Though I did my preschooler best, my fine-motor skills were crude. I especially couldn’t manage Barbie’s teensy accessories—her pink-plastic brush and comb set and her multicolored pumps. All the little pieces just scattered away from me, shooting across the family-room floor and vanishing under the couch. As the dog gnawed on a miniature tennis racquet, I tried frantically to gather everything back up. But it was just too hard.

Call of the Wild

After getting yelled at by my parents, I pouted alone on the patio. Then, coming from Johnny’s window, I heard: Quack! Quack! Quack! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! I looked over, and there was Johnny, blowing out laughs on his duck call — the very duck call that I had given him!
“Stop it!” I said, between sobs. “You’re mean!”
His voice oozed mockery: “Aw, did you get in trouble?”
I wanted to stomp on both him and that duck call. He towered over me, however, with a wit to match. So I ran to the far corner of our yard. Though I plugged my ears, I could still hear the incessant quacking.

Catholic Girl

I got invited to attend mass with the neighbor girl, Joanne. Determined to do it up right, I piously draped Mom’s black-lace scarf over my hair. I later tagged along to confession. When Joanne emerged after divulging sins to her priest, I blurted out: “What happened?”
Profoundly sincere, I approached Mom: “Can I be a Catholic?”
“You can decide what you want to be when you grow up,” she said, keeping a straight face.
While waiting for adulthood, I resolved to continue seeking divine inspiration from The Sound of Music and The Flying Nun. I also asked Joanne a lot of questions, like: “Is it grape juice or real wine?”

The Experienced Camper

As the only experienced camper in my Girl Scout troop, I took the lead in collecting firewood. While others grossed-out over banana slugs, I remained steadfast. Together, we sang jubilantly around the campfire: “Carry me ackee, go Linstead Market, not a quattie would sell.” Finally, in our sleeping bags, my tent-mates drifted off like cherubs. I lay awake, however, completely unhinged.
I made my first of many journeys to the troop leaders’ tent that night:
“I’m scared.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I hear weird noises.”
The list went on.
Seeing me in the morning, the troop leaders smirked. They then snickered amongst themselves about “the experienced camper.”

Toughness

When Bruce called me “fat” in our sixth-grade classroom, thanks to having two older brothers, I was well prepared.
“Well, at least I don’t suck my finger in the sixth grade like you do!” I shot back, going right to his weakest point.
“Shut up!” he said, extracting his index finger from his mouth and shoving me. I wore a sleeveless dress that day, and his saliva glazed my bare arm.
A small crowd gathered. “You wanna step outside?” I taunted, knowing that I could take him.
“Yeah, right,” he said, retreating.
Bruce never called me a name again, and neither did anyone else. Not at school at least.

To the Best Family!

A toast to all of you - most especially Mom, Libby, and Johnny! 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Nothing But Time

With one eye on the football game, Dad tended the dressed turkey that turned on the groaning rotisserie. Mom arranged the place settings with gold-trimmed china and crystal that were called to duty just twice a year.
Deb and I had no responsibilities other than to appear at our Thanksgiving feasts on time, recite our gratitude, and indulge.
At her house, Deb’s dad sharpened his carving knife. Deb’s mom, up since 4:30 AM, peeled potatoes.
Deb and I strolled down the mellow suburban streets. We then followed a dirt path to the railroad tracks. With nothing but time and the November breeze, we talked and walked along the endless rails.

Blockhouse

On the blacktop, I spied a house of wooden blocks. “Can I come in?” I asked the boy inside.
“No! Go away!”
Rejected, I pushed in a wall block.
Soon the Yard Duty was hugging the boy, who clutched his index finger. We Kindergarteners mobbed around.
“He says that SOMEBODY pushed in a block on purpose. WHO did this?”
I remained silent.
The boy pointed his good finger at me, blubbering: “SHE did it!”
“Um, somebody pushed ME,” I said, cooking up a lie. “And, um, I fell.”
I was let off.
After a long absence, the boy returned to school. A gigantic splint and bandage shrouded his shattered finger.

My Strawberry! My Strawberry!

David B sewed a Strawberry for himself and brought it to school. He next constructed a Popsicle-stick house for it, complete with toilet. Several boys in our fourth-grade class delighted in kidnapping the crude lump of stuffed red cloth with two button eyes, and causing David B to squeal: “My Strawberry! My Strawberry!”
David B flunked tests and failed to turn in assignments. Our teacher was exasperated. David B spent hours in the school psychologist’s office.
David B was a bored genius, I learned, who was capable of eighth-grade schoolwork. His maturity level, however, was only that of a Kindergartener. Though this made no sense, it sure explained a lot.

Consequences

Gramps treated us, his four youngest grandchildren, to the rodeo. Our Wisconsin cousins, Carrie Lynn and David, were mild-mannered and polite for the entire excursion.
Without Mom to prod us, Mark and I couldn’t uphold our trumped-up civility. On the drive back especially, as we shoved, kicked, and belittled one another, we showcased some of our ugliest-ever backseat behavior.
Gramps was silent. He pressed down harder on the accelerator of his Ford Fairlane.
Back at the cabin, Gramps darted inside and we cousins frolicked in the grassy yard. Minutes later, an infuriated Mom came after Mark and me. She mostly spanked, uttering a few heated words about ungratefulness and humiliation.

Confirmation

David, Ira, Jim, and Scott were goobs. David and Ira were babyish and brainy. Jim wore coke-bottle glasses and was alarmingly quiet. Scott lisped and tried way too hard.
Just after lunch recess, Mrs. T sent the four goobs back to the playground. With them out of the classroom, she then bawled out the rest of us sixth graders on our shameful behavior. She insisted that we stop teasing those boys. She then called the four back in. They each looked mortified as they slunk back to their desks.
Though she surely meant well, all Mrs. T truly accomplished was to make official the outcast status of the four goobs.

Rush to Judgment

I kneaded the sealed bag of Fritos. Before sprinkling the pulverized corn chips into my peanut butter sandwich, however, the bag burst. Frito powder shot out, overlaying my desk and the nearby floor. The other kids laughed. It was about then that the patrolling Yard Duty peeked into our classroom. I was sent to the office for inciting a food fight.
Our principal stared me down before asking: “Do you behave this way at home?”
“Um, sometimes!” I offered, honestly.
“Well, you don’t do it here!”
Had I claimed otherwise, he was surely ready with: “So why do you do it here?”
I was ensnared, and that was that.

Piano Practice

I asked Mom for help with my piano lesson, and then I argued with her: “But Mrs. Kelly says to do it THIS way, not THAT way!”
At least my piano teacher, Mrs. Kelly, didn’t smell like horse poop like my oldest brother’s music teacher did. Her wrinkled hands trembled, however, when she marked in my lesson books. Each week my hands were also adorned with her ink squiggles.
When she’d finally had enough of me, Mom shouted: “Go to your room!”
As much as I hated facing that old upright, being sent to my room was worse. “I’ll listen now!” I begged. “Please let me just practice my lesson!”

Envy

With unadorned bamboo poles, Mark and I cast out into the stocked pond. My red-and-white bobber repeatedly plunged below the surface. The catfish were biting, and I gleefully yanked them in. Mark didn’t even get a nibble, however, and his mood shifted into self-pitying despair.
Dad’s first cousin gushed to Mark: “Why, you have the prettiest big eyes and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen!” She then turned to me: “I bet you wish that you had your brother’s eyes.”
My haul of catfish was suddenly worthless. I would have willingly traded them all for Mark’s pretty eyes. Mark would have OK’d the deal too, if only it were possible.

Lima Beans

I sat to Dad’s right at the dinner table. It was an unfortunate seat, which allowed him effortless monitoring of what needed to be on my plate.
That night, it was lima beans.
“No!” I pleaded. “I hate lima beans!”
“You need to at least try them,” he insisted, lining up ten beans on my plate.
“I’ll throw up!” I sobbed, as I began choking them down. I don’t know what repulsed me more: their foul odor, rubbery skins, or mushy insides.
I puked on the linoleum floor, in Dad’s direction.
On her way to get a rag, Mom hissed to Dad: “Next time, you get to clean it up.”

What Do You Do, Daddy?

Whenever we kids inquired about his work, Dad’s reply was always the same. “Secrets,” he’d say, with a sly grin. I knew that Dad was an engineer, but not the train kind. His engineering was called aeronautical, and it was much harder to comprehend.
Dad guided us kids into the front yard one night. We huddled together on the driveway while he enthusiastically pointed toward some lights in the dark sky. He spoke about satellites and missiles, but his words made no sense to me. All I grasped was that my dad knew secrets about lights in the night sky, and probably not many other dads did.

Problem Solving

I didn’t do my homework, so Mrs. Cuddy drew a small chalk circle on the board. I had to then place my nose in the circle AND finish the overdue worksheet. “That will teach you,” she scolded, as my face smudged with chalk dust and tears.
I next failed to study for a math test. Terrified to be unprepared again, I faked a stomachache. Though Mom let me stay home, the thermometer displayed 98.6 F. She seemed skeptical.
I snuck into the kitchen. From the refrigerator, I grabbed and gobbled ten slices each of salami and bologna. With that, my stomachache was genuine and I was no longer a liar.

Ballet Lessons

Garbed in beginner’s black leotard and ballet slippers, I glided across the wooden floor in her dance studio. “DIP, toe-toe … DIP, toe-toe,” she ordered in her German accent, clapping out the beat.
My ballet teacher clenched a wooden pointer with a black rubber tip. When I plied at the barre, she stabbed my calves and thighs to perfect my turnout. When I remembered my arms (“strong tree branches”) and my hands (“delicate leaves”), she was unimpressed. I practiced positions first through fifth until they were as natural as walking, to no avail.
I complained to Mom. With loving kindness, she suggested that perhaps I should just stick with softball.

Revenge Gone Wrong

When the coast was clear, I tiptoed down the hallway toward Mark’s bedroom. I then positioned a thumbtack, pointy-side-up, in his doorway. My plan:
1. Mark would step on the tack, and feel pain.
2. I would not get caught.
Hours later, I heard a booming “OWWW!!!”
When I arrived on the scene, a barefoot Mom was on the floor. A blood drop replaced the thumbtack she’d just extracted from her heel. Hurt, she wondered who could be so careless. That her youngest daughter was a conniving revenge artist never entered her mind.
I saw no benefit to clouding her view, so I buried my guilt and tsk-tsked alongside her.

The Color Purple

The room was hushed as we fourth graders penciled through the big math test.
Not far into the exam, I heard the unambiguous sounds of someone throwing up. I looked in the direction of the eruption. A brilliant purple liquid glazed David S’s math test paper, his pencil, and his entire desktop. David S just sat there, ashen, too ill to be embarrassed. The watery, purple vomit dripped onto the floor.
On his way to the nurse’s office, bolstered by two escorts, an extremely feeble David S managed to mutter these words: “I told my mom not to give me grape juice this morning.”

Front Eagle Drop

The Front Eagle Drop resembled the Back Eagle Drop. You squatted on the monkey bar, gripped your hands, and then leaned forward rather than backward.
I was already well into the routine when I perceived the need for a reverse handgrip. I went into a free fall and crashed, face-first, into soggy tanbark. Shortly after impact, I stood up. Bark nuggets dangled from my throbbing face. I screamed. The Yard Duty dashed over, along with a throng of playground rubberneckers.
After my scabs healed, I avoided the monkey bars. Although I now understood exactly how to perform the Front Eagle Drop, I somehow felt happier jumping rope and playing foursquare.

Miss S

We rode back to school with Miss S. To us, her Mercury Cougar was as magnificent as a golden carriage. To sit inside that car, to be near Miss S, was breathtaking. Unlike the other fifth-grade teachers, Miss S wore colorful mini dresses and leather boots. Her shiny black hair was puffed in a bouffant, with perfect curls in front of each ear.
As we drove into the McDonald’s parking lot, Miss S announced that she had a surprise. We dumped our brown-bag lunches, and she then treated us to hamburgers and fries and milkshakes. It was our own little secret, said Miss S, and nobody else needed to know.

Another Mother for Peace

In 1968, before we mourned King and Kennedy, Mom took me to a “McCarthy Happening!” at the San Jose fairgrounds.
Mom was devoted to the antiwar candidate — making phone calls, going door to door. Dad favored Nixon. The TV pumped in the Vietnam War. Mom stuck a peace sign on our station wagon. Dad said that my oldest brother would achieve manhood by serving his country. Mom said, “Over my dead body!”
Being a fourth grader, I could not absorb much of McCarthy’s speech. So I just chanted slogans with the charged-up crowd. I already knew that he’d be the best president. Mom’s passion was enough to tell me that.

Irreconcilable Differences

On the first day of fourth grade, I picked up the new-girl-next-door. Joanne was still in bed, so her mom invited me to wait at their kitchen table. Joanne eventually shuffled in, eyes puffed and brown hair tangled, still in pajamas.
Her mom served fried eggs with ketchup. I felt nauseous watching the vivid-yellow yolks flow into a pinkish-orange pool on Joanne’s plate. Joanne then farted long and loud while eating—an unacceptable act at my house—and her exuberant mom announced: “Machine guns going off!”
We were late to school.
The next day, I walked alone. Delighted to be early, I romped on the playground until the bell rang.

Tricked

Together we girls cut across suburban lawns, blew out jack-o’-lanterns, and loaded our pillowcases with candy. We then recognized our group of boys across a cul-de-sac. Mike was with them. He and I often passed notes in our sixth-grade classroom. He sometimes signed his “Love, Mike.”
Turning away briefly, I felt something slam into the back of my skull. The pain was monstrous. I wondered if it was a rock. I touched my head and felt gooey wetness and broken eggshell in my hair.
“You got her!” one of our boys yelled. “Direct hit!”
I started crying. The pack of boys then ran off and away into the Halloween night.

Embezzlement

We held our first Monkees Fan Club meeting in my backyard playhouse. We girls were gaga over the TV pop band’s music and zany antics.
Lacking a meeting agenda, we thumbed through fan magazines. It was not particularly inspiring. Having provided the meeting place, I felt responsible to pep up the atmosphere. The playhouse lacked electricity, though, so we couldn’t listen to their new album. The meeting dragged. I then remembered that club membership involved collecting dues. Without question, each girl eagerly handed me some coins.
Though we swore to meet every week, we never did meet again. Later on, feeling mildly guilty, I pocketed all of the collected change.

Alabama Roots

Helen served the deep-fried catfish and hushpuppies that she’d prepared for our lunch, and then she joined us at Grandmother’s antique dining table. I remembered Dad’s instructions to treat Helen like family. This was our first visit to Grandmother’s home. I concentrated on sitting up straight and saying “yes, Ma’am,” just as Dad had coached us.

Afterward, Dad took rope and a board and built a swing for my brother Mark and me in Grandmother’s magnificent front-yard tree. Dad then sat on the porch and sipped iced tea with Grandmother and Helen. While we two swung with wild abandon, those three dished and belly-laughed about other people from Headland, Alabama.

Better Than Nothing

I entered the family room, which housed our new color television. My oldest brother Johnny, who was babysitting that evening, sat in front of the vibrant screen. I reminded him about the Peanuts TV special. He said that it was my bedtime and to beat it. No matter how many times I shrieked, “But Mom said I could watch it!” he remained firm.
Quickly reduced to wailing mourner status, I did as I was told.
Johnny stood in my doorway several minutes later. “You can watch Peanuts,” he announced, “but only on the black-and-white TV.” I tuned in pronto. The first commercials were rolling, but thankfully not all was lost.

Rehabilitation

I walked out of Jolly Five-and-Dime with Baby Huey. I braced myself for the cashier to come after me. Nothing happened. Occupying the back seat of the station wagon, the stolen squeaky toy and I made our way home. I was on edge during the entire ride. No one said anything.
I stashed the hot property in my closet. To have and to hold my beloved duckling gave me the greatest imaginable joy. And yet I was plagued by unbearable guilt and fear.
Working alone, I wrapped Baby Huey in birthday paper. I then presented my impromptu gift to the neighbor girl, and thereby reclaimed a useful place in society.

Sleepover

I begged Mom to let us sleep on the living room’s newly installed, super-plush carpeting. Reluctantly, she agreed.
Carol, Sandy, and I rolled out the sleeping bags. We respectfully followed Mom’s rules: NO food or drink, NO shoes, NO dog. After the requisite giggling and chattering, we fell asleep.
In the morning, Sandy and I noticed that both Carol and her sleeping bag were gone. We next saw a large, damp stain on the beloved carpeting.
Carol’s parents had picked her up in the night, we learned. The barf-encrusted sleeping bag had been thrown, violently, in the side yard. It remained there for weeks, untouched by anyone except the dog.

Night Out

After confirming that our old-lady babysitter had settled into her knitting and TV watching, we tiptoed into the kitchen. Mark silently pinched a book of matches from the topmost cabinet.
In the darkened backyard, we piled dried leaves and sticks beneath the swing set. Mark then lit the matches. I knew that we risked burning down the house. Even more troubling, I pictured the babysitter storming down the side yard and finding our high-spirited faces glowing in the bonfire’s warmth.
The fire sputtered out without incident, though, and we grew cold and tired. We covered the embers with pea gravel, and then slipped noiselessly back into our bedrooms.

The Fat Kid

My third-grade teacher posted the wall chart of collected data. We bunched up in front of it and viewed the stats. I was not too tall or too short, thankfully. My weight, however, was upsetting. Only a handful of my classmates weighed in the 70s.
All eyes went to Kevin’s number, it turned out, which exposed a whopping 99 pounds. My weight barely got a mention.
Even when it wasn’t Halloween or Christmas or Valentine’s Day or his birthday, Kevin often gave our entire class Nestle Crunch bars. Sometimes he even handed out crisp dollar bills. Though we devoured the candy and snagged the cash, we still didn’t like him.

Middle C

I walked onto the stage in my best dress. There were probably fifteen adoring parents in the audience, but to me it seemed that thousands filled the darkened hall. My long hair was bobby-pinned in a severe bun and lacquered with hairspray. I sat on the rigid piano bench, and my hands moved mechanically across the keyboard.
With just one note remaining, my hands abruptly stopped. The hall was still. I just sat there, stunned. Finally, an inner voice told me that it no longer mattered. “Just hit any key,” it said, “and you can get off of this stage.”
Mom later told me that it was the right note.

Weasel's Date

The college students drank sangria. I sipped Hawaiian Punch. John and Yoko hung naked on the apartment wall. A Chiquita banana sticker covered John’s private parts. A reporter for UCSB’s radio station, recently back from covering the Berkeley campus riots, expressed that our Sour Cream & Onion Bugles were more acrid than the tear gas he’d faced there. Another college boy, after meeting me—Liz’s little sister, a fifth grader—proclaimed, “Hey, Weasel’s date’s here!” My big sister later explained how Poor Weasel was forever unlucky with girls. I remained exhilarated. To be considered as anyone’s date, even as a joke, allowed my big college weekend to reach epic proportions.

Charm School

How to sit properly:
1. Maintain an erect spine.
2. Cross your ankles, and then sweep the supporting foot to either side.
3. Place your hands, palms down, in your lap.
We learned this, and other finishing concepts, in Grooming for Girls.
I spotted our instructor at the club pool. She wore a colorful bathing cap, caked with frilly flowers. I pointed her out to Dad.
“That sweet pea?” He chortled. “I work with her husband, and is she ever a piece of work! It figures that she’d conduct charm school!”
Gentlemen sweat while ladies perspire, I went on to learn. But after Dad’s words, Grooming for Girls lost its appeal.

Sisterhood

With a bath towel concealing her hair, Sandy entered my closet confessional. She knelt down, and said: “Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned….”
“Please continue, my Child,” I said, using my best matronly voice. I was also veiled in towel, with an enormous silver crucifix chained around my neck.
Unaware that only priests could absolve sins, we rather liked playing confession and pretending to be Catholics. If only we could emulate the good-hearted Maria from The Sound of Music or that zany Sister Bertrille from The Flying Nun TV sitcom!
As soon as we were old enough, Sandy and I solemnly vowed, we would probably join up.

Scout's Honor

A Flag Ceremony was special, we were told, and all Scouts needed to be in uniform. In addition, three Boy Scouts and three Girl Scouts would be chosen to form the Color Guard. Our three Girl Scout troop leaders sought volunteers. I felt worthy, and threw my green beret in the ring. They assured us that they’d follow a thoughtful selection process.
When the Flag Ceremony commenced, having never been called, I was curious to see who made the Color Guard. The three Girl Scouts, each a troop leader’s daughter, then marched in with the three Boy Scouts.
Shortly after, embittered and disillusioned, I quit the Girl Scouts.

Playground Justice

The batter connected, and I tried to run. But the first baseman gripped my ponytail. I broke free somehow and sprinted toward second. I pictured a clump of my blonde hair in her fist. Although I made it safely on base, I was furious! Softball was sacrosanct, and you had to play fair. Lacking an umpire, we officiated ourselves. And this cheater was pure trash.
When I was up again, I slammed the ball far into centerfield. As I rounded first base, I kicked her unsparingly across her lower legs. She yelped and played the victim. But we both knew that she had it coming, and that justice was served.

One of the Boys

I swore to secrecy, and then followed Mark inside the backyard fort he’d built with my other older brother. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the low light that leaked in through slats and knots.
Mom’s kitchen towels hung tidily on the wooden walls. Mark lifted one to reveal a lurid centerfold, its glossy page chewed by snails. With me reeling, Mark then exhibited their cigarette stash—KOOLs swiped from Dad’s dresser.
Rather than protecting their den of iniquity, as I intended, they posted my perfect gift on their bedroom door. I was to KEEP OUT, they howled, thus clipping any notion I ever had of being one of the boys.

The Perfect Equation

Sandy’s backyard picnic table was our aircraft, and we were glamorous stewardesses. Although she was a slender brunette and I was a sturdy blonde, we were also identical twins. Our handsome husbands, twins too, were the pilots. This explained why our children—we each had the same Baby First Step and Baby Secret dolls—though cousins, looked absolutely alike. The umbrella-adjustment button became the flight PA, where with enticing voices, we announced that the drink service would soon begin. On our fantasy flight, Sandy and I never entered the cockpit, let alone pretended to touch the controls. We instead remained in the cabin, pleased that everything added up so perfectly.

The Secret Club

During lunch recess, they slipped through the gate and into Dana’s backyard playhouse. We heard that the four boys and four girls in The Secret Club played kissing games! It was scandalous and illicit, and I so wanted to be a member! Returning from recess one afternoon, their eight desks were empty. Those of us who knew feigned ignorance. From our classroom window, the deserted playground looked ominous. Eventually the gate opened, and the club members filed out slowly, heads down. Parents were called, and the gate was chained and locked. Getting caught was surely catastrophic for them, but it offered me a second chance to vie for fourth-grade popularity.

Father-Daughter Kickball with the Brownies

When Dad was up, I stood eagerly behind the backstop. We all knew that he could kick it out of the park. The outfielders pushed back. And when the pitcher rolled the red rubber ball, there was a hush.
But Dad missed the ball entirely, a dreaded strike, and instead kicked the packed-down dirt. His mighty body then gave way and crumbled. The other Brownie Dads rushed over. Smiling stoically as he limped off the kickball field, he dismissed his injury as just a rolled ankle.
I felt little compassion for the old weekend warrior. Thoroughly disgraced, we boarded the station wagon and left early. My whole day was ruined!

It Made Me Sick

I sat behind the boy who was getting yelled at. The back of his neck turned red.
Faintly audible, he murmured: “shut ... up.”
I knew that he didn’t really want the teacher to hear that.
But she did.
I raised my hand. The teacher—who was now slapping him—did not call on me. I kept my hand up. Finally, she recognized me.
“I feel sick,” I uttered.
“Uh, go to the bathroom,” she said, wild and panicked, pointing to the door.
With one hand over my mouth, race walking, I reached the entrance to the Girls Bathroom. Powerless to do much else, I threw up on the floor.

Right of Way

Ahead of me, a boy walked along the sliver of powdery dirt. We both knew the rules. Cyclists were forbidden to ride in the school’s parking lot or on its front walkway. All we had was this bike path, which was bordered by a splintery fence on one side and prickly bushes on the other.
Pedaling up behind him, I said, “Move over.”
He glanced back. “No, I don’t have to.”
Again I made my request. Again he refused to comply.
Was there a thump-thump as my Schwinn rolled over his body? I’m unclear. I do recall looking back, though, and seeing a dusty tire mark somewhere on his person.

Thanks, Dad!

During the 1969-1970 school year, we girls organized and wore pants. On our protest day—some say we marched with signs—we were sent to the principal’s office. Mr. Jordan (“Jordo-Butt”), smirking, suggested that we change back into skirts and dresses. We resisted.
My dad, who was home sick, took the call.
Jordan: “Are you aware that your daughter is wearing pants today?”
“So what did she do wrong?”
“Well, nothing, exactly. I mean, there is no strict rule against pants, but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s just nicer to see young ladies in skirts or dresses.”
“Call me when you have something to say,” said my dad/my hero.

Cocoons

As instructed, we sat “Indian style” in a linoleum-tiled circle. Mrs. Alexander left and a pack of boys headed to the aquarium. Butterfly cocoons clung to its glass lid. The boys tapped and pounded. I joined them. I understood that butterflies were beautiful treasures, worth waiting for. And yet I aided and abetted. The cagey boys returned to their squares in the circle, leaving me to solo. I felt Mrs. Alexander spank me. She then steered me, wailing, to her teacher desk. Kneeling down, she hugged me. Perhaps regretting her own impulsivity, she dabbed my tears. Was I bad or good? Only she held the power to decide.

Climb Ev'ry Mountain

We enacted the final scene, where the Von Trapp family escapes over the Alps. Being 3.5 months older, Sandy snatched the lead as Captain Von Trapp. I played the other hikers. Captain Sandy, with her doll (Gretl Von Trapp) perched on her shoulders, began her ascent. She cleared the first rung of the 1960s floor-to-ceiling pole lamp. With “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” lifting her, she continued upward. Before summiting, however, the fixture buckled. Clinging to the crumpled pole, Sandy and doll went down hard, landing in a heap on the carpeted floor. Sandy was grounded. I was sent home. Along the way, I decided that backup roles were just fine.

Tracking

My fifth-grade class did not recess with others. Being smart, we got to skip the standard curriculum.
We sat in Mr. Munger’s stuffy classroom, shades drawn and slide projector humming, and viewed star constellations. Not sharing Munger’s passion for astronomy, I got disruptive. I was sent outside more than once.
“Several of you will be transferring out of this class,” Munger announced one morning, “to the regular fifth grade.” I then heard him say my name. How to face my friends? What to do with the newly acquired smugness? Soon two large boys transported my desk to one of the commoner classrooms. I trailed behind, heading for the gallows, bawling.

Fan Letter

I selected Davy, my beloved Monkees’ British—so Beatle-y!—lead singer. He was a former jockey, a fan magazine told me, so not too much taller or heavier. And if you ignored the age difference (me: 9, Davy: 22), I reasoned, our pairing was plausible.
But how to convince Davy?
Later, puberty raging, I discovered the fan letter in my mother’s desk. Jolted and ashamed, I read my own third-grade words: “Dear Davy, I am the kind of girl that all boys like….” I decided to kill the plan to save this one for later laughs. I tore the letter into bits, to never again be found and read. Ever.

Show and Tell

During second-grade Show and Tell, a nerdy kid exhibited what he referred to as “rock specimens.” He had been spotted during recess, just prior, hastily gathering ordinary rocks. Though a mere second grader, I had somewhat refined taste, and I expected more from my entertainment. But the way he stood up front, fondling the dusty rocks and expertly describing their mineral composition and geological significance, was impressive. He took those dirt clods (ahem, specimens) and made you think he’d just unearthed gold itself from that California schoolyard. I lost track of him, but I’d guess that he now runs a research lab and that he goes spelunking on weekends.

Tattletale

When a fellow second-grader returned from recess and “told on” another classmate, Mrs. Cuddy made her position clear. She had zero tolerance for a tattletale. She then tied a length of dirty-white jump rope around the playground snitch’s waist, positioning its “tail” (we could barely spell, so disregard the homonym) to hang down the informer’s backside—yes, over the unmentionable (butt!) region. And this ropey tail—a 1960s dunce cap—stayed knotted around the tattler for the remainder of the school day, scoring off the public humiliation charts. Being young, impressionable, and terrified of Mrs. Cuddy, we second graders learned quickly: Regardless of the injustice, never tell on anyone!