Home Sweet Home

I'm going to talk about homes. I'm not intending this to be an endorsement of anything or anyone political, just so you know. Yeah, sure, I have opinions on leaders and laws and how to be a good person, but mostly I just believe that it's my job to put information out there, and it's your job to decide what to do about it. And when you put info out, I decide. That's just how it is. Anyway...

I grew up with three siblings, my mom, and my dad in a 3 bedroom, 1 bath house. In some ways, it was really idyllic. We had a big yard, fish, gerbils, a rat, cats, dogs and horses. We ice skated in our own back yard. We rode horses. We built clubhouses, climbed trees, and borrowed my mom's jewelry to be "pirate treasure" and bury it and dig it up again. We took a week long vacation every year, and often smaller trips as well.

It was also pretty tough, money-wise. As a single man, Dad had no savings and no credit. He lived in a studio apartment, and ate out daily. He was 50 when my parents got married. It was my mom's second marriage, so my parents started their married life as a family of four. Then, they had two more kids. When I, the baby, was six months old, my dad was encouraged by his employer, the fire department, to retire as a consequence of heart problems. I no longer remember the exact nature of the problem - whether it was a heart attack, a-fib or what. But his boss felt that firefighting was too physically difficult for Dad anymore, that it would aggravate his health and endanger himself and his co-workers. So, at 56, with 4 kids and a mortgage, Dad retired. Dad was, for the record, bitter about this.

They'd planned on mom being a stay at home parent, but now, if we wanted to eat, Mom had to work. Dad did not want to feel that she was the primary breadwinner, though, so she worked 20 hours a week. Every now and then Dad would take on a part time job - distributing seeds to retailers, night watchman at a warehouse. But mostly, we lived on his pension and Mom's paycheck.

I realize now that we would have qualified for all kinds of government assistance, but I can only see my parents requesting and accepting that help if it was a matter of life or death. And it never was; we could only invite friends for dinner on spaghetti night, because there wasn't enough to share on any other night, but we always knew we'd be fed. I usually owned one pair of pants at a time, but we had clothes. Vacations meant sleeping in a tent and cooking on a camp stove, but we went some amazing places.

And we never, ever worried about losing our home. My parents bought the house in 1960, and paid it off when I was in my teens. I remember how relieved my mom was, how much of a weight it took off of them.

It would be impossible to do that today. I'm not exaggerating - it would be sincerely impossible. Can you imagine buying a home on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine raising four kids on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine doing it without any assistance, from family or church or government? Of course you can't. But my parents did it. They were careful. We did without a lot of things. But it never, ever felt perilous, because it could be done.

My husband grew up a couple of miles from our house, with his two sisters and his mom and dad. Their house was a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, built in 1927. The house was 1204 square feet. I don't know what they paid for it, but the average home price when it was built was $6000. In 1956, the year my inlaws were married and bought their house, the average price was $11,700.

My parents' house was built in 1959; when they bought it a year later, the average home price was $12,400. It was, at 1318 square feet, slightly larger than my inlaws' home. For years, people expected to have a bedroom for the parents, and one for the children. By the time my parents got married, people expected a third bedroom, so they could separate the boy children and the girl children.

I remember my parents being flabergasted when their house first assessed at $50,000. "Can you imagine?" they said, over and over. It seemed like an incredibly large sum to them.

The first home we bought was a single wide trailer on an acre and a third; we paid $29,500 in 1987. It had 3 bedrooms and 1 full and one half bath in roughly 700 square feet. In 1989, we bought a factory built ("manufactured") home with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It was 988 square feet; we paid $50,000. Nothing was being built anymore without 2 bathrooms, or at least one full and one half bath. People usually expected a "master suite," a bedroom with an attached bath.

Our current home was built in 1972, when the average home price was $39,500. This house had 4 bedrooms and 2 baths (no master suite). The owners added a family room, 2 more bedrooms and another bath (in the new master suite). We bought it at 2304 square feet in 1994 for $110,000.

I'm sure you noticed, but I'll point it out anyway. Houses have been getting larger and larger for decades. Things that are considered "standard" were once luxurious. Our former house, with a separate laundry room (something my mother never had - her washing machine was in her kitchen) almost qualifies as a "tiny house," as those are considered to be anything 900 square feet or smaller.

So, why am I bringing this up? Why all the numbers? I'm getting to that.

I (too) frequently see something in the news about homelessness, and they'll have a family just like the one I grew up in - only something happened to them. "We were doing OK until Bobby got sick." "We were fine until my car accident." Usually, both parents will be working, but they'll go from "comfortably middle class" to homeless faster than they ever imagined possible - especially if there's a single income (like, having a single parent household).

My parents had no health insurance. And life happened to us - a traffic accident for my brother, my sister being bitten by a dog who nearly severed her upper lip, me having an illness (strep throat becoming scarlet fever) that should have hospitalized me. Part of the difference, for us, was the policies and expectations of our doctors, dentists, orthodontists. Every single time I remember getting any health care at all, my mother would say to the receptionist, "I need a payment plan." The receptionist would say, "Certainly. How much can you pay per month?" She'd write it down - even if it was $5, even if we already had a balance - and that was that. You can't do that any more. Even if you can find a doctor who'll take uninsured patients - and good luck - you can't just set up payments with the provider, on the day of service, for whatever you think that you can afford.

I was 7 when my brother was in the accident that not only caused soft tissue damage, but broke the bones and cartilege in his face. He needed reconstructive surgery, and they feared that he might lose the sight in one eye. That's exactly the kind of thing that can derail families who have very little financial leeway. At that point, if we'd been paying rent somewhere, it might have been the breaking point. Or, it could have started an avalanche. The last time that I lived in a rented apartment, the rent went up three times in twelve months. About a year after my brother's accident, we bought a family car that quickly became known as The Lemon, because it always needed some kind of repair. About the same time, my sister had her dog bite accident, and she too needed a reconstructive surgeon. Of the six of us, four needed glasses, two needed orthodontics. Imagine all of that happening, all at once, to a family on a tight budget.

If we had been renting, if we had fallen behind on mortgage payments, if there had been a variable interest rate or balloon payment, if we had to choose between medical care and food, everything may have unraveled for us. Maybe we could have moved in with relatives, but with six of us, it would be nearly impossible long term. Maybe my brother and sister would have had to leave before they were really ready, because we had no room. My sister is the only one of us with a university degree; maybe that would not have happened if we were homeless. Maybe my dad, in his mid 60s with health issues, could have found a job in, say, retail; maybe not. All of this is conjecture, because we never had to find out.

Instead, we stayed in our own home, Mom planned our meals around grocery store sales, and I have great memories of backyard campouts, getting permission for my friends to ride horses with us, and posters on my bedroom walls. The house not only held all of us, but housed various family members at times of crisis or relocation or out of town visits, over several decades.

That's not the only way that our parents' homes benefitted us, of course. Grandparents on both sides of the family rented to our children, at below market rates. Both grandparents' homes were offered to our children after their grandparents' passing. My son and his wife are buying one of those homes, with terms that make it comfortable for them. Our home's mortgage was paid off by money from my inlaws' estate. Money from both families' estates gave us down payments for "investment" condos.

We bought the condos specifically in order for our family members to have somewhere affordable to live. Long term, we may live in one ourselves, or sell them, or use the rental income during retirement. (Because, owning homes gives you choices.) But, mostly, our motivation was to give our kids somewhere affordable to live.

I realize how enormously privileged we are to even be able to make that choice, believe me. It sounds obnoxiously affluent to even say it out loud. But, I stand behind that decision.

The first one we bought was a 2 bed, 2 bath model, not far from our home. Everything went seamlessly. The mortgage agent said, "Just so you know, I can qualify you for 5 more at this price." We put it up for rent (our kids were either living elsewhere or still in school), asking only a small amount over our mortgage payment. (You've gotta have a cushion for repairs and emergencies.) We got a lot of inquiries that ended with, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We rented to strangers for a while, and when they moved out, my nephew's family moved in.

Two or three years later, we put an offer on a 1 bed, 1 bath condo. It's adorable, and in a bigger complex, so there are more amenities (playgrounds and tennis courts, as well as a pool, clubhouse, BBQs.) It cost half what the 2 bed condo cost. But, local prices were starting to skyrocket, and we wanted something that our youngest could afford, even if the only job she ever held was her high school job at a fast food place. (At my age, I look at market rates for even studio units, and think, "Who can afford that?")

We didn't anticipate any problems. Our credit is good, we had the down payment, we were remembering what the mortgage agent said last time - "5 more at this price" - and this was, I can't emphasize this enough, half the cost of our other condo (which made sense to me, as it's half the bedrooms and bathrooms). So, we didn't get financing in place first, since we anticipated it being a breeze.

It was not. Our first choice of mortgage company wouldn't finance it. Neither would our second choice mortgage company, or our credit union. The problem? "There are too many rentals in that development. Choose another development with more owner occupied units." But we didn't want another development, we wanted that one. Meanwhile, the owner was getting grouchy because he'd received an all cash offer right after he accepted our offer, so now he was tied up waiting for us, instead of closing a cash sale.

The fact that we bought the condo at all is due to two things - 1. our realtor has known us for years, and was willing to work a little bit harder, take a little longer, and be a little bit unconventional, and 2., we know someone who has a large family trust, and was willing to loan us the money at just over bank interest rates.

Which, of course, got me thinking; the price and payment should have put the condo in the price range of people with limited incomes. Someone working for minimum wage, or just over, could afford it even without making 40 hours a week; they'd probably need 30 or so - and that's a single person (or couple with a single income). Then there'd be more owner occupied units, too, so everyone would be happy, right? But here's the thing: if middle aged people with great credit, low debt and no current mortgage couldn't get financing, how could somebody young, working in a fast food place, qualify? Banks don't want the loan, and young people (let's face it, any people) are unlikely to know someone wealthy enough to give them a private loan. See the problem?

And it's not like this was a slum that no one would want to live in. Aside from the fact that I'd personally be happy there (or I wouldn't have bought it), looking for renters was a stark contrast to looking for renters just two years earlier. We heard from friends, relatives, acquaintences, strangers, and friends and relatives of our friends, relatives and acquaintences. We were again asking only a bit over our payment, but this time, nobody asked if we could go lower or said, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We had families of three and four asking if we'd consider them, even with only one bedroom. I felt quite overwhelmed by the need, and referred everyone to our property manager. She did all the credit checks and made the final choice.

What had changed? Rents in our area skyrocketed, with the news that a couple of large companies with good wages were going to be locating here. Many rental prices doubled; some tripled. Renters who'd been in the same place for years suddenly could no longer afford their homes. We made the national news for our "housing crisis." And everything new being built was "luxury units," because, "that's where the demand is."

This, of course, is not true. It's where the money is.

In making inquiries about putting a house on an inherited piece of land, one of my family members found out that even owning the land free and clear doesn't make things easier. In asking about the cost to put a modest sized home - less than 2,000 square feet - on the vacant land, the answer from the owner of a local construction company was, "Here's the approximate cost per square foot. But I can tell you right now, nobody's going to be willing to work on a house that size. The money is in 3,000+ square foot custom and executive homes. No one's going to turn down one of those to come build a smaller house, especially one without the high end finishes." The same applies for apartments; nobody wants to build units for baristas, maids and fast food workers, because the money is in "luxury units." This is true no matter how many hotel rooms, fast food restaurants, discount stores and gas stations (and their employees) there are in my city (that depends on tourism).

Of course, it isn't just my city. My brother lives in another state. He is recently retired; he's living on Social Security and a small amount of savings. He's rented the same home for years. (He previously owned a house, but lost it in a contentious divorce with an ex who exploited a legal loophole to take virtually everything.) For years, his rent remained the same. Then, the landlord died, and the heir "doesn't want to be a landlord" (which is absolutely his right), so he's selling the house. This means that my brother was dumped back into shopping for a home literally decades after he last had to, he's been paying 1990s era rent, and he has no wiggle room in his budget. Oh, and throw in a looming deadline.

Waiting lists for low income senior apartments are 2 years long. Most senior housing in his state is in mobile home parks, meaning that he'd have to buy a mobile home and then rent the space, putting himself at risk when the lot rent goes up (and you know that it will go up). Plus, lot rent was often more than he had available, more than the rent he'd been paying. (Plus, after he dies, he couldn't pass the house down to anyone, unless they were over 55.) There are programs designed to help low income seniors buy homes, but they will not cover condos, mobile homes, factory built homes, or older houses. There's renter's assistance, but it will not cover living anywhere owned by a member of your family. You know - you can't get help for anything that would actually be affordable for a senior living on Social Security.

He got one call back from a woman with an assistance program who said, "Oh, sure, we have a great house right in your area that I can get you into." The mortgage would have left him with $400 a month to cover everything else - food, utilities, gas, clothing, medical care. That's not doable. Just his glasses and dental care could potentially eat all of that up, if he needed them both in the same month. He lives where it not only snows, it snows a lot, so he needs heat. You can't even eat ramen noodles and take the bus on $400 a month.

He has siblings, he has other family members; he immediately had offers to live in 3 different homes, rent free. But, all of those would mean moving to another state, shopping for doctors (he's diabetic, he has an ulcer that tends to bleed, and he has a heart attack and bypass surgery in his past), giving up his friends and what he loves, hiking and photographing his area. I mean, it's certainly doable. But, aside from concerns like doctors and interstate moving costs, a man who's lived on his own since the last century does not want to move into somebody's spare bedroom, like he's a college kid.

He panicked, the rest of the family panicked, everyone scrambled, there was a deadline. Do you know what - who - saved him? Our grandmother and our mother, who've been dead for years.

Grandma had a vacation home - what we call a cabin and she called a cottage. When she died, our mom put the money from the sale of the cottage in a separate account, and just let it sit there. When Mom died, it went to her children. Some of it was still left - almost enough for a down payment on a home. But, my brother couldn't qualify, because he was retired, on Social Security. Family members offered to buy a home, but the one he wanted was a factory built house, and the bank wouldn't let them buy it unless they were going to live in it. The bank would approve them for other homes, but then my brother couldn't afford the payments, and nobody in the family can afford to make them for him. But, with Grandma's money, and relatives willing to co-sign, and the bank being happy because one of the applicants was going to live in the house, and family members being able to pitch in the rest of the cash needed, he now has a home.

It's a beautiful home, he owns it; this is a happy ending. But, in the middle of all of this, we were stopped at the McDonald's attached to the store where we were grocery shopping. There was a woman who appeared to be homeless, sitting at one of the tables eating food she'd gotten in the store. My husband bought her a McDonald's meal and a drink, so she'd be a customer, and get to sit there and have a meal out of the January cold. We've done stuff like this before. But, as he sat down, my husband said, "I just had to. I look at her and think, if everything didn't work out, that could be your brother."

Without so many pieces - my grandma, my mom, sellers who were willing to come down on price, a realtor who worked his butt off looking for inexpensive properties, mortgage company employees who worked their butts off to get financing that worked, and relatives willing to put up money and co-sign, and other relatives willing to offer a free room if the purchase fell through, yeah, my brother could be homeless. I feel that reality on a gut level.

Our oldest brother is in his 70s. He has more education than my husband and I combined, is multi-lingual, has a great work ethic, has an educated, hard working wife, and told me the last time I talked to him that neither he nor his wife was able to retire, that they probably never would be. Why? Their home - a modest, older home - still has a mortgage. Instead of paying it off, they've helped their children and grandchildren over the years. So now, they keep working, instead of retiring - but everyone has somewhere affordable to live.

If we either rented or sold our condos for market rate, my husband could retire now. Instead, he keeps working, and we rent below market rate, so that others can have affordable homes. Because if you work, but can't afford anywhere to live, it's not just you who suffers. Society starts to crumble.

We don't all own a Bailey Brothers Building and Loan. We all ride on the choices of our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents. But we can all try to make it easier not just for us, but for everyone else.

The Professor

Recently, one of my university theater professors passed away. I've been thinking about him, how amazing he was, how lucky I was to know and work with him.

Let's start with how I knew him. See, that description up above is a bit misleading; yes, he was "mine" as in someone that I studied under, and I enjoyed his company, very much. He was a university professor. But I was not a university student.

Auditions at the university are "open;" anyone can audition (but casting preference is given to students). One of my best friends convinced me to go with him the first time we auditioned; I'm forever grateful.

I got some of my best acting roles there from Dr. Bob Dillard, head of the theater department. He was elegant, slender, funny, acerbic, insanely talented, well read, better educated than I would ever be. He was great at keeping appropriate boundaries while still hanging out with teens and 20-somethings. I was 18 when I met him.

When I was 19, he cast me in "Evita." I was not confident about my singing. My mother had a beautiful voice, and I loved singing, but I was very insecure about letting anyone hear. I told people that I didn't sing, that "you don't want to hear me sing." My family and friends weren't big cheerleaders; the first time my high school did a musical, my father said to me, "What are you gonna do in a musical?" when I told him about the show. Stung, I said, "They need technicians!"

"Oh. I guess that makes sense," he said.

The only reason I tried out for "Evita" is that it had a huge chorus. I could "hide" my voice in the group.

During rehearsals, I learned to sing out, to project. I wasn't ready to play Eva, but I was then comfortable with being an actor who sings.

Later, I also joined my church choir. I can sing the "gloria" part of "Angels We Have Heard On High" in one breath, without sounding gaspy. (Unless my asthma is kicking my butt.)

"Evita" made possible every musical that I was in afterward, musicals where I had solos and a headset microphone. Years later, when I was in a large show, the vocal director pulled a large group over to me during rehearsal and said, "Listen to Sharon. Follow what she does."

I am a singer. That never would have happened without Bob Dillard.

Before I met him, one of his apparently standard admonitions had become legendary - in a musical, the cast was to "Sparkle, dammit, sparkle!" I adopted the phrase for non-theater use; my kids are familiar with it.

There are other phrases that so spoke to me that I still check my work, and my life, against them.

My taste in entertainment (and life) runs to squeaky clean. Still, I know that not everything will be G rated, and that's OK - in fact, it's desirable. I love crime shows, murder mystery books, serial killer trivia. So, I save my ire for things that I find unnecessary. For instance: Mel Gibson makes great historical pieces, but he loves gore too much for my taste; I usually watch his stuff after it's been "cut for TV." David Mamet is brilliant, but probably couldn't order breakfast without dropping four or five f-bombs. I don't mind most of the nudity in "Schindler's List," because I know what Spielberg is trying to say (even though I think that there are less revealing ways to do it). I do mind Amon Goeth's girlfriend being naked and throwing things at him so that we get to see her bounce. Put her in a negligee and the scene still works.

Sometimes, the university theater department would produce things that pushed certain boundaries. I rarely had to sit a show out because it pushed too far for me. And, since I think I'm pretty picky, I usually think that if I'm not bothered, no reasonable person should be.

I don't remember what show we were working on when someone asked Dr. Dillard if he was worried about offending people. While I don't remember the show, I remember the moment, the room we were in, and I remember the smile that spread across his face at the question. "No," he said. "I'm not."

"But what if they, like, complain to the university president? What if they write letters and stuff?"

Here's where he dropped that piece of wisdom that so spoke to me. "If we're not offending somebody, we're not doing our jobs," he said. Each of us has people we're willing to offend, and people we'd rather not offend, and it's not only impossible but dangerous to try to avoid offending anyone, ever. Draw your line in the sand, and stand by it. He encapsulated something I already believed in, in a compact sentence. It was brilliance.

I also remembering being giddily grateful to him on a personal level for the way he handled a conversation that had gotten uncomfortable for me.

There was a group of us sitting in the "green room," the lounge area under the stage where we hung out during rehearsals when we personally weren't working. We were going through the whole "getting to know you" thing of asking each other about our lives and backgrounds - where were we from, where we'd gone to high school, that sort of thing.

One girl said that she'd graduated from a local school. "Hey, me too!" I told her. That led to asking what year, who we both knew that had gone to high school with us, and so on. She'd graduated 5 or 6 years after I did.

"Who was your theater teacher?" she asked. It's a really ordinary question, especially under the circumstances, but I was unprepared for it, and I just froze. I'm a pretty open book, I lean toward TMI, but I just stared at her for an uncomfortable few seconds, then said, "I'm sorry. You've just hit on one of the very few areas of my life that I don't talk about."

"WHAT? What? Who was it?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"What happened? What did you do?" She kept asking, and I kept saying no. See, when you don't want to discuss things, people assume that there's a scandal. They want the dirt - they want to hear something salacious. This is just something that I discuss rarely, and I only discuss in detail with people who were there. I'm not hiding, I'm not embarrassed. It's just so uncomfortable that I'd rather not do it. My kids know this teacher as She Who Shall Not Be Named. They wouldn't recognize her name if they heard it.

But this poor girl was just convinced that there was a great story, a big scandal - and that I undoubtedly did something wrong - and she kept pushing. Finally, she looked at Dr. Dillard. "Do you know?" she demanded. I had no idea if he did or didn't. I'd certainly never discussed it with him.

He looked at me, right in my eyes. If he wanted to say, I couldn't stop him (and I wouldn't have). Then he looked at her and said, "Yes, I do. And I know why she doesn't talk about it."

Oh, the relief! The validation, that I didn't have to say if I didn't want to! I was just so overwhelmingly grateful.

I sincerely have no idea what he knew or didn't know. I never asked. It's entirely possible that he had heard some wildly inaccurate stories that cast me as a criminal mastermind or some such thing. I don't know if he actually even knew her name or not. All I knew in that moment was that he had my back. Even if there had been nothing else about him that I liked, this single incident would have assured that I thought of him fondly forever.

I wish that I could remember more about the last time that I worked with him. Unfortunately, something that still ranks as the worst thing that ever happened to me happened during that show. Trauma tends to stain everything, even unrelated things, so even though I actively tried not to associate the show, the people, the theater, plays in general, or anything else of the sort, with the trauma, it didn't work very well. It took 10 years for me to attend a show in that theater again; I have still never worked there since that show.

It's really a shame, because it was a great show, and a great part, the best part I'd ever had at the university. I always got the sense that Dr. D believed in me, and enjoyed my work. My husband assures me that I did a great job, and none of my friends ever told me that the performance stunk, so that's good. I assume that the show didn't suffer. Still, I'd like to have the memories back. Maybe they'll show up some day.

I saw Dr. Dillard occasionally after that. I sent him Christmas cards for years. Still, we never worked together again, and he eventually retired.

Last year, I was at a theater gathering, and had the chance to write something in a notebook for Dr. Dillard (who couldn't attend). Enough of my loved ones have passed away that I'm getting pretty effusive in expressing my feelings to people. You never know when they'll need to hear it, or when they'll be gone.

I don't remember what I wrote. It was probably inadequate and silly. It was only half a page or so. Still, I knew - I may never be in the same room with this friend again, and I need to let him know how amazing he is. He needs to know that I remember; the shows he cast me in, the things he taught me, how he backed me up when I wanted my personal life to remain personal.

He sparkled.

Now it's our turn. "Sparkle, dammit!"

Dangerous and Disruptive

It was very amusing to me that, as a senior in high school, I got a reputation among the adults at school (teachers, administrators, security personnel) of being an anarchist and agitator. It amused me because I am the most rule following person that I know. Remember how in "Back to the Future," all you had to do in order to manipulate Marty was to call him "a chicken"? When I was growing up, all you had to do to manipulate me was to say, "It's the rule."

I've never understood people who are born rebels. I mean, I can tell you, on a factual and intellectual level, why they behave that way, but it's not in my default reactions, at all. I like order and predictability and safety, and rules provide that.

Of course, it is this very admiration for rules and order that elicits outrage when the rules are misguided or just bad, or when those charged with implementing or interpreting them do so badly. In short - there are few things worse than a dirty cop.

So, in high school, I occasionally butted heads with those who were capricious in their enforcement of rules. Like the teacher who'd raise your F to a passing grade if you helped clean the classroom; like the principal who explained his behavior by saying, "You just chose the wrong friends, Sharon." Or, like the teacher who went the other direction, and changed a passing grade to a failing one over personality issues. It was not OK with me to blur academic distinctions with decidedly non-academic ones.

This is not to say that I never broke any rules. It just meant that I was not going to try to hide that fact, but was likely to respond to questioning with, "You bet I did. Let me tell you why."

But, I was a kid, and kids are notoriously without perspective, and few adults wanted to hear my gripes. It was always very important to me that others understand me. I don't care if you agree (or if you like me), but I want your disagreement (or dislike) to be fact based instead of perception based. I am, by nature, an over-explainer. So, it was infuriating when someone didn't even bother to hear me (or anyone else).

 For most of my life, I loved school - the teachers and the actual learning. I'd never had a citation, detention, suspension, any disciplinary action at all (aside from having grades docked points for tardiness). At that point in my life (high school), I regularly dropped in on the principal to air a grievance, and his secretary would wave me through, calling, "Sharon's here." (He never said, "I'm too busy." He also rarely intervened, but he listened.) So, when I was summoned to the office of the guidance counselor in January of my senior year, I expected some kind of canned speech about college or other post high school plans. I'd never met the man before, but I hadn't taken the SAT or applied for scholarships or any number of other things related to leaving high school, and I supposed it was his job to see what my plans were.

I was wrong.

He didn't spend any time on pleasantries. He informed me, rather blandly, that I was now banned from taking any theater classes "or being in the theater classroom during any class." I was also now banned from setting foot in the actual theater itself. "The teacher informs me that you are dangerous and disruptive, and she can't teach when you're in the room."

It was not news that the teacher and I didn't get along, or that I was critical of her methods. I'm positive that at that point I actually said out loud, "Yeah, well, she doesn't do that great a job of it when I'm not in the room, either." His eyebrows raised.

The only other thing I could think of to say was, "I'm in the current play. We open soon. There isn't any time for someone else to learn the part. How am I supposed to perform if I'm not allowed in the room? Or are you cancelling the play, too?"

He looked a bit taken aback, as though this was information that he didn't have, and he was now forced to wing it. For just a second, he appeared to contemplate the wrath of many sets of parents if the show was cancelled. "Yes. Well. You'll be allowed to be in the theater during the times you're actually onstage. Otherwise, you'll have to wait in the hall."

I'm pretty quiet and mild mannered, most times. When I'm angry (or depressed, really), it's a different ball game. To mix my sports metaphors, the gloves come off.

"Oh, that'll be really convenient. Every time I have an entrance, the show will grind to a halt while someone comes to get me. That'll be great. And what about performances? Are the actual performances going to have to suspend time while someone comes to hunt me down? Is everyone just going to freeze onstage until I get there?"

The counselor looked annoyed. "You can be in the room during the entire rehearsal or performance as long as you behave properly and aren't disruptive."

"What, exactly, would that entail? Exactly which behaviors are forbidden? Do you have a list?"

"No, I don't have a list. Just don't do anything that would be against the rules."

"Well, since my mere presence is apparently a problem, I'd just like to clarify which behaviors are and aren't allowed. Did she tell you what it is that I do that's a problem?"

More annoyance. "No. She did not. I didn't ask."

"That doesn't seem to be a really great plan. You'd think that she'd have to describe what I did that's a problem."

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. "No, she does not. I take her word for issues involving her classroom management."

"Well, that's a mistake." His eyebrows raised again, and it occurred to me that I might not want to antagonize this man who'd never set eyes on me before, but was willing to believe that I was dangerous.

"Will there be anything else?"

He looked a bit blank. I rephrased. "Is that it?"

Brisk, administrative behavior; he stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, and said, "That'll be it. You can go back to class now." As he held the door open, I reflexively said, "Thank you," and then mentally kicked myself for it. Oh, sure, thanks a lot. Thanks a whole lot for dropping that bombshell on me; I appreciate it so, Guidance Counselor Who I've Never Met Before. Thanks for the "guidance."

I did not go back to class.

I can't remember what class I'd left to go to the office. I think it was after lunch, but I'm not entirely sure. At any rate, my afternoon had just opened up wide, because all I had after lunch were theater classes and after school rehearsal. The whole thing took maybe two minutes; now I was a wreck. I was distraught and weepy.

I began wandering the halls, crying and talking to myself. It was exactly two weeks before my 18th birthday; I remember because I kept saying, "I have another month. I'm supposed to have another month."

It was January 15. The year before, when my best friend was a senior, he'd been suspended on February 15, and finally, expelled. If I was going to be kicked out, it just seemed to me that it should happen on the same day. Like I said, I like predictability.

Classes let out and the halls were suddenly full, so I went outside. I could not handle being around other people.

I kept trying to figure out what had precipitated this, what I had done that had caused backlash. I couldn't think of anything in particular. (I still don't know.)

The irony was that I couldn't imagine offending the teacher, because we barely spoke. The only incident that I thought might be what had her goat had taken place weeks before.

I was a yearbook photographer. I loved the job. A few weeks earlier, we'd taken the drama guild group photo. It was either at lunch or after school, the way most clubs were photographed, so that all the members could be there. The schedule was dictated by yearbook deadlines; we had to turn in a certain number of pages at each deadline during the year. Time specific events - homecoming, sports, etc. - had to be photographed during their time frame, obviously, and things like club photos were spread out over the year.

Another senior was, at that point, barred from the theater. (Yeah, my expelled friend the previous year, Tony, had been the first, but now there were a handful of us not allowed in the theater.) We'd made the teacher angry during set construction by hauling sawhorses and lumber outside the theater to the sidewalk, and having this particular member, Tim Lange, cut the lumber there, so that we could list him in the program under "set construction crew." We also made a big deal about labeling the back of a board he cut - "TIM LANGE CUT THIS BOARD!" - and using it center stage as the fireplace mantle.

(Hence the principal's jibe about my friends; over three decades later, we're still friends.)

I mean, gasp, right? What subversives.

On picture day, Tim was going to wait in the hall - I'd insisted that he be in the photo. He hadn't wanted to, had argued with me, but I really insisted. We set up, placed the camera, had him come in just long enough to take the shot, and he went back into the hall. "Rule" breaking, sure, but I'd do it again.

No, that's not what I think bothered the teacher the most that day.

She was just out of college when she got her job at our school. She was nervous, insecure, not too much older than we were, and eager to be liked. All understandable; all fine. But things deteriorated as she faced strong willed students who knew more about theater than she did; she'd never seen a live production when they gave her the theater classes. It was not a great staffing choice. For a year, everything ran decently, if not smoothly, but that train soon derailed.

It used to be very important to me that people understand, that they hear our side. I left that behind ages ago.

Anyway, as things became more tense, she clamped down with unreasonable rules. We spent an entire set building day being told that we were not allowed to speak, at all, which was then amended to, "You can only ask for tools or give directions;" it was pretty clear that mute, angry kids with power tools miming were an accident waiting to happen.

One of the latest rules was that students could not touch the light switches. It was, in my eyes, a pure power play - I mean, light switches? That's the hill from which you cannot retreat?

In a theater, the "work lights" are standard fluorescent or incandescent lights turned on during set building, early rehearsals, classes, cleaning, and the like. "House" lights are those over the seats, and "stage" lights are the ones directed to the stage, the ones used during performances. We (the students) weren't allowed, at this point, to touch any of them, especially the house or stage lights, unless it was during a performance. Those ran on dimmers on the light board. Back in the days before computers, each light had its own slider on a board full of them. Changing them during a performance meant balancing a bunch of sliders. During class, or any other non-performance time, it just meant running the house slider up to full so that the room was illuminated. It's a one finger operation.

On photo day, I walked into the room, flicked on the work lights (they were a standard light switch just inside the door), and ran up the house lights. The teacher left the room without a word, which I took to be a sign that I could work in peace. We - the drama guild president and I, with a lot of input - were deciding where to take the group photo when the Dean of Men, who was also in charge of most school discipline, came in, with the teacher trailing him.

"I'm told that someone touched the lighting board," he said, with that big, loud, authoritative voice. I found this rather silly.

"Yeah, I did. I turned on the lights."

"Why?"

Seriously? Why did we need light?

"Because I'm taking photos for the yearbook, and I can't do that in the dark."

At that point, I almost wanted him to make a big deal out of it, so that we had to involve the yearbook adviser, and explain that I hadn't been allowed to take photos because I turned on the lights.

This was the only time I saw any staff member behave as though the teacher's complaints were, if not outright silly, at least overblown. He sighed, then turned to her and said, in that voice used when a quarreling parent says, "Tell your father..." even though Father is standing two feet away, but Junior is complying, "She says she's taking pictures for the yearbook. She says she can't take pictures in the dark."

The teacher said, "Oh. OK." The Dean left. The teacher went out without another word and sat in the audience seats until we were done. (I'm pretty sure that I turned the lights back off when we left, but maybe I left them for her.)

So, wandering the campus in tears and talking to myself after being banned, that was the only incident that I could imagine being over the top, in her eyes. It was embarrassing, in front of another faculty member. But why weeks after the fact? Did it matter?

"She's too early. It's too soon. I should have another month."

Now, here comes the crux of this story - what is, for me, the most important part.

I know that, when they're sad, a lot of people would need hugs, consoling, reassurance that they're a good person and the other person is wrong. Usually, that annoys me or makes it worse. It turns out that this time, I needed Joe Beard and Tim Groves.

They were more theater kids, way cooler than I was, and if I remember right, also not allowed in the theater at this point. I ran into them just outside the school as I was wandering and crying. Finding out what was wrong with me did not elicit sympathy and hugs, but loud congratulations and high fives. They acted as though I'd just won the lottery. "Good for you!" "That's great!" "She only does that to people who know what they're doing!"

It worked. The tears dried up. I don't know where they'd been headed to when they found me, but they stayed with me and walked the school grounds aimlessly, talking about nothing in particular, just being next to me. When we ran into Gwen, another theater kid, they told her the story with breathless delight, and large hand gestures, as though it was something to celebrate. Gwen hugged me, but by then I was OK.

When I was finally ready to re-join the world, Tim and Joe wanted to know, "Are you OK?" before they left.

"Yeah. I'm OK." And I meant it.

I finished the play, and the school year, without theater classes. I told my mom the story, but not my dad. And "dangerous and disruptive" became a phrase that made me, and my friends, laugh.

Years later, I told my husband. He, too, laughs at the phrase.

I'm thinking of this because someone recently informed me, again, that I was dangerous. This time, they didn't pair it with "disruptive;" they called me "evil." This is because we have religious and political differences; apparently, that merits a label of dangerous and evil.

They're certainly entitled to their opinion, which I told them. I did not tell them that, at a time in my life when I was vulnerable, someone in a position of power had already fired that particular cannon at me, so its effect is very much blunted now. It's not fun, but it's certainly no longer devastating.

I don't really know what effect the speaker hoped those words would have on me, but I don't think they expected to evoke what's now a warm and fuzzy memory. When I hear myself described that way, I no longer think first of the devastation I was feeling at 17 - I think about Joe and Tim, and high fives. I think about a time that two teenage boys had my back, even though I was a hysterical, weeping teenage girl. I think about them walking with me until I was alright. That's a happy memory.

Socially Awkward

"I can't wait to read what you write about tonight on your blog," said a friend at my 30 year high school reunion. I was delighted, but it also gives me performance anxiety.

I didn't attend my 10 year high school reunion; a good friend was getting married that weekend, hundreds of miles away, and it was important that I be there. I attended one event and was with a group that crashed one event for my 20th. I'm not sure if there was an event for the 25th.

When my 30th approached, I thought about sitting it out.

There were a number of reasons for that. My husband was working, and none of my closest school friends were going. The venue was described as "upscale," and frankly, I don't do upscale. (If you have to announce, "We are a classy establishment," I doubt you. Wouldn't it just be obvious if you were? Also, I spend 90% of my life in sneakers, because comfort is paramount to me. If there was a serious dress code, I wouldn't meet it. Trendiness of any kind also annoys me, because it means that something will be outdated soon.) I don't drink, but I'd be arriving two hours late due to other events in my schedule, and I didn't feel like walking into a room full of people who might have been doing some serious drinking by then. Of course, I also wondered how many attendees remembered me or wanted to see me.

When I say stuff like that, inevitably one of two things happens. Either someone will rush to assure me that only shallow showoffs attend reunions, and there'd be no one there worth seeing, or they'll start trying to console me, as though I were upset, telling me how much "everyone" was likely to "love" me. I don't understand either reaction.

Did I attend school with some shallow, judgmental, superficial or dull people? Undoubtedly; there were over 500 people in our graduating class. A simple numbers analysis would tell you that not everyone was going to be delightful. Do I fear being judged by former classmates? No, I really don't. Some will like me; some will not. That's life. A negative appraisal from anyone, much less someone I haven't seen for decades, won't impact my life in any real way. I'm not worried because I've gained weight, or because my life isn't impressive enough.

But, too, neither will a positive appraisal change things. I don't need anyone to love me any more than I fear them disliking me. It's nice if they like me, but totally OK if they don't. Impressing people is just not on my radar.

I once completely freaked out a friend and coworker. I was having a rough time in my life, and he knew it. He tried very hard to assure me that work should be a sanctuary of some kind, "because everyone here really loves you." I know that he meant well, but it was silly.

"No, they don't," I told him. "They think I'm fairly pleasant to be around, and reasonably good at my job. When I leave - and some day, I will - some of them might miss me for a few days or weeks, but  I won't see many of them ever again. Soon, most of them won't even remember my name or my face, and that's OK. That's how it should be."

He could not imagine why I felt that way, and worse, why I was OK feeling that way. When his wife is upset, she wants to hear how universally adored she is, and how, if anyone dares not to adore her, they're a tiny, insignificant minority, one that should be soundly denounced and then ignored. He assumed, therefore, that other women wanted to hear those same things. Like I said, nice but silly.

Sometimes, even my close friends don't understand me. For instance, I'm an introvert. When I started dating my husband, he truly believed that introverts were a myth. He simply could not imagine anyone having such a mindset. A friend recently informed me, "I know you think you're an introvert, but you're not." Um - pardon?

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not. I've asked other people, and they agree with me."

"I assure you, I am the world's foremost authority on me."

"Nope. You're mistaken."

Anyway. It should surprise no one that I'm awkward in groups.

It's not a matter of not liking people, or being afraid that they don't like me. And I can, and sometimes do, have a great deal of fun in group settings. As a teen, I often went on vacation with a dozen or so other kids. It's just that being with people, even having fun, is exhausting. It's like people who love to work out, or enjoy running marathons. Just because they enjoy it and do it voluntarily doesn't mean that they don't get tired. Extroverts don't understand introverts, because they are energized by groups, activity, noise and action, whereas those things drain introverts, who are energized by quiet and solitude.

"But you're an actor and public speaker!" people say to me. "You can't do that and be an introvert!" Of course I can. Performing or speaking does not entail actual interaction with the audience. I do my thing, they do theirs, and we go home alone. Plus, I'm often speaking someone else's words, so I don't even have to decide what to say.

So - walking into a room full of people that I may or may not know, who may or may not want to see me, doesn't sound fabulous. I've learned to do it, but I've also learned that I can sit out the opportunity without guilt.

There were some friends coming in from out of town, people I hadn't seen in years, that tipped the scale. I have great fun "talking" to them on the computer, so doing it in person should be even more fun.

And so, the Mormon walks into a bar.

I learned fairly early in adulthood that a significant portion of people socialize in bars. Many years ago, it felt odd to be in a bar (and caused me to worry that I'd have to relive some of the worst caretaking memories of my youth, when I had to clean up vomit, console the weeping and other less than fabulous moments). It feels fairly ordinary now, but I still wonder why there aren't an equal number of alcohol free places to hang out. I mean, if you want to be around people, but you don't necessarily want to phone your friends and make formal plans, shouldn't there be someplace where you could just show up, and there will be comfy chairs and snacks and TVs, maybe showing something science fictiony?

I was actually surprised when the first person I saw remembered me. Since the invitation to the reunion had gone out on Facebook, we'd all had the chance to look up some classmates before the reunion, too. "I've been looking at pictures of your family; you have great kids," she said. I felt so invisible in school - in truth, I wanted to be invisible - so the idea that people remembered me was a surprise.

I paid, picked up the nametag with my high school senior portrait and my maiden name on it, and looked for a security blanket - someone I was comfortable with. This is a must in any social setting.

Success! Michele has been my friend since we were in 5th grade. I've known her husband Mark since I was 19 or 20. Our kids grew up together. And they were talking to Stacy - I've known her since elementary school. I made a beeline for their table.

There were hugs and pleasantries. Stacy reminded me that the last time I saw her, it was at the wedding of a mutual friend. Then, Michele and Stacy decided to go mingle - "You want to come?"

"No, not yet. I'm not ready. I'll stay here for a few minutes." The ladies went off to schmooze, while I stayed with Mark and Stacy's husband - in the back of the room, with my back to the wall; my comfort zone.

(When I told this to a friend later, the friend said, "I would have been right there with you; Vietnam vet, back to the wall, eye on the exit." Amen.)

You know how, when your friends get married, you hope that you like the spouse, because otherwise your life will be awkward? Now let me give you an example of why Mark and I are friends, why I would like him even if he weren't married to my elementary school best friend.

He sat next to me, making normal conversation, not wondering why I hadn't gone off with the ladies. After a few minutes, he said, "Are you ready to go mingle yet?" No; I was not. I was more anxious by the moment, unable to see the friends I'd come to see, and terrified almost to tears by the idea of circulating the room. Truth be told, I would have fled right then had I not been too far from the door. I knew that if I tried to leave, I'd be in tears in just a few steps, and then I'd either have to barrel through to the door, or, horror of horrors, have someone stop me to ask what was wrong. No, I was not yet capable of mingling.

"No. If I tried to mingle right now, I'd burst into tears."

"OK. We'll sit here for a while," he said, and went back to an ordinary conversation about our kids.

He did NOT: 1. look at me like I was crazy, 2. think that I was exaggerating, 3. leave me so that he could mingle, or 4. try to console or comfort me in any way. He just GOT IT. I cannot tell you how rare that it. Mark is a godsend. He just sat there and held a normal conversation.

A few minutes later, he checked again. Would I like to go with him while he went to find his wife? Yes; yes, I would. Security blanket in place, we went to find Michele and Stacy.

As luck would have it, they were right next to the group I'd been looking for, some debate team and AP English buddies. I had a great time, and stayed much longer than I thought I would, both talking to this group and actually mingling. I had a genuinely good time, and laughed a lot.

I've decided that those conversations are a separate post. I know some very witty, articulate people.

Since the event, though, I've been dissecting it and wondering. The conventions of behavior still seem so puzzling that I wonder if the evening looked the same to me as it did to everyone else.

I discovered that a large percentage of the attendees remembered me. That seemed very odd, especially when I'd mention other schoolmates and get blank looks. I'm not sure why people remember me. I remembered them, and I like them, but I just didn't feel memorable in high school. And while I am proud of the life I have, and would make most of my life choices again, I don't think that my life looks very impressive by most people's yardsticks. I wondered what to say, beyond, "How are you?" and recitations of facts about my kids. Now I worry - did I come off as standoffish? "Odd" I expect, but I hope that nobody felt that I didn't like them or enjoy seeing them.

Conversely, I worry that I was too - what's the word? - affectionate. As long as I live, I will never really understand, for instance, how to treat the genders differently, or even if I should. I once experienced an exceedingly painful time because wires were getting crossed, communication-wise, with someone (actually, several someones) who thought that I was flirting. (See the essay "Gender Blindness.") Truth be told, I do not know how to flirt.

I do not understand, for instance, how eye contact, smiles or ordinary physical contact is supposed to be flirting. I do not know how to live my life without doing these things. At the reunion, what if I made eye contact across the room and smiled at someone who then thought that I was hitting on them? I know that I reached out and touched people's arms, and at least one man's leg, while I was laughing about something he said. What if that was misconstrued as flirting? How many people did I pay compliments to? Oh, my gosh! What if the wrong signals were going out left and right? That would just be extremely awkward! And I can't ask people. "Hey, did you think that I was hitting on you? Because I wasn't." Yeah, that's appropriate behavior, I'm sure.

See, this is why I avoid groups. And casual contact. And small talk.

So, I've decided to do something I'm pretty good at, and to refuse to worry about it. Perception doesn't alter reality, and I can't do much about altering perception. It is what it is. If I start worrying about what people think, I will be wrong a significant amount of the time, and I will make myself crazy. This is an undesirable outcome.

So, I will simply be happy that I went. Class of '84, it was good to see you. I enjoy watching your lives scroll by on Facebook, as well.

There It Is

This is the site of one of my favorite childhood memories.

My family took a vacation every year, and we almost always camped. For a while, we owned a Pontiac Bonneville station wagon (that my parents promptly named The Lemon, and sold before we'd had it for too many years). We took our tent camping; it was canvas, and therefore heavy, but big, roomy and sturdy. You could easily stand in it, and my parents loved to tell the story of the time we slept through a wind storm that knocked down every other tent in the campground. Ours didn't budge.

Still, it was time consuming to take out, put up and break down, so when we owned The Lemon, if we were only staying somewhere for one night, we'd just sleep in the car - me in the front seat, my sister in the second seat, and my parents in the back, with the third seat folded down.

We camped at this spot on the creek when I was eight. We kids spent our time in the water while the parents did the actual work of camping, like making meals on a camp stove.

There were several families there. I don't recall numbers, but there was quite the little crowd.

Most of the other kids climbed halfway or higher on the cliff face, and jumped into the pool underneath. It was the deep spot on the creek. I'm going to guess that it was somewhere in the 10 foot depth right up against the rock, but I can't swear to it. I never went down the creek that far.

I incurred the ridicule of the other kids, and a few adults, by staying directly in the shallows. My big accomplishment was walking all the way across at one spot - the water got to be about rib cage deep for a few steps, and this was a huge, "Look at me!" accomplishment.

Yeah; nobody was impressed.

But there was NO WAY that I was jumping off of the rock into the water. Do you see the height of that cliff?

OK, here's a little scale, for perspective. Here's my van in the parking lot. The creek is just off the frame to the right.

HO -LY COW. You could have put a million dollars in that pool, and I wouldn't have jumped. I'm a wade in the shallows person.

Some adventurous big kids - probably early teens - climbed all the way to the top before jumping. Their parents nixed any repeat of that behavior. Not on grounds that made sense to me, but on the grounds that the water needed to be deeper to jump from that height.

Years later, I asked my mom where this spot was. We'd been through six states on that trip, and I couldn't remember where this campground was. "It wasn't actually a campground," Mom said, "just a little rest area." Any more, I think that they'd shoo away overnight visitors.

We were driving my son to his university when we passed this spot, and I saw it for the first time in almost 40 years. "That's it! That's the place! We camped there!" I became very excited, and insisted on stopping for photos on the drive back home. My family could not understand why, but humored me on the grounds that there's just no accounting for my eccentricities.

It was almost exactly the way I remembered it. The biggest difference was that I remembered the rock being pink, and it's actually a rusty color. In my defense, my clearest memories are of the place at sunset. Everything else almost the same.

The biggest changes were that the willows along the bank were higher, and there's now a chain link fence at the edge of the parking lot, blocking access to the cliff face, except from the water. There used to be a defined path through the willows, leading from the parking lot to the water, but it's closed up without all the foot traffic. I'll bet that someone decided that it was courting humungous lawsuits to "let" kids jump off of it.

The only unpleasant association I have with the place is the mosquitoes. I'm one of those people who smell particularly yummy to mosquitoes. They'll feast on me, even when they're avoiding other people. This was shortly before we learned that taking a daily Vitamin B-1 makes a person smell far less yummy to the little bloodsuckers. (Sincerely, it works.)

Since we were only here for one night, we slept in the car. It got so stuffy that we kids insisted on keeping the window cracked open, even though Mom wanted it closed to keep out the bugs.

Mother knows best. I woke up several times to the distinctive whine of mosquitoes buzzing near my ear. When I woke up in the morning, my mother gasped, wide eyed at my appearance. Mom is a very calm person, not given to any kind of hysterics, so I was alarmed. "What?"

Mom doesn't sugar coat things; she's good with words and can usually find a non-offensive way to say things. Sometimes, though, she just laid it on the line. "Your face looks like raw hamburger!"

Stupid mosquitoes.

Decades later, we encountered no insects. My husband laughed at me as I insisted on wading out in the water again, taking photos. "I wish I had a picture of that," he said.

I, though, now have photographs to go with my memories. I can almost see the kids flinging themselves off of the rock face, laughing.

Ah, childhood.

It's good even in the shallows.

Sleeping Under The Stars

When I was a kid, houses just didn't have cooling of any kind. Even "rich" families had no more than shutters and fans to combat summer heat.

Our house stayed cooler than many others. Its largest walls faced east/west, and there were large shade trees to the south, so it often felt cool even in the middle of summer. That was in the daytime, though; at night, it was often hot and stuffy.

I can't stand the sensation of wind on my body, or "white noise," so fans were never the solution. An open window just seemed to funnel every traffic noise straight into my head. I absolutely must have covers, at least from the knee down, and preferably from the waist down, even when I'm broiling. Summer nights, it goes without saying, could be miserable, especially when you shared a room and a double bed with a sibling.

I was probably about 11 or 12 when I first asked my mom if I could please, for the love of all that's holy, just sleep outside. It was misery inducing to be playing outdoors in the dark - and I was always outdoors as a kid - and then walk into our comparative oven of a house and be expected to sleep. My sister loved everything that I hated - an open window, a fan and no covers - so sharing a bed made us both, um, grouchy.

We lived on a fairly busy street, but since my parents had purchased the property when it was "way out in the sticks," on a dirt road, they had an acre and a third. We had a huge fenced back yard, and it was impossible to see even the next door neighbors.

I've always been a very solitary being, so the thought of being alone did not disturb me in the slightest. I would have been deeply disconcerted to be within view of the neighbors or passersby on either street (we lived on a corner lot). I felt perfectly safe in the yard. Plus, there were two dogs in the long, narrow kennel that separated the back yard from the horse pasture, and they'd sound the alarm if there were any intruders. I was a tiny bit nervous about the fact that the back door had to be left unlocked, so I could go in and use the bathroom, but the risk seemed small.

We took vacations every year, week long excursions to mountains, lakes, deserts and rivers. Until I was 16, I had only spent two nights in motel rooms; we camped everywhere we went. Even when we weren't camping, we'd be someplace like my cousin's cabin at Mount Shasta, so cots and sleeping bags were familiar. The chaise in the back yard was more comfortable and more padded than sleeping on the ground, which was the vacation norm. I have never been a prissy girl, afraid of bugs and bats or the dark.

The first night was a relief beyond description. It was cool, quiet, private and blissful. "Can I do that every night?" I wanted to know the next morning.

I loved those nights lying on the chaise, looking up at the sky. Staring up into the night sky has never made me feel small and insignificant; it makes me feel connected to everything and everyone. I loved the sound of the crickets, and the occasional songs of frogs. It was just blissful.

I would lie awake and think, and think, and ponder. It was beautiful.

I started spending every summer night in the back yard. It was always a little disappointing when it got too cold to sleep outside, some time around the beginning of the school year.

By the time I was about 14, I could accurately tell you the time any time between about 9:00 p.m. and midnight just by looking up. I had spent so many hours watching the stars crawl across the sky that I knew that if they were in this position, it was about 9:45; if they were here, it was about 11.

Once when I was in high school, a group of us had just left the movies, and someone wanted to know what time it was. I looked up and said, "It's about 10:30." I was instantly subject to all kinds of teasing. "What was that?" "What are you doing?" "How can you tell?" "Do you think you're Magellan or something?"

"No. I just know. See, those stars over there..."

"AH HA HA HA HA!" My peers were unimpressed and unconvinced.

Someone looked at their watch and said, "You're wrong! It's 10:40!"

"First of all, I said, 'about.' And we've been standing here arguing for almost five minutes."

"You just estimated based on what time the movie started."

Well, smartypants, then figure out what time it is on your own. See if I trot out my parlor tricks.

Sometimes, I really miss those nights of lying outside, looking at the stars. My home now is a two story house between other two story houses - I can't do anything in my yard without someone watching. Not that they'd be interested in watching me sleep; I just can't be comfortable in view of so many windows.

When it's dark and cool, and the crickets are chirping, everything in my body relaxes. I'd love a chaise, or a hammock, or better yet, a big comfy bed, out under the stars.

It's starting to get uncomfortably warm at night. Last night it was hot and stuffy, and I missed my days on the back yard chaise.

If I'm ever in a nursing home some day, and they complain that I wander off at night, just tell them to let me sleep on the patio. Trust me - we'll all be happier that way.

Houseguests

My middle daughter recently pointed out to me that my two younger children apparently did not know the story about the time I lived with two male strippers.

It's not as interesting, or salacious, as it sounds.

I moved out of my parents' house at 18, just months after my high school graduation. I moved in with my sister and her husband. They needed a roommate in order to make the rent on their four bedroom house, and I wanted to feel like an adult. That living arrangement lasted for 3 months, until my junior high best friend invited me to get an apartment with her.

We had been inseparable at 13 and 14, and then she'd moved away, and we spent years almost 2,000 miles apart. Now she was back, we were adults, and living together sounded like great fun.

We chose a fairly upscale apartment complex, with a gated entry, a fitness center and tons of amenities that we never used.

I think we'd been there all of two weeks when she came to me with a sob story. Two of her friends, young men named Clint and something ordinary like Josh were "living in their car. They have nowhere to go." Could they stay with us "just for awhile," until they could "save money" for their own place?

I'm a soft touch, softer than I should be. I was hesitant, but they assured me that it would be extremely short term.

It was 1985, and minimum wage was $2.15 per hour. I made a whopping $2.35 an hour at my first job, where I worked 20 hours a week. At my second job, I made minimum wage and worked 26 hours a week. My roommate had a 40 hour a week office job - she made more than I did, but she wasn't wealthy. Clint and Josh were strippers. I could not imagine how they were so short of money that they needed us to bail them out, unless they had serious drug problems (and I wasn't ruling that out). I reluctantly agreed, as long as it was extremely short term, just a few days. "Two weeks, tops," they promised.

Usually, when I tell this story, I add that I would not have paid these men to take their clothes off for me. In fairness, it has never occurred to me to pay anyone to disrobe for me. I did not go to see "Magic Mike." Do not ever waste your money or time inviting me to "Thunder from Down Under." I am not a stripper's target audience, male or female. Still, these guys were ordinary looking, and young enough to still have acne across their backs (although old enough to legally strip as a career), so maybe they didn't make a ton of money. They made a whole heck of a lot more than I made, though, so why were they sleeping on my couch?

OK, I know why they were sleeping on my couch. Six years into my friendship with my roommate, I was aware that she had an almost universal pheromonal effect on men. I had spent more time than I really wanted to think about watching two guys - friends, brothers, cousins, you name it - make the deal with each other: "We'll both hit on the hot one. Whichever one she doesn't choose can have her friend." They were pretty sure that living with two girls would mean an endless Playboy mansion party for them. Plus, the women were footing the bill. What could go wrong?

Women, does this ever work? Have you ever been the friend with the "great personality" who stood around waiting for guys your friends had rejected, so you could snatch them up for yourself? Most males seem to do this ridiculous tag team mating dance, and I simply cannot imagine that it ever works. Still, it must work often enough that guys keep doing it.

Ladies: Stop that! Don't feed this behavior! Gentlemen: No one will ever think you're irresistible if you view them as a consolation prize!

So these men slept late every day and couldn't be out apartment hunting "because they work nights." They ate the food we (mostly I) bought, watched our TV, used our hot water, and wandered around in less clothing than is acceptable in public. I'm sure that they thought that the scanty nature of their wardrobes was a turn on, and that we were incredibly privileged to see it for free, but it was annoying. I had zero romantic interest in either of them. I don't know if my roommate had any, but I never saw her demonstrate some.

Asking them to put something on usually led to ridiculous statements like, "I am wearing something. I usually walk around naked," or, "I put on underwear for you. I sleep in the nude." EEEEWWWW. So not attractive.

One sunny Saturday, Clint pushed too far, wardrobe-wise. I was sitting in our little breakfast nook eating when Clint wandered out onto our second story balcony in BLACK MESH BIKINI UNDERWEAR. Who knew that anyone even manufactured those? He leaned against the railing, surveying his domain, in full view of our parking lot and the apartment complex next door. It was just beyond words. I almost burst a blood vessel.

I yanked open the sliding glass door and hissed, "Get in here! We have neighbors! What are you thinking?"

Clint was baffled. "What?"

"Get inside! Right now! And put some pants on!"

"What's wrong with you?"

At that point, I unleashed a torrent of words, none of them complimentary, including, "People can see you!" I may have said something to the effect of, "Put on some pants or I'll put them on for you."

I think it was shortly after that that I put my foot down. The strippers had to go. Now. They'd been there for weeks on end, we were violating the terms of our lease by even having them there, they hadn't contributed a single dollar or even a washed dish to contribute to their upkeep, and I never wanted to see their sorry, skimpy underwear again. They had to GO.

My roommate was aghast. Where would they go? What would they do? I didn't care.

The men were aghast. Couldn't they stay just a little longer, to "get back on their feet?" No - it had already been much longer than the agreed upon time frame. They'd end up sleeping in their car again, they said. "It's summer; you won't freeze," I said.

They had NO money, they swore. "You make more in one night than I make in a month! Where does it GO?" There was much mumbling about debts, and gas, and expenses. "I don't care. If I could manage to get enough together on minimum wage, you can get it together. If you can't, it's not my problem."

I gave them until the end of the week to get out, or I'd notify the apartment management, and they'd toss them out. "They'll kick you out too," the men threatened. After all, we'd violated our lease by letting them stay with us.

"Let them. I have somewhere else to go. I have family. I have friends. I have a bank account. If worse comes to worst, I have a van. I can sleep there."

They spent the rest of the week taking my roommate aside and saying things like, "Can't you talk to her?"

"I have," she would wail. "She doesn't listen!" Point of fact: I listened, quietly and politely. Then I stated my position. I just didn't agree with her, or cave in. When you have arguments, folks, don't accuse people of not listening simply because they don't agree with you. It's not the same thing.

The men left in a huff. I never saw or heard from them again.

My roommate was furious. According to her, I was selfish and controlling and had NO compassion. I had also made her look bad in front of her friends. I truly did not care how she saw the situation. I may have been 19 years old at that point, but emotionally I was middle aged. I was never young.

I didn't feel bad for a second. I still don't.

Just as an aside, my roommate and I never made it through the six months for which we'd signed a lease. This was not the first, last, only or most serious argument we had. We moved out on less than friendly terms, and didn't speak to each other for months. We managed to repair things, to an extent, later, but we never again considered living together.

So, after my daughter brought it up, I told my teenaged kids the abbreviated version of this story over pizza and wings at one of our favorite pizza places. (There is a moral in there, kids.) Maybe I should have worried about whether or not people at surrounding tables were listening. Sorry about your appetites, folks.

I was rewarded with, "Geez, Mom. You know interesting people."

Think of how embarrassing the story would be if I had enjoyed the experience.

Giving Thanks

It was my sister Lynne's idea. "Why don't we have Thanksgiving on Sunday?" she asked.

We were all together to remember my mom. She had forbidden us to have a big funeral. My kids would tease her sometimes, and say, "Grandma, we're going to have the biggest, loudest, most crowded funeral!" "You. Will. NOT," Mom would say. "I will come back and haunt you!" We needed to be together, though, to do something formal and to support each other. We'd decided to get together at Mom's house, with an open invitation to friends and family to join us for a potluck meal. They could come and go as they needed to, we could share memories and send mementos home with everyone.

We hadn't all been together for years. Now, there we were, all four children, ten grandchildren, six spouses and one of Mom's great grandchildren. It was the closest we'd been to having everyone together in 20 years. Of those who knew and loved Mom, we were missing only my grandnephew Andrew.

Mom passed away on October 30. We'd chosen Veteran's Day weekend for our gathering, to take advantage of the three day weekend. Veteran's Day is very important to my brother in law Don, a Marine. Since he's no longer in the service, I referred to him as an "ex Marine" once, and he corrected me: "There are no ex Marines. There's those on active duty and those no longer on active duty. We're all Marines." (I no longer make that mistake.) The fact that he was willing to make the weekend all about Mom, and to spend Veteran's Day itself on the road, spoke volumes. He's a great guy.

On that Saturday, we'd spend the day at Mom's. Everyone was invited to come by any time between about 11 and 5. My niece, Mari, is a rabbi, and she was the last of the immediate family to arrive, since she officiated at home that morning, then flew out. We asked her to be in charge of closing out the gathering, maybe with a prayer. She chose to lead us in sharing memories, and then offered a blessing. It was perfect.

Since the first holiday without Mom was bound to be difficult, and since we were all together, Lynne came up with the idea to have Thanksgiving together, on Sunday. It was brilliant.

My sister Jennifer made the turkey. My nephew Jeremy made mushroom ravioli. We had a pan of homemade macaroni and cheese, made by my friend Denise, left from the day before. We had potatoes, salad, all kinds of good food. More importantly, we had the whole family together at Mom's house. It was a great Thanksgiving.

I love this photo. We're all there - the teachers, the lawyer, the postal worker, the dog trainer, the actors, the black belt, the social worker. When my husband posted it on Facebook, my son wrote, "Look at your family. Now back to my family. Sadly, your family is not my family." Yes, it's a riff on an Old Spice commercial. It makes me smile.

I'm so, so glad we had this Thanksgiving celebration. I will always give thanks for it.

Mom's Wedding Dresses

Most girls, I'm told, dream about their wedding day. Not about the groom - sometimes, he's just an afterthought, a place filler - but about the flowers, the shoes, the hairstyle, the decorations, and most of all, THE DRESS.

My mother didn't. She wanted to be married, and have children, but BEING married was the important thing, not the single day of GETTING married. The ceremony was just what you did so that you could be married.

Part of that was, undoubtedly, the fact that she was raised by a woman who was raised by parents who came from The Old Country; they were not very frivolous. Part was that she was born during the Great Depression, and was a teenager during the rationing of World War II. Extravagant gowns were not on anybody's agenda. Part was just her own personality.

I was filling out family history paperwork when Mom was in her 70s, and I asked her for the date of her wedding to her first husband. She gave me a date in August of 1950. "Hmm," I said, as I wrote it down. "I thought that the date on the back of the photos was in September."

"It was," she said. "That was the second wedding."

Um - what? Second wedding? Why were there two?

"We eloped. Frankie was afraid to tell his parents." He was an only child of very Catholic parents. "We had the second wedding so they'd get to see him married in a church. He didn't want to hurt their feelings."

"Are you kidding? Are you joking? Why did you never tell me this before?"

"It wasn't important."

So funny, my mom. So practical.

Look at how gorgeous she was on that second wedding day.

The man on her right is Frankie, her husband. He was handsome, charming and funny, a fire fighter. The maid of honor was named Glenna. She didn't write down the best man's name, and I never asked.

Here's another of the couple:

Such a stunning couple. They made beautiful babies, my brother Gary and my sister Lynne. Hanging in her home, Lynne has the professional portrait of Mom and Frankie cutting their wedding cake.

Frankie was an alcoholic, and the marriage didn't last.

There are no photos from her wedding to my father. There were 5 people in the room - the minister, Mom, Dad, and my aunt and uncle as witnesses. There was no reception; the four of them ate out, then Mom and Dad drove home. That was exactly the way Mom wanted it - no fuss.

When I got to be a teen, I asked Mom what happened to her wedding dress, the one she wore when she married my dad. "I gave it to you kids (me and my sister June, 3 years my elder) to play dress up in. It got ruined, and I threw it out years ago."

"What? What did you do that for?" I was outraged.

"You thought it was so pretty. And I was never going to wear it again. Someone ought to get some use out of it."

I was determined to be scandalized. What if one of us wanted to wear it ourselves? "It's highly unlikely that you ever would. It would be outdated, if it even fit."

I sputtered. She didn't understand my reaction.

"Well, what did it look like?"

She shrugged. "It was white."

"Long? Short?"

"About mid-length."

I, who tend to be too attached to my Stuff, couldn't quite believe her low key attitude.

Time passed. The lesson was absorbed years ago. Things aren't important; people are. Weddings are nice, but the marriage is the important thing.

Those are the lessons exemplified by my mother's wedding dresses.

Mom

My mother passed away 5 days ago.

It's extraordinarily painful. I knew it would be. It is impossible to measure the impact of a wonderful mother, or to quantify her loss.

She tried, for years, to get us used to the idea that she wouldn't be around forever. We knew, of course, but we didn't like it. "Grandma, you have to live to be at least 100," my kids would say. "I have to do no such thing," she would reply.

She was ready to go. As the baby in her family, she'd lost her siblings years ago. My dad's been gone for 25 years, and all of his siblings are gone, as well. Her children are all doing well, as are her grandkids. She was in generally good health, although walking was more and more painful. She lived in her own home and had no desire to ever live anywhere else. She was 83 (five years older then my dad lived to be.)

"You have to live forever," my kids would say, and she'd harumph - "Hmph!" she'd snort. She was their last remaining grandparent, so they hung on a bit tightly, and she just rolled her eyes. A very practical and unsentimental woman, my mother.

That's a compliment, by the way. I aspire, in almost every way, to be more like my mother. Sometimes when I say things like "unsentimental," people assume it's a criticism, or they translate that to mean "cold and unloving." Nothing could be further from the truth.

I feel thousands of words waiting to be written about my mother. I will need to write them in the days, weeks and years to come.

We know that death is the way of the world. None of us is getting out of here alive. We know that death is necessary and beneficial. I know, down to my toes, that Mom left this world exactly as she wished to. She had a perfectly ordinary day, then went to bed. She passed away in her sleep; had she been able to script her passing, that's what it would have looked like. I also know that she is happy, really happy, where she is. In the words of C. S. Lewis, "There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind." I am truly happy for my mom; I am sad for those of us temporarily separated from her. "What an adventure!" said my adored big sister, as we discussed how things are for Mom now.

It's nice now to talk to people who knew her, to have experiences like the one I had over the phone with my cousin Karen. I told her something Mom had said, and from hundreds of miles away her laugh came over the line loud and clear. "That sounds just like Aunt Bev!" she said.

Mom belonged to some people unrelated by blood as much as she belonged to me. There's no real word for the relationship, but it doesn't need defined. "Family" comes close. One woman, as much my sister as anyone my mother gave birth to, told me about a conversation she had with her own dad. Her childhood had been marked by chaos, divorce and worse. When she was an adult, he told her, "I really feel that I failed you. I always knew there was a safe haven for me, a place that would always be home, where I'd always be welcome. I didn't give you that."

"It didn't matter that he didn't give me that. I got it anyway," she said. It wasn't the house, although the house holds many memories. It was Mom.

Oh, the minefields of childhood, adolescence and adulthood that my mother guided all of us through! Some were ordinary; some would curl your hair. None of them caused her to so much as blink.

If we loved someone, they were welcomed with open arms. She chaperoned the high school drama guild on our trips to Disneyland. These weren't school sanctioned trips - we took them on our own, 15 or 20 kids and Mom. When my dad was out of town on a hunting trip, she let the drama guild camp in her acre plus back yard; she let Tony use the occasion to demonstrate his fire juggling. She let us virtually empty her rooms in order to dress our sets. She loaned us her only fur coat, because the script called for it.

We could say or do the oddest things, and know she had our backs. I was about 16 and had my best friend sleeping over when there was a knock on the door at 11 o'clock at night. To my mom, who'd grown up on a farm, that was the middle of the night. She'd been in bed since 9. Still, when I answered the door and discovered two other friends there, then crept to her room to whisper, "Tim and Joe are here. They want to know if they can have fudgecicles," the answer was, "OK." When my friend Scott wanted to spend the night sleeping in my van in our driveway, the answer was "yes."

Another best friend had a key to my car before I did. I had no license, and he did, so he used his own key to drive me places in my car.

"Can I build a Swiss Family Robinson tree house in your tree and just live in it?" one of my friends asked her once. "Sure. You just let me know when," she said. Every few years, he'd bring it up - "That tree still there?" and she'd say, "Still waiting for you." "Maybe I'll bring my son over, and we'll build that treehouse," he'd say. "I'll be here," she'd tell him. We've called it Tony's Tree for years. It will always be Tony's Tree.

This does not mean that she had no boundaries; the boundaries were carved in stone. It meant that she knew the difference between the big stuff and the small stuff, and she truly did not sweat the small stuff.

My oldest sister is 57, and, with Mom's passing she said, "Now I'll have to be a grownup." She's a remarkable woman, brilliant, with a great life, great kids, and adorable grandkids, but she still counted on her mom. I feel the same way. The last time I saw my mom, the day before she died, she was bailing me out of another jam. I'd locked myself out of my house, in my pajamas, so I went to borrow her keys. She laughed at me - as well she should - and loaned me the keys. Without my safety net, without my mommy to rescue me, I'll have to step up my game. The world looks different now.

But, I swear, I can practically hear her. I will do or say something, and know what Mom would say if she were here. She may have moved on, but she hasn't really left us.

Still, I will miss her until we are together again.

"I'll miss you when you're gone, Grandma," my kids would tell her, and she'd say, "Why? I've lived a good life."

Indeed she did.