Living Proof

In the late 70’s, I remember my family gathering around inside the den to watch their favorite TV programs. From Laverne & Shirley, Happy Days to Carol Burnett and All In the Family. I’d get up to use the bathroom and my mother would instinctively ask, “Where ya going?” I couldn’t have been more than four years old back then, but somehow, I never understood why she had to know my whereabouts. I could have told her the bathroom, but yet for various reasons, I could have made a right hand turn into the kitchen and started twirling all the pretty little knobs that were connected to the gas stove. The possibilities were endless. I’d respond to her with a resentful tone, “To the bathroom mom!” To me, she was invading my privacy, but realistically, a four year old does not get the privilege of privacy. I would head back into the den and my mom would tuck me under a blanket, more snug than before so I wouldn’t leave again. Dad reluctantly bought me a three wheeler motorcycle when I was ...

"Come on Deb, you’ll be late for school, let’s go!” “Coming! Hold up!” I said, fumbling for the rest of my stuff trying to make it out the door. The bus never came to pick me up because I lived on a mountain that was one mile high up a dirt road. My mother had to drive me down to the bus stop every morning, or I could have walked. I never walked. There were no kids my age on that hill and it was too desolate. Never mind the bear problem- the neighbor’s dogs were to be feared. My parents never let me walk that hill alone anyway. I was sixteen years old at the time and always managed a way to miss the bus. I did this purposely, because I didn’t like the kids I rode with. They all irritated me and I would isolate myself almost next to the front seat, so I wouldn’t get agitated. I always got carsick sitting on a bus for some reason, and my poor mother always ended up driving me to school. If I could catch my sister Cathy with her awesome little white pimped up Dodge Daytona to drive...