My Life on One Page

This was a great writing exercise! If you have to write your entire life up to the present moment on one page what would you choose?  This is what I came up with.

I was born in Alexandria Virginia at the George Washington Hospital--which no longer exists.  I like to muse that it had "served its purpose" (to bring me safely into this world.)  Then, no longer needed, it was transformed into something less useful--a government building.  During my infancy my mom worked at the Pentagon.  I sure wish I had asked her more about that when she was alive!

When I was four years old we lived in a house with a bright green roof.  I wanted to be Zorro.  He wore black and jumped off the roof onto his trusty horse, Tornado.  I lived in a bubble of protection and wore pink.

When I was in the fifth grade my teacher hit me in the head with a book.  My crimes? They were, in no particular order, living on the wrong side of Manor Street, helping a classmate who was struggling, and, in general being nice to her in spite of her mean disposition toward me.

In Junior High I entered the John F. Reynolds "Junior Miss"contest.  There were only three of us.  The one with the most talent didn't win.  The one who lived on the right side of Manor Street did. 

In High School I continued to love learning, became a majorette and learned quite a bit about racism. I also learned from my dad that I could do ANYTHING I set my mind to.  He was right :-)  I also fainted at a football game during one of our halftime performances.  My dad was the only person besides the band leader who noticed.

In college I still loved learning but learned a little late that I wasn't cut out to be a teacher.....so I majored in Psychology to figure out why.

As an adult I spent 25+ years working with disabled children and adults, trying to solve the mystery of why it was so hard for people to accept others "as they are."

I retired to spend my time as a storyteller, a Stephen minister, and a parent.

I now blog to to solve even bigger mysteries.

In Sixth Grade and Growing up Fast

Before we leave 5th grade I want to share one more memory.

Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?

The other memory seared in my mind from my fifth grade year was the assassination of President Kennedy.  The loudspeaker came on and we heard a radio report stating that the president had been shot.  No preparation, no reassurances to the kids, just the President had been shot.  We were excused from school and told to go home.  

 I’m thinking that today the school would have had grief counselors on site within hours.  Counselors provided, not because of the assassination but because of the complete absence of reassurances that we were still safe.  Maybe other teachers did this.  I don’t know.  I don’t even know if Mrs. W tried to reassure the smart side of the room.  I do know I left terrified about what this all meant and that there was no way I could seek comfort from Mrs. W. 

The real world was coming into focus and I didn’t understand what it all meant.  

 

Being a Zorro wannabe I was very familiar with injustice and senseless tragedy.  However, it occurred in 30-minute episodes and the good guy always prevailed.  Real life was different. 

Summer Trips to Washington D.C. 

In the summer between fifth and sixth grades my father started a tradition of taking me and a few of my friends on a trip to see the sights in Washington D.C.  Of course, my favorite part was stopping at the "Hot Shops" for lunch which, of course included the most delicious onion rings ever produced.

I believe the first of such trips included two of my cousins, Marty Lou and Kim.  Also invited along was Patti Jo one of my neighborhood buddies.  

We went to see all the sights.  One, of course being the Washington Monument.  This was back in the day when you could actually walk up the stairs to the top as opposed to taking the elevator.

It seems that it was my Dad's tradition to actually walk up AND down all those stairs to the top.  So I decided to walk with him. 

Now, my memory may be foggy, but I seem to remember that he and I walked up and down.  My cousins and friend did not, or, at least did not do the round trip.  So we took a before and after picture.  I'm pretty sure all those "exhausted" children laying on the lawn did not do the walking part both ways.  But it made for a good picture.

You can see my Dad's shadow in one of the pictures.  Our parents cast shadows in our memories that stay with us forever, don't they?

Thinking back, I am grateful that my Dad took the time to do this with us.  It was probably really hot and humid in D.C. during those trips, but he walked around with us all day.  He showed us the sights, let us put our feet in the Potomac (at least I assume that's what the picture of us is where we are all standing with our feet in the water. :-)  He took us out to eat and took pictures everywhere we went.  

He was one awesome Dad! 

Mr. R and the Fruit Roll Throw

Well, I progressed to sixth grade, self esteem relatively intact.  Mr. R was the sixth grade teacher.  I had only had women as teachers to this point so this was quite exciting.  However, Mr. R was not very skilled in classroom management and we walked all over him.

We were quite unruly too.  Yes, I said we.  I went along with most everything and never, ever really tried to re-direct the activity.  My peers’ approval was becoming definitely more important than adults.

There were three other girls in the class who lived near me, so we spent most of our time passing notes, giggling, and, in general, ignoring Mr. R.  One day I suppose he had had enough and he rearranged our desks and split us up.  I was saddened by this, until one of my friends announced that we should come back early after lunch because she had a plan.   

We met back in the classroom (Mr. R was still in that mysterious place called the Teacher’s Lounge) and proceeded to move our desks back together again.  I was sure we would get into deep trouble, but when he came back and saw what we did he just got a funny look on his face and ignored the whole thing. 

We all sat in the back of the classroom, which was great as far as I was concerned.  You see, we had this reading program stored back there with different reading levels.  So, I spent most of my time reading.  The only break from this was my group’s daily extracurricular activity-- swinging on the bars in the girl’s room.  One by one we would ask to go to the girl’s lav.  When we were all there we would jump off the toilets and swing on the bars.  We even hung there by our legs.  It was great!    

This, of course, was during a time when the stall structure in school lavatories consisted of round pipes....just like a jungle gym!  Today they are square with sharp edges.  Mr. R probably got into the construction business after his experience with us.

One day we were all hanging by our legs when the door flew open and Mr. R’s unmistakable voice yelled, “What’s going on in here!”  We were probably giggling loudly and complaining about Mr. R never really thinking that since the restroom was right across the hall from our classroom he would probably hear us.   

We were shocked!  A man opened the door to the girl’s bathroom!   Wasn’t that illegal or something!  We had all jumped down, except for one of my friends, so Mr. R said, “You with the red knee socks!  You are in trouble!”  He was so confident that he had hard evidence, however, he knew nothing about sixth grade couture rules.  If red knee socks were the color of choice EVERY girl wore red knee socks.  Well we paraded out, lined up and looked at Mr. R....all of us wearing red knee socks.  He got that look again and just told us to go back to class. 

At this point I really did start to feel bad for him.  I made some feeble attempts to guide us back to actually learning something, but to no avail.  The turning point for me was the day someone suggested we have a fruit roll for Mr. R.   

Back in the day schoolchildren would all bring a piece of fruit to school and, on cue, would roll the fruit up to the teacher.  It was supposed to communicate appreciation and even affection.  A fruit roll for Mr. R?  I was suspicious but thought perhaps someone decided we should be nice to him for a change.  When we got to school that day, the ringleader told us the real plan.  On cue, we would throw the fruit at Mr. R instead of rolling it.  Well, I went along with it.  I was hesitant, but what sixth grader wants to be ostracized? 

The tension in the air was electric.  We were all acting quite nice to Mr. R to, I suppose, lull him into a false sense of security.  On cue, we all stood up with our fruit of choice in our hands.  

 This moment in my memory plays in slow motion for me.  I looked up at Mr. R, who had seen the fruit and had actually started to smile.  In that moment I saw Mr. R for the first time.  He was a teacher trying to insert knowledge into our thick skulls.  His eyes spoke volumes.  He was finally being appreciated.  

 I started to smile too, when I realized that our plan was not what he expected.  I wanted to scream, “stop” but my mouth would not work.  In the next moment, with fruit flying past him and smashing onto the blackboard his expression changed to one of deep sadness. It looked mostly like anger, but I saw hurt too.  I was devastated.  What had I done?  I should have stopped it, or at least objected.  I stood there with the orange in my hand and slowly sat down.  Mr. R saw my orange and our eyes met.  

It didn’t matter that I had not thrown it at him.  I had intended to do so.  I became acutely aware of just how much we need to pay attention to the consequences of our actions.  While the other students laughed and cheered, I began to cry.  I had hurt someone and it would take a long time for me to forgive myself for doing so.

We were punished, but Mr. R never told anyone outside our classroom what had happened.  He was probably embarrassed.  I did, however, tell my mom what we had done.  She made me write an apology letter to Mr. R. 

I think it was the only one he got.

I think I also got punished at home, although, I cannot remember.  The punishment of having to remember the hurt in his eyes was more than enough for me.

One More Memory....The Hair Wars

 Mom thought "straight stringy hair" looked awful so she frequently made me get "perms."  I distinctly remember my last trip to "Maxine's Hair Salon."  The beautician was affectionately known as Maxie.  She also sang for the Sweet Adeline's which was like a female barbershop quartet.  I loved that kind of harmony!

Anyway, on this last trip my mom had PROMISED that I could get a "body wave" instead of a "curly perm."   Well, that was a ruse to get me there and get a.....you guessed it, a curly perm.  I was furious!!

I smiled for the picture...not after

And, as if that was not bad enough, Mom thought bangs that were more than 1/4 inch in length looked atrocious so she frequently talked me into letting her "trim" them.  I believe this picture is, in fact THE LAST TIME I let her and her scissors near my hair.  :-)

My sixth grade picture would be the last evidence that perm.  My hair and perm solution would not meet again for a long, long time.  You will notice the look in my mom's eyes saying "I think I need to trim them a bit more."

I denied her that privileged.

If you will also notice I had teeth that needed straightened.  Those front teeth were a source of much teasing from my peers.  So I got braces.....more on that later. 

Telling the Story of Mrs.W.

I belong to a writers group that meets once a month.  I get a name tag that has "writer" written underneath.  The lovely woman who coordinates all of this for our group, "The Lord's Write Hands," sure knows how to make us all feel special.  Thanks Muriel.


In one of our meetings we were given an exercise that was meant to bring out more details and memories of a certain event in our lives.  Having just written "My Life on One Page" (more on that later) I chose fifth grade and Mrs. W.  After some preliminary listing of specific memories (right down to the big clock with the loudspeaker on top in the front of the room) I wrote this story.

The sun shining into the classroom made the colors of Mrs. W's dress come to life.  She always wore flowery dresses, even though she was definitely NOT the flowery type.  Her "sensible shoes" showed who she really was.  The "sturdy" part not the "support" part.

Her smile was not like my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. V.  Mrs. W's smile never quite made it to her eyes.

I, seated on the left side of the room, closest to the bright bank of windows, was following along the passage we were taking turns reading aloud.  When Mrs. W. called on me to take my turn I felt a rush of excitement.  Maybe now she would get to see how smart I was!  Mrs. V. told me I was smart, but Mrs. W. seemed to need proof....or something.

As I watch this scene unfold I begin reading and the other students turn to look at me.  I didn't think they did that when other children read but I might be mistaken.  Mrs. W's lips are pursed and her arms are folded across her chest.  Her eyes are looking straight at me.  I get a little nervous, but I'm smart!  I'll do fine and Mrs. W. will finally smile at me!

When I come to the name of the state of Maryland I read it as "Mary land."  I know, of course, how to pronounce the name of this state because my family and I had traveled there from Pennsylvania, but I had never seen it in print.

Mrs. W. barks a short laugh.  I look up to find her finally smiling, but the smile is all wrong.  Children around me are laughing.

"Mary...land!  Did you hear that?!" says Mrs. W.

I am a little embarrassed but decided to laugh with them at my mistake.  It was no big deal, right?  But, the more I smile the harder Mrs. W's eyes become.  I look at her, puzzled, not angry or humiliated.  She ends the exercise abruptly.

Was it after that event that I was moved to the darker side of the room where my head and that textbook were destined to meet?  I cannot recall.

To this day it saddens me to think that she never really got to know who I was.

*******
Overall, I LOVED school.  I loved reading and learning.  I always thought it was a great adventure.  Next year I would be in the sixth grade and what a year THAT was!  I'll tell you about it next Sunday!

Life at Lafayette Elementary

The World according to Mrs. W

I entered fifth grade at Lafayette Elementary School as Mifflin only went to fourth grade.  There were many more students, a bigger, school and many attitudes that were a mystery to me.  My fifth grade teacher seemed to take an immediate dislike to me.  I was not worried though.  Mrs. V had convinced me I was a great student and a great person.  Mrs. W would realize this eventually.

After a few months, though, I got worried.  Mrs. W regularly seemed to intentionally embarrass me.  I dismissed this idea immediately.  I believed no teacher would do such a thing.  I was probably being too sensitive.  I sat beside a little girl who never talked and struggled with everything.  I now realize that I was seated on the “stupid” side of the classroom.  It turns out that Miss V thought I was quite smart so she had insisted that I be placed in Mrs. W’s classroom.  Mrs. W did not agree for reasons you will hear later. 

I discovered that this girl loved to read too.  She and I would talk about books and stories we liked, including our favorite parts.  Pippi Longstocking was a definite favorite.  When it came time to do book reports, my friend panicked.  It seems that she knew what she wanted to say, but she could not get it down onto paper.  I immediately thought of a solution.  She would tell me what to write and I would write it for her.  It was a great plan!  I now know that my friend probably had a learning disability.  It would be my first experience with a person with a disability and it definitely would not be my last.

A few days later, Mrs. W came down our row of desks.  I was happy to see her as she spent very little time on our side of the room.  She stopped between our desks and asked my friend, “Who wrote this!?”  As she asked this question she waved the girl’s book report in her face.  My friend was obviously terrified so I piped up and said, “I did.” 

I was about to explain what had happened when Mrs. W picked up a textbook that was on my desk and hit me on the side of the head with it.  Textbooks are heavy!  It hurt and the pain was not just physical.  I looked up at her and saw such anger that I decided it was futile to explain.  Then another emotion took over.  I was quite sure that she was not allowed to hit kids in the head with textbooks so I became angry.  I calmly rose from my desk and headed for the cloakroom to get my jacket and my lunchbox, intending to leave school and go home.  She shrieked at me to get back to my seat but I kept going.  I arrived home shaken, angry and confused.  A small part of me still believed all she had to do was get to know me and everything would be fine.

When I told my mom, she got that look on her face and said she would take care of it. I stayed home the next day while she met with the Principal and Mrs. W.  When she came home she told me it was all worked out and that Mrs. W would never again hit or humiliate me.  I thought, “Wow, how did you do that?” but I just said thanks.

Mrs. W was never again rude to me, but it as clear she still did not like me.  However, I still had the confidence that Miss V had given me and I did not care.  I even thought about what she was missing by not getting to know me.  Ah, to return to the innocence of youth!

Years later I learned what had transpired in that meeting.  It turns out that most of the kids from Mifflin were from a less affluent part of town than most of the students.  We were known as the “Pearl Street kids.”  It was not a compliment. 

My mother told her that if she, or anyone else, referred to my friends or me as the Pearl Street kids again there would be more trouble than they ever dreamed of.  It was also stipulated that if Mrs. W ever again humiliated me or laid a hand on me she would be back and it would not be pleasant. 

My beautiful mom :-)

Way to go mom!  Zorro couldn’t have done it better himself!

And, by the way, it seems that the boy from the fourth grade Safety Patrol incident was a “Pearl Street kid” geographically speaking, but his family was full of sports stars that the high schools loved, so he was exempt. 

Mifflin Elementary School Children

..... aka “Those Pearl Street Kids”

(Truth and Consequences re-visited)

Mifflin Elementary School on Pearl Street

Second grade was uneventful.  Third grade was memorable only because I could not believe a teacher could be so grumpy and take all the fun out of learning.  I just kept my head down and eventually got to fourth grade and Miss Valudes.  She was the kind of teacher we all dream about.  She made everything fun and made you feel your efforts were the best she had ever seen.  It was that way with all of her students.  She was also Greek, so it was exciting to meet someone who was different from everyone I knew.  I loved hearing about her life.

In fourth grade, I received the honor of becoming a member of the safety patrol.  We wore white belts with a sash and a badge!  The only thing better would have been a cape and a horse!  We were in charge of seeing children safely across the busy intersection when they came to school and when they left.  A special unit of the safety patrol was also put in charge of the intersection at noon when the morning Kindergarteners left and the afternoon Kindergarteners arrived.  We actually walked many blocks to school by ourselves back then, even the five year olds!  I became a member of this special unit and was I proud! 

One day one of my classmates asked if he could take my shift that day at noon, as he would not be there the next day when he was scheduled.  I switched days with him and went about my school day.  At approximately one o’clock I was called into the hall by the principal.  She asked me why I had abandoned my duty as safety patrol a noon.  There was only one student each day so that meant the intersection was not covered.  I explained that Jimmy had traded days with me and that he should have been there.  She said, “We’ll see about that” and left to get Jimmy. 

When she returned with him, I was not worried at all.  I believed he would clear everything up.   However, to my surprise he said we had not changed days; that I was lying.  I was shocked.  I reminded him of our discussion but he insisted it had never happened.  It became clear that the principal believed Jimmy and not me.  I could not understand why she thought I was lying.  Didn’t she know I could not lie?  I was stripped of my belt and my badge on the spot.  I was in shock.  I returned to class and Miss V asked me what had happened.  I told her and she left the room to talk to the principal.  She returned with a sad, and somehow angry look on her face.  She said there was nothing she could do.  I did not care, though, because the next thing she said took the sting out of the incident.  She said, “I believe you.  You would not lie about a thing like this.”  I also figured that Jimmy must have had a good reason for lying.  Maybe there was more than one “Mrs. Crazy.” 

Later that week I overheard my parents talking about the incident.  I could not hear exactly what they were saying, but I did hear the phrase “Pearl Street kids” a couple of times.  I had no idea what this meant until I entered fifth grade at a new school.

Me in 2nd Grade

3rd Grade (I think this is the only time the teacher smiled all year)

Fourth Grade

The house where I grew up on Ruby Street

My First Grade Teacher was a Genius!

I don’t even remember my first grade teacher’s name but I do remember that she was brilliant!  I had not gone to Kindergarten, as there was no Kindergarten class where we had lived.  Looking back, I believe I didn’t go because my mom couldn’t let me go.  However, that’s OK.  I had Miss Francis, Zorro, and Lucille Ball to teach me about life.

Anyway, when I got to first grade I was absolutely thrilled.  School was so great.  There were books, other kids, art supplies, and a water fountain!  I read my report card from first grade the other day.  The teacher comments went from “Karen is really enjoying school and participates in all subject areas” to “Karen needs to talk less” and finally to “I am wondering if Karen wants to go to second grade.”  I must have driven her nuts!  However, half way through the year she discovered my great imagination and put my non-stop talking to good use.  I was put in charge of a daily puppet show for the Kindergarten classes.  I played all the parts, wrote the script, and performed my original stories with glee.  I didn’t really write a script, I did what I now know is “improvisation.”  I let the kids’ reactions dictate where the story went.  I was a future storyteller in the making!

School then became a joy for both of us.  I looked forward to school every day.  Every part of it was an adventure.  I did not, however, look forward to lunchtime.  The food they served in the lunchroom was a little too adventurous for me.  I was the quintessential picky eater.  I found a way around this by leaving school, walking home and making myself a couple of pieces of molasses bread with white Wonder Bread and King Syrup. 

I did this every day until one day my mom came home unexpectedly from work and found me standing on the counter reaching for the can of King Syrup. She asked me why I was at home.  “I don’t know” had, as I said, become unacceptable so I said I had come home to get my jump rope.  As soon as I said it, I realized the flaw in this story; we did not keep jump ropes in the food cabinet with the King Syrup.  

She sat me down and asked me to explain.  I told her I did not like the food in the lunchroom so I came home every day.  She asked me what I had done with the quarter she had given me every day for lunch.  I told her I gave it to someone else each day before I left.  So, she marched me back to school and paid in advance for my lunches and ordered me to never leave school again and for goodness sake at least try the food.  It turned out that some of the food was pretty good, but some of it was really gross.  Remember, “Spiced apple rings?”  Apples formed into perfectly round segments with a hole in the middle that were dyed bright red.  I don’t think anyone ever ate them.  All of them are probably still intact in a landfill somewhere. 

I made it through first grade and did move on to second grade due to the efforts of that great teacher.  However, with second grade came a move to a different town.  Just when I had the whole school thing figured out everything changed.  But that’s what makes life exciting and teaches us the things we need to learn.  :-)

Truth or Consequences

I absolutely could not effectively tell my mom a lie.  I don’t know if it was her piercing gaze when she asked me about something or the stuff I was learning at Covenant Evangelical United Brethren Church but I could never pull it off.    “I don’t know” was no longer an accepted response either. (NOTE: I’ve since become aware of that “lie-detector invisible ray” that most parents seem to have.)

One day I was tagging along with my older brother (who wanted me to be anywhere but with him).  We were at a neighbor’s house swimming in their wading pool.  All at once, I became aware that the other kids were screaming, yelling, and getting out of the pool.  They ran off and escaped down the alley behind our houses.  I was not aware of what they were reacting to because I was younger AND because I had tuned them out because they were accusing me of having cooties in order to get rid of me. I was good at tuning things out and learned later in life where this skill came from…but more on that later.

Not wanting to be alone I got out of the pool to follow the other kids.  It was at this point that I noticed the mom of the household at the back door screaming something at me.  I actually thought she was yelling at the other kids for something, but I didn’t stick around to find out. 

Later that evening this same crazed woman came to our door and demanded to talk to my mom.  I was called downstairs some minutes later.  My mom told me that Mrs. Crazy had just accused me of calling her a “bitch.”  I was in first grade!  I didn’t even know what that meant!  I rather had a feeling it wasn’t good, but I did not know exactly why.  Therefore, I looked at Mrs. Crazy and then at my mother and said that I had not called her any name. 

Mrs. Crazy went even crazier and began calling me a little liar and some other things that made my mom’s blood boil. I could tell because my mom had “that look” on her face. Then my mom looked at me with pleading eyes that said, “Just apologize and get this woman out of here.”  Nevertheless, my true self would not tell this convenient lie.  I said that I was sorry that Mrs. Crazy was so upset but to admit to calling her that name would indeed be a lie and I could not do that. She started to walk toward me screaming what I later identified as obscenities.

 It was then that somewhere in my young mind a connection was made.  This woman’s children were mean to other kids.  This woman’s children did not seem to like being around this woman.  In fact, they seemed scared of her.  They frequently had bruises and a few times broken bones.  I did not put these pieces into a meaningful context until years later, but I knew that I would need to tell the lie because someone was going to get hurt if I didn’t.  I have no idea how I “knew” this, but I did.  My mom would be disappointed and I would probably be punished, but I wasn’t going to let something worse happen. 

I voiced the apology the best I could and Mrs. Crazy left telling my mom to get control of her kids.  I braced myself for the punishment but to my surprise, my mom hugged me.  I looked up and saw tears in her eyes.  I told her I was sorry and she hugged me tighter.  She told me to go back to playing and left me, bewildered, on the stairs. 

After some time I realized she knew I had lied.  Of course, she knew.  I could never lie to her.  She knew what I had done but she never talked with me about it again.  Child abuse was not something even adults talked about back then I suppose.  I have to tell you though, after that day I became even more thankful that I had a loving mom, dad, aunts, uncles, and grandparents…even if I could not tell you exactly why. 

Wow, This Growing Up Stuff is Hard!

If you can’t see what it is, it’s something scary or gross!

My clothing options being dictated by my mother sometimes included a “protective” component.  The pajamas with feet were one example of this.  I hated pajamas with feet!  I had to put my feet in there with no visual confirmation that there was nothing objectionable there.  My mother wanted me to stay warm if I kicked the covers off.  I always thought, hey, if I kick the covers off maybe I’m too warm!  Nevertheless, despite my feeble objections my mother continued to make me wear them.  Being educated by Zorro in the art of keeping secrets, I devised a survival plan.  After my mom would leave, I would take my pajamas off, put them under the covers way at the bottom of my bed and sleep like a baby.  Then in the morning, I would slip them back on and my mom wouldn’t know a thing. It was a great plan. 

Well, it was a great plan until the night my mom changed her mind and decided to let me stay up later than usual to watch I Love Lucy.  She came back into my room and gave me the great news.   I had the covers pulled way up to my neck so she tried to pull them down for me.  I resisted and while gazing off into the distance said I didn’t want to stay up late.  She didn’t believe me so she pulled off the covers anyway.  She let out a gasp and asked me where my pajamas were.  I said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie!

She pulled the covers down the rest of the way and there were the pajamas.  I started to cry and told her that I hated those pajamas!  There were “things” in the feet that bothered me.  She asked me why I hadn’t just told her I didn’t like them.  My five-year-old brain did a review of my memories and was sure that I had told her, but I knew there was no point in arguing.  Besides, she seemed open to banning the hated garments from my life so I just said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie.  So I got to see I Love Lucy and I got new pajamas. 

The fear of unseen things extended to swimming in bodies of water, which were not crystal clear.  If you couldn’t see what was touching you it had to be scary or gross or both!  No amount of coaxing worked.  Even if I was hot and wanted to cool down like everyone else there was no way I was going to risk being touched by unknown things.  My dad kept trying to convince me there was nothing to be afraid of.  I tried to tell him that Zorro wasn’t afraid; Zorro just knew that there were some situations that were to be avoided but he kept trying. To this day, I do not swim in oceans, lakes, streams, or ponds.  In short, if it’s close to nature I’m not going in.  My motto is, “I don’t get back to nature; I get back to the Hotel!” 

 The Evolution of Fears

As years went by and I got older, my mother shared with me her love of science fiction, mystery shows and horror movies.  We watched Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, and more.  I loved them!  Being a storyteller now, I’ve come to understand what attraction this holds for people, especially children (once they have that what’s real and what’s not thing figured out.)  Watching a movie, reading a story, or hearing a scary story in a safe environment gives you a sense of control and even victory over fear. 

However, if you are listening to the sounds of the movie from your bedroom it can be terrifying.  I remember the first time I “heard” The Day the Earth Stood Still.”  I wasn’t allowed to stay up to watch the movie with my family, for reasons I do not know.  I was in my bed listening to this eerie and dramatic music so I did what I normally did, I started imagining what was happening.  My imagination went wild and I couldn’t sleep well for weeks afterwards! 

The same thing happened some years later while I was “listening” to an episode of the “Outer Limits.”  In this episode, this little girl had disappeared through the wall into another dimension and couldn’t get back.  She could hear her mother calling but she couldn’t see her.  That was good for quite a few nightmares!  Had I been in the living room snuggled up with my mom I believe I would have been able to conquer the fear by seeing what was actually happening as well as my mother’s reaction to it. 

After all, if you can’t see it….

We deal with those childhood fears and then replace them with grown up fears.  “What’s the worst that can happen?” changes from a monster showing up at your house (or being under your bed) into different kinds of “what-if’s.  Take, for instance, the Twilight Zone episode about the guy who loves to read.  Just like me!  He loves to read, but never gets the time to do so.  He wears these thick glasses and has a boss and family that will not let him spend time doing what he loves. One day a terrible disaster occurs and he is the only one left alive on Earth.  He is at the library at the time of the disaster. When he realizes he now has an infinite amount of time to read he rejoices.  He jumps for joy, his glasses fall off and in searching for them he crushes them.  I still get shivers when I think about that.  I spent a lot of time reading as I grew up and found not being able to read a terrifying thought.  It could really happen.   

Dracula and Frankenstein did not really exist but terrible misfortune and injustice did. 

Zorro and the Monster Under the Bed

The chest of drawers lay at the bottom of my bed.  The sound it made when it met the floor was terrifying.  I was hiding under the covers pretending to be asleep while my mother’s frantic voice an footsteps got closer and closer to my room…….

When I was 5 years old, I wanted to be Zorro.  I did not want to be LIKE Zorro.  I did not want to be Zorro’s girlfriend.  I wanted to BE Zorro. 

To understand just how remote this possibility was you will have to know about my mother.  My mother was extremely over-protective.  If they had made bubbles to protect kids from any type of danger or injury I am sure I would have been in one….provided, of course that it came in pink.  I was usually dressed in very girly clothes.  That did not bother me; with the one possible exception being those petticoats that made your dress stand out at 90-degree angles!  They were brutal, especially when you had to sit on a hard pew in church AND sit still. 

What did bother me was that almost everything was pink.  You can get tired of a color after a while you know.  Besides, pink came to represent that over-protective- you-can’t- climb -on -anything-you’ll-break- your- neck world I was living in.

We lived in a house in East Berlin, the one in Pennsylvania, not Germany.  I love seeing people’s faces when I say that.  Living, as a child in a communist country would definitely be a point of interest, would it not?  Anyway, the house we lived in had a bright green roof.  I still wonder why anyone would do that.  But, hey, it wasn’t pink so it was fine with me. 

In our back yard was a really cool circle of pine trees.  You know the ones.  They had branches every six inches or so.  Just like a ladder!  Of course I was told not to climb them.  This did not sit well with me so one day I decided to climb to the top of one of the trees.  The view was spectacular!  I was having a great time…until my mom decided to come out to check on me.  She stood in the circle of trees calling my name; getting louder with each unanswered call.  I looked down at her and just knew I couldn’t answer.  She was freaking out!  The more frightened she sounded, the further away the ground got.  I felt like I was in a rocket taking off into space.  If she stood there any longer, I wouldn’t be able to climb back down.  So, when she gave up and ran inside I quickly climbed back down and headed to the back door.  A hysterical looking woman, who also looked a lot like my mom, met me at the door.  This woman shouted, “Where have you been?”  I said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie. 

Well, she figured out what I had done.  Was it the pine needles on my pedal pushers?  I was ordered in no uncertain terms to never leave the ground again.  She made sure by dressing me in these cute little sun dresses in the summer months.  No way was I going to climb a tree and let someone see my underwear!  During the winter months she dressed me in so many layers of clothes that my arms stuck out at 90-degree angles.  I couldn’t do anything dressed like that, except of course, serve as a target for my brother’s snowball throwing practice.

The TV shows I watched were Liberace, Romper Room, I Love Lucy, and, of course Zorro.  I loved watching anyone play a piano and Liberace was really good so this show was okay with me. 

Romper Room was this show that was sort of like being in Kindergarten and having the teacher talk to you through the TV instead of actually being in school.  I’ll tell you, though; Miss Francis was one boring person!  The only part of the show that was remotely interesting was the end.  At the end Miss Francis would hold up her “magic mirror.”  This mirror was not REALLY a mirror.  It was the frame of a hand mirror with the glass removed so you could still see Miss Francis’ face when she held it up.  She would then look right through the TV and into children’s living rooms and say, “I see Sophie, I see Linda, I see Mike, I see Paul”….and so on.  As a five year old I am still working on that “what’s real and what’s not” development thing so I believed she could see right into our living room. 

Jeff and me at Coney Island

Day after day I waited for her to say my name.  Day after day she came up with more and more obscure names so as to not leave anyone out.  Karen is not an uncommon name.  Do you think she EVER said, “I see Karen?”  She did not!  I got closer and closer to the TV.  Maybe she couldn’t see me way back there on the sofa.  One day I actually grabbed the sides of the TV and shouted, “I’m here!  Why can’t you see me?”  She never did.  What a hoax!  Fooling little kids like that should have been against the law!  I continued to tolerate Miss Francis because the show I really wanted to see was the one on later in the day.  Zorro! 

There were three main reasons I wanted to be Zorro.  The first was that he dressed all in black; the most un-pink color in the crayon box!  He wore a black silk shirt, a black cape, black pants, black boots, a black mask, and a black hat.  How cool!  

The second reason I wanted to be him was his very cool sword.  What are the chances my mom would get me one, I wondered.  I never even asked.  If I couldn’t climb on anything higher than my bed it was doubtful she would give me a sharp implement. 

The third and main reason I wanted to be Zorro had to do with his trusty horse, Tornado.  This horse was his transportation to locations where the bad guys were terrorizing innocent people.  The best part was actually how he got on his horse.  He did not just climb on the horse the way everyone else did.  He would stand on a wall or the roof of a hacienda, whistle for his horse and then leap from great heights and land right on his horse.  They would then go to the rescue of the poor and downtrodden. 

I wanted to BE Zorro!

I had a great imagination so I could pretend the clothes and the sword, but leaping onto my horse involved climbing and jumping, two activities forbidden me.  So, I devised ways around this.  The first great idea I had was to get on our swing set, swing as high as I could, then jump off the swing into the air and land securely on my horse (which in my case was the grass.)  I had never actually done this for obvious reasons, but I had seen my brother do it.  It looked easy. 

So, one day I mounted my swing, pushed myself as high as I could go and gracefully slid off the seat of the swing.  However, I failed to let go of the chains on which the swing was suspended, so all I did was get my sneakers dirty as my feet dragged through the dust until I slowed down.  It turns out that my five-year-old hands had been listening to my mother and in swinging position they were in close proximity to my neck; the one my mom was always telling me I was going to break! 

Not to be discouraged from my quest I tried again.  I was swinging higher than I had ever been before.  I decided then and there I had to do it before my mother’s influence on my hands could reach other strategic parts of my person.  I again gracefully slid from the seat and this time I let go of the chains.  It was glorious!  As I sailed through the air I looked toward my feet to look for my horse.  I looked at my little pink Keds.  My little pink Keds that were not heading down toward my horse, but straight out in the direction of the house and those famous pine trees! 

Before I could do any sort of course correction I landed, WHOMP, flat on my back.  As I was nearing the ground I must have started to scream because after my landing the scream kept going with no effort on my part.  As the scream ended I tried to inhale and realized that….I was dead!  I couldn’t breathe!  I must be dead!  So, I got up and hurried toward the house to tell my mom I was dead.  Boy, was she going to be mad at me!  Halfway to the back door I suddenly inhaled and decided I was not dead after all.  I also decided that I’d have to find another way to mount my horse.

That same day, as I laid in my close- to- the- floor bed for my nap, I realized that at the foot of my bed was my chest of drawers.  I quickly formulated a foolproof plan.  I would climb on my chest of drawers and leap onto my bed (aka my horse.)  It was brilliant!  So from that day on I would tie my pink blanket around my neck as a cape, climb up onto my chest of drawers (aka) my hacienda) and leap onto my horse three times before I settled in for my nap.  Why could I leap only three times?  It was because I only had three names.  I had only three names, unlike my childhood friend who was Catholic.  She was Martha Anne Mary Katherine Grace Spinoza.  Wow, what I could have accomplished with that many names!  Anyway, on my first leap I would hear my mom say, “Karen, settle down!”  On my second leap I would hear, “Karen Jean I said settle down!”  On my third leap I would hear, “Karen Jean Hurst, I do not want to come up there!”  Did your mom or dad ever say that to you?  Did you, like me, want to say,” Then don’t?” 

So, things went on like this for some time until one day I got all three names on my SECOND leap.  I was being robbed of my third leap!  I would have none of this!  I was Zorro and I knew how injustice was to be handled!  So, I quickly got up on my hacienda (aka my chest of drawers) and leaped again.  However, I was not on the correct portion of my hacienda.  I was too close to the edge.  I leapt, landed on my horse, and then heard the loudest crash I had ever heard.  I had caused my hacienda to fall over! 

As I listened to my mom running up the stairs I decided to do the only thing I could; I got under the covers and pretended to be asleep.  When my mom burst through the door and shouted, “What happened?”  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Well, she figured it out pretty quickly.  Was it the pink blanket still tied around my neck like a cape?  Probably!  My chest of drawers was immediately moved to the other side of my room and that ended my leaping activities.

Jeff & me with Santa (I wasn't afraid of him :-)

As she left my room that day I remember thinking, “What is she so afraid of?”  A leap of little distance onto a soft bed did not seem to me something to be afraid of.  I knew what you really had to be afraid of.  I knew because my brother told me.  What you really had to be afraid of was the monster under the bed!  He told me all about it, including what would happen if any portion of any one of my appendages were to leave the bed.  Dangling your arm or leg over the side could result in the loss of a limb….or at minimum the loss of a few fingers or toes.  Most kids think there’s a monster under their bed at one time or another, but in my case there WAS a monster under my bed.  I heard it every night. 

This experience is the reason I love Bill Harley’s story, “Alicia and the Little Monster.”  Alicia had a monster under her bed too! 

A few years ago, I learned something about my mom that really helped me understand her fears.  She had a little brother who died after a terrible freak accident.  He fell while his brothers were getting him out of his crib and died.  So, she lived with the fears that awful things can happen at any time and decided to decrease the odds that it would happen to me.  The only problem with this is that we cannot totally protect our children from the bad things that might happen.  If we try to deprive them of these experiences we deprive them of experiences that will help build their confidence….and make great stories when they grow up!

So, I overcame my fears.  I had to.  If I had not, I would have never gone white water rafting (and, boy, is that a story!!)  I would have never participated in gymnastics.  I would never have worked with and helped children and adults who, at any given time, could cause serious bodily injury.  In other words, I would not have lived the life I was supposed to.

All of these experiences therefore lead me to be the mom who, upon learning that her first-born was to travel to Europe, said, “That’s great!”  This trip was during a time that had threats of  unrest in the parts of the world where he would be.  He knew I was scared.  He’s like me….he can read people very well.  When I realized he knew I was scared I told him, “Yeah, I’m worried, but that’s what mom’s do.  You cannot live your life being afraid because if you do, you won’t live your life.  Go, have fun and take lots of pictures.  I’m proud of you!”

Thanks Zorro, for giving me the courage to live my life!