Rocky, the Pigeon, Came for Coffee

There wasn’t anyone off-limits for a colorful conversation with the young girl whose imagination knew no bounds. While growing up, my mother referred to me as Chatty Cathy, the talking doll of the 50s and 60s. My mother would poke her head into my bedroom late at night, wondering who in the world captured my attention this time.

Vintage Chatty Cathy doll, 1961, Courtesy of Pinterest

My mother taught me to care for whatever crossed my path. She had large-scale paintings and photographs depicting all Mother Nature offered. In my mother’s eyes, every day was Earth Day.

My Late Mother’s Bev Doolittle Painting, “Sacred Circle

As a grown woman, I’ve been accused of being a softie. I cry tears of joy holding a puppy, although I never allow anyone to see. If someone’s telling their heart-breaking story, I want to put on my sunglasses, however, that’d be rude. I marvel at the crickets and frogs every evening as they perform their choir meant only for me. They sing, I’m grateful and everyone’s happy.

Last night around 7:00, I went onto my backyard to move the sprinkler around after its 30-minute section was thoroughly soaked. A pigeon began circling and finally landed a few feet away on the sidewalk. I immediately thought it peculiar to have a bird instantly feel comfortable in my presence.

The sun was no longer blasting me like a furnace, therefore, I sat down in one of my chairs to relax. The bird took no time hopping toward me. However, I noticed it was hopping on only one leg! When it was at my feet, I took a close look at its injured leg and discovered its three toes were badly mangled.

The pigeon appeared to be a Rock Pigeon, therefore, it wasn’t long before I attached a name and a gender. I asked Rocky what happened to his leg and why he decided my backyard was the place to be. With every word, Rocky’s head tilted sideways. Was he truly curious and interested in what I was saying, or did he think I was off my rocker?

I brought some granola out for Rocky and set it on the ground. He had a bite to eat and jumped onto the chair next to me. I told him to stay at my home as long as he needed and wanted. I wondered whether he had a family worried sick because he was away from them. I talked into the evening and he eventually grew weary.

Rocky crouched down into a ball of feathers and his tiny dark eyelids began fluttering. Although he didn’t want to miss a word I relayed, he couldn’t hold his eyes open any longer. Rocky tucked his head down low and his long beak became invisible in his neck feathers. I bid Rocky good-night and sweet dreams.

I crawled into bed and wondered about my new friend. Would he be safe during the night with only one working leg? What if a band of raccoon decided Rocky would be their feast? I tossed and turned with concern for Rocky’s well-being. I finally dozed off and was shaken out of a sound sleep by a nightmare.

Photo Courtesy of LA Weekly

During my horrific dream, a white cobra was on the back porch railing with his ugly head reared near Rocky. I jumped out of bed and charged at the cobra and ordered him to stay away from my pigeon. I awoke with my heart pounding and opened the sliding door to check on Rocky. He was sound asleep in the red chair exactly as I left him.

The following morning, I awoke at 6:15 and peeked out of my sliding door to check on Rocky. Would he still be there? Would there be merely a pile of lifeless feathers? To my astonishment, Rocky was sitting up in the chair with his eyes wide open. I was thrilled he decided to stay and was fit as a fiddle. I told Rocky I’d be back in 10 minutes and we’d visit some more. I was excited to have kind-hearted company!

I raced back inside to make a cup of coffee, grab a blanket, put on a sweater and a pair of fuzzy slippers. As promised, I went back outside to join Rocky, however, when I walked toward our favorite red chairs, I was saddened to see Rocky’s chair empty. Perhaps due to his injury, he desperately needed a safe haven for the night. I didn’t mind being a fly-by for him.

I’ve been a Chatty Cathy since my years as a tiny tot. My mother used to say I could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. Even though my imagination runs wild with friends from the Great Beyond, I’ll always remember Rocky, the pigeon, who came for coffee.

LadyBugs on My Panties

Deborah Gilson, Rhonda Platt, 9-2018

I was all dolled up with someplace to go: my 40-year high school reunion. My 13 beauty t’s were crossed and my i’s were dotted. My hair was colored and styled, my brows waxed with a shapely arch, my teeth whitened and the weird hairs on my chinny-chin-chin removed. Every nook and cranny had been addressed, including my shaved legs complete with tan-in-a-can color. After all, “tanned fat is always better than white fat”, advises Katy Cochrane, a close childhood friend.👍

Rhonda Platt, a dear friend since we were 13, was flying in from Alaska to stay with me. She always has the low-down on beauty secrets and I desperately wanted to be in the know. I emailed to let her know I was wearing a gown, which required a strapless bra.😮

Rhonda immediately responded and told me to purchase a silicone bra. “A what?”, I queried hesitantly? She sent a photo to better guide me.😉The moment I saw the photo, I knew I was in over my head mumbling to myself, “That flappy thing will never stick to my boobs.” I drove to Victoria’s Secret anyway and whispered to the young salesgirl, “Hey, I need one of those rubbery bras in a D or DD - if they even make them in that size.” I secretly hoped no such item existed, however, she returned a moment later with the unwanted item in her hot, little hands.😟

I drove home and thought I’d better have a practice session before Rhonda arrived. I wanted to seem in-the-know on her trusty recommendation. I yanked the blubbery cups out of the box and made sure there was no lotion on my skin, per the box's explicit instructions. I learned I could tighten the cups with the centerpiece to create cleavage, too! I was excited at the prospect of bringing my girls closer together.😁

With precision, I rolled the super-sticky cups onto each of my breasts while gripping the instructions between my teeth. With firm hands, I pushed the cups on and held them in place for a moment. Hesitantly, I let go and watched the left cup slowly roll off and dangle onto my stomach.😥

Rhonda arrived and boy did the good times begin rolling. The neighbors could hear screams of laughter from sunup til sundown. The first evening of our reunion was about to take place and it was time to get our attire together. I was wearing a fitted black skirt just above my knees and wondered whether any V.P.L.’s, Visible Panty Lines, could be seen. I peered over a shoulder at my backside into my full-length mirror, pulling an Elastigirl pose.🙄

I hollered to Rhonda who was also getting ready. I told her my concern of a rumpled butt and she suggested a pair of Spanx. I was instantly reminded of the time I wore a pair of costly Spanx to a black-tie affair. During the dinner, I felt the Spanx rolling down my torso and onto my rear. I knew I had to race to the ladies room. The moment I stood, they continued rolling down to my kneecaps. I hobbled to the bathroom where I tore the thing off and threw it into the garbage can.😬

“Um, I don’t think Spanx are for me”, I hollered back to Rhonda. I decided to wear my paneled granny panties, instead. Besides, they would also conceal my motherly tum-tum. Rhonda and I were dressed to the nines and excited for our first reunion evening. We were meeting Bernice McHale Corey and other friends there. We became reacquainted with several attendees and I began talking with Don, one of the guests. All was going swimmingly, I thought. I was poised, confident and relaxed while having a wonderful time. Don asked whether I looked familiar to him and I said I thought his hair was familiar.🤔

He rattled off several facts about me from my teen days and I became visibly perplexed. I asked how it was possible he could know so much about me while I knew nothing about him. He flatly responded, “You ran with various large groups of popular friends. I was a brainiac. You didn’t have time for me.” I cringed with shame and embarrassment at my once deeply shallow demeanor. The hot air emptied from my balloon and I sheepishly replied, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t give you the time of day. Hopefully, I’ve grown up a bit.”😱 Although I wanted the ground beneath my chair to open up, I nervously remained next to him with my tail between my legs.

Rhonda and I screamed with laughter on the way home. We exchanged stories we gathered from the evening’s events. We could hardly wait to see what the next reunion evening brought. The 100 attendees looked magnificent in their gowns and dress coats. Again, I dressed for success in the hopes stories of my teen shenanigans was complete. However, Lady Luck was nowhere to be found.😧

Robin, Bernice, Me, Rhonda, 9-2018

Someone pulled my graduation photo from their phone. I was horrified to see my full set of teeth, complete with big, blue eyes squinted shut. The owner of the phone questioned my obvious glee and asked about the elation on my face. I admitted during the day of the graduation practice, I buried a bottle of booze under my chair for the evening’s event. The group of listeners was hanging on my every word when finally their memories began flooding in. “Oh, my God! That’s right! The bottle was passed up and down our row!”🍾

Deborah Patterson-Gilson, 7-1978

I nearly escaped another’s horrifying memory of me. In the desperate attempt to present a healthy, mature and respectable image for my son, I buried countless treasures in my sub-conscious. “Hey, Debbie! Remember the time you snuck out your bedroom window and couldn’t get back in?”, someone shouted?🤨

I straightened my shoulders and told of that evening’s adventures. In 1978, the band Boston released their debut record ‘Don’t Look Back’ and I threw a party in their honor. I had a 10 P.M., curfew and left the outdoor party to dutifully head home. I told Bernice McHale Corey's brother to pick me up at 11:00 after my parents were asleep. With a thrill, I climbed into his white pickup and we headed back to the party. At 3:00 in the morning, he dropped me off at my parents’ home and drove away. It was then I realized I hadn’t given my plan enough thought.😖

I was petite and my bedroom window was 12 feet higher than the flower bed. I couldn’t even jump high enough to reach the bottom of the window. After 30 minutes of failed attempts, horror became a reality. I’d have to ring the doorbell with a lie. My mother let me in and I explained how my horses escaped their paddock.🤥With her finger pointed at my bedroom door, she uttered through gritted teeth, “You’re grounded for a month, young lady.”😭

The reunion evening continued swimmingly until Bud Dangl said he, too, had a funny story about me, although he preferred to tell me in private. “Aw, come on, Buddy. After all, how bad can it be?” He shrugged his shoulders and began another cringe-worthy tale of when I was 17. He relayed what Robb Hüebner, his cousin, told him years ago. A party was in full swing and the bathroom was crammed with attendees. Robb was using the bathroom when I charged in saying I had to pee. Robb pushed everyone out and turned his back, however, not before taking a sneak peek. He then held the door closed until I finished while the Steve Miller Band blared “Jungle Love” in the background.🎤

It seemed highly improbable I’d be carefree about my privacy with a male present, however, I knew the story to be true as I treasure ladybugs to this day. I wanted to holler, “Holy crap, stop with this story, Buddy!” However, I feared my late mother’s Baptist-reared finger staring me in the face. Instead, I silently thought, “WTF?”😵

The other morning I awoke and 40 years passed. A few days ago, I was a fresh-faced young girl wobbling through pastures wearing platform wedge sandals and a stuffed bra. Although I’m where I longed to be as a full-fledged woman, I secretly snicker thinking back to the years when I wore ladybugs on my panties.🤭🤫

Jesus: The Teacher of Love

I heard this handsome man's name a thousand times throughout my life. He is an icon to approximately 1,800,000,000 people around the world. How could someone who lived only 33 years leave such an indelible mark?

I dreamt of him swimming naked in the warm waters, surrounded by tiny waterfalls. I watched as he pulled his tall, lanky body out of the water to lie next to his forever lady love and soak up rays from the brilliant son.

I dreamt I walked with him through a cave  and discovered a drawing in the stone of him next to a similar carving of Ross, my late brother. In the dream, I could not help notice the physical resemblance of Ross to him, down to their crystal blue eyes.

With his posture straight and standing tall, he walked miles of hot, dusty earth until he finally reached his destinations. Of Jewish decent, he was born in the spring to a loving mother and father. He left home during his teen years to begin his calling. Instinctively, he lead by example.

His steely-blue eyes, auburn-colored hair and trim stature represented hope. Faith and prosperity of the heart embraced Jesus' warmth. He did not need to meet anyone in person for them to envelop all he offered. One merely opened their hearts, souls and awareness to receive the restorative powers he spread like a ripple effect upon calm, clear, aquamarine waters.

His short-lived life ended when he was only 33-years-old. Those outside his mindset were deeply enraged by the fierce loyalty of those who followed him and his beliefs. The antagonists were in far greater number than those who followed him. His powerfully intoxicating personality threatened those outside his group. Their fear was that they, too, wished to follow him. 

On a snowy December night, he was killed. As his loved ones gathered at a site on the Mount of Olives, they shed tears in agony at what could not be prevented. While his mother lay crying at her only child's feet, his father attempted to comfort her and in his own suffering, he continued the pride of his heroic son.

As I ponder life and what Jesus means to me, I take comfort having a friend known only to my heart, soul, consciousness and dreams. To this day, I think the world of him, the teacher of love.

Ben Franklin's 13 Virtues

In 1726, at age 20, Benjamin Franklin created a system to develop his character. I long to create such a system by sharing in-depth, deep and meaningful conversation. I continue searching for like-minded individuals with whom I may learn. Let's converge to discuss Ben's 13 Virtues and incorporate them today for the betterment of tomorrow's World:

1. Temperance. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation. In other words, eat to satisfy the stomach, however, not to overstuff it. Drink alcoholic beverages in moderation and refrain from destroying brain cells.
2. Silence. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. In other words, speak when there is something of importance and/or relevance to share, not merely to hear the sound of one's own voice. 
3. Order. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time. In other words, put the crud where it belongs, give away unwanted items and throw away the rest. Make time for what is needed in life. 
4. Resolution. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve. In other words, make a To-Do list and do what is on it.
5. Frugality. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing. In other words, treat others well. If unable, do everyone a favor and find something constructive to do. Share a wealthy consciousness. Use every part of the apple. 
6. Industry. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions. In other words, if Facebook and other Social Media sucks you into their vortexes, close those accounts and write a story or better yet, a book.
7. Sincerity. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly. In other words, give others the benefit of the doubt and speak with respect. If this is impossible, close your mouth and leave.
8. Justice. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. In other words, cause emotional, mental and/or physical pain to no one, especially those in your direct care. 
9. Moderation. Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. In other words, stop and think before acting out against anyone, even if you believe they deserve it for, they do not. 
10. Cleanliness. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation. In other words, wash your body and clothes, while maintaining a presentable home.
11. Tranquillity. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable. In other words, what anyone says about you is none of your business. Life happens, peoples' and animals' feelings get hurt. Seek to soothe when the unexpected takes place.
12. Chastity. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation. In other words, kick the Friends with Benefits to the curb. There are no benefits here. FB's only result in painful, empty and broken hearts. When you are ready to begin a family, join in love. 
13. Humility. Imitate Jesus and Socrates. In other words, imagine what Jesus, the teacher of love, would say. How would Socrates, the classical Greek philosopher, respond? 

     After reviewing Mr. Franklin's 13 Virtues and taking them to heart, I'd better get crackin'. I still have a lot of work to do.

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

    In my mind's eye and heart I'm a mare, an adult female horse. I have all my basic needs met with fresh water in my trough, shelter from Mother Nature's harsh elements and plenty of whole grains. For these blessings I finally attained, I give thanks. 

     However, I'm prevented from experiencing the life I see happening around me. I longingly watch horses rolling onto their backs while kicking their hooves into the unobstructed air. I see them running free in the pastures, grazing, basking in the sunshine and nuzzling each other.
          

   Can a mare use her muzzle, the mouth and nostrils, to open the stall door latch? Perhaps the stable master will show mercy and open the stall door for her? What needs to happen before she, too, may experience all she sees? Others have visions in their mind's eye. Perhaps they, too, long to leave their grueling day quarters and are prepared for more. 

       I eagerly await the moment the stable master or hired hand hears my muzzle nudging the latch on the stall door to my tiny quarters. I envision this being, whether human, spiritual or the figment of my subconscious, proudly say, "Your spirit has been locked up long enough. You're mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually prepared to join forces with the herd of your kind." You've heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

    

Naked in My SwimSuit

One’s coming-of-age can happen any time, most often when least expected. It doesn’t discriminate depending on how well mannered or how feisty the youthful individual. Tain’t no big, gnarly deal, right?

My loving, caring and always-patient mother made another futile attempt to prepare me for the awkward, delicate topic all tweenage girls should know: that time of the month. I was after all, 11 years old and my knowing mother tip-toed around the topic the past year, where her gentle words fell on deaf ears. Still, I was still a child at heart.

Disneyland, CA. 1971

My mother could no longer stand my cold shoulder therefore, one afternoon she said she needed to talk to me and asked me to sit down next to her in the living room. My adopted father and Ross, my 10-year-old brother, weren’t home. Ross couldn’t interfere, interrupt or heckle me.

I noticed a 10” X 8” box on my mother’s lap. She gingerly opened the box and to my horror I observed a wide assortment of feminine pads known to woman-kind. There were pads for this day, ones for that day and various sizes for those just-in-case days. My mother looked at me out of the corner of her eye and discovered my arms rigid at my sides. Seeing the angst in my eyes, she attempted to soften the ear-piercing silence by slowly sliding the box onto my lap.

In one quick move, I flung the box into the air with such force, pads went sailing throughout the living room. I ran out the front door and raced to the barn where I pitched my humiliation onto a bale of hay. I tried to understand why my mother would torment me with such a horrifically embarrassing topic. There wasn’t one strand of personal hair growth, for which I’d secretly searched, while holding my mother’s magnified, lighted make-up mirror to each arm pit.

A year passed when the dreaded topic became the hottest topic among my girlfriends. They’d begun getting their periods and were deliriously excited to share the great news. They were growing up and still, I wasn’t. I’d listen painfully to their in-depth details and I’d shrink into the background. I had nothing to share and didn’t fit in.

When I was 13, my family moved and I began 8^th grade. I soon learned the hot topic was at my new school, too. I was taking the required Sex Education class and the teacher threw me out more times than I can count, however, that’s another story.

Still, I had nothing to offer and became unusually quiet when the school girls asked, “So, did you get yours yet?” I’d wave my hand and roll my eyes into the back of my head as if to say, “Duh. Yeah.” I thought about my mother’s tender-hearted conversation a couple years prior and then, wondered what was wrong with my rail-thin body. By now at this ultra-late stage in life, I knew I’d never get my period. Not only was I frustrated, I was downright afraid, too. It was as if I’d never witness the tiny sprout of life from my Dixie Cup filled with fertile soil.

My tomboy, neighborhood girlfriends had older brothers and therefore, learned to keep anything personal to themselves. I was relieved nothing private was mentioned between us. I followed their lead, however, had adjustments to make as I’d been an easily-read, open book since birth.

 Disneyland, 1974

In my 9^th grade freshman English class, I was seated next to Stephanie and we became fast friends. The boys’ eyes bounced back and forth from her beautiful face to her exceptionally well-endowed breasts. Why was I built like an 11 year old?

I felt privileged, although admittedly uncomfortable, in the company of a mature peer. Perhaps then, as if by magic I would become more grown-up and the boys would notice me, too. I was still built like a waif and therefore, concealed my budding raisinets, while learning heart-racing life facts from Stephanie. During class, she’d relay hair-raising tales of her dates. We were only 14 and Stephanie experienced more than Anna Nicole Smith.

One morning, Stephanie arrived late to class and I could see by her expression something terrible happened. While the English teacher babbled on about conjunction’s functions, I mouthed to Stephanie, “What’s wrong?” She whispered her mother found her diary. I asked what she’d written and she confided she’d been sneaking a senior boy into her bedroom window each night. My innocent and naïve eyes flew wide open with astonishment. This was more information than my virgin ears could handle.

 Did Stephanie just tell me she was having S-E-X? Did she and a boy really see each other naked? Who in their right mind does that? I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and mouthed, “Wwwaaahhhttt?” She quietly repeated she’d been sneaking Michael into her bedroom window after her parents went to sleep. I nervously and ignorantly asked, “Are you and Michael having S-E-X?”

I looked straight ahead to regain my emotional footing. I tried to grasp what I’d just learned. I hadn’t seriously thought of a boy yet or God-forbid gone on a date. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16 and my 14-year-old English class bestie was already entwined in midnight rendezvous. Were they using protection? The class bell rang and Stephanie grabbed my arm. She dragged me into the hallway where she further confided her mother was going to take her to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. Stephanie begged me to help her figure out what to do.

My mind raced and I felt my head would spin off my shoulders. Stephanie’s face was in mine as she waited for my response. In a panic I blurted out, “Tell your mother what she’d want to hear!” Stephanie’s eyes widened with relief. She said she’d tell her mother she made up the sex-capades because this was what she wished would happen.

Stephanie continued sharing her evening dalliances while my eager ears awaited the next juicy details of her adventures involving the Birds and the Bees. I didn’t hear a word our English teacher spoke and frankly, didn’t care. Honestly, would you?

My 9^th grade school year was sailing by like the wind and I was learning more in class than one may anticipate. One blustery winter’s day, January 10^th, 1975, against my wise mother’s wishes, I wore my white bell-bottom pants to school. Why was she so uptight about what I wore?

I’d bundled up with a turtle neck sweater and a blouse underneath. I told my mother not to be such a worry-wart and raced out the door to the bus stop. During English, Stephanie and I were yakking away when all of a sudden, I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

My eyes grew huge and my stomach turned upside down as I felt unusual warmth where I sat in my wooden desk. I knew I peed in my white, bell bottom pants. I grabbed Stephanie’s arm and with horror whispered, “I just peed myself!” She calmly shook her head and said, “No, you didn’t. You got your period.” She asked whether I had anything in my backpack. I nervously replied, “No!” I lied and told her I forget them. I didn’t want her to know this was my first period. It was then visions of feminine pads sailing through the living room air danced in my head.

Stephanie jolted me out of my visionary when she firmly whispered, “Debbie! Take off your sweater and tie it around your waist.” I did as she instructed and as soon as the bell rang, she walked behind me to the girl’s bathroom where I raced into the last stall. She had only tampons, of course. With my teeth clenched, I whispered through the stall door, “Just get me one of those stupid pads out of the machine!” I angrily thought to myself, “Karma’s a nasty mother.”

The glow of growing up and finally becoming a young woman didn’t hold the charm it did for my girlfriends. Seemingly overnight, I’d gone from a fresh-faced 14 year old girl to the pimply-faced backside of a Nestlé’s Crunch bar. The following month, the dreaded Junior Lifesaving class began.

 Ms. Comer, the Physical Education instructor with a manly voice, showed no mercy for wimps like me. Besides my personal apprehensions, when the girls and I were in the locker room, we feared Ms. Comer peeked at the girls while they changed or showered. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit while holding a gym towel around me with my teeth. I’d think of an excuse not to shower in front of anyone.

I was scared out of my mind to participate in the required Junior Lifesaving class. Everyone would know I was only beginning to develop. Too, I feared my period would come while I was in the swimming pool and no, I wasn’t even close to the tampon-using stage. It was still the wintry months and the cold temperature would draw unwanted attention to my teeny high beams.

I tried to hide behind a cement pole when I heard Ms. Comer’s gruff voice holler, “Debbie Patterson! Get in the pool right now!” Frozen with terror, I slowly walked out and slid into the pool. Russell, my brother’s kind and handsome friend, swam over to me, however, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. He said he’d be my partner and I frantically shook my head from left to right while staring into the gutter of the pool. He said we’d take turns being the rescuer and being rescued to get a good grade in the class.

I silently begged for the sky to fall or for thunder and lightening to begin. When my prayers were ignored, I slowly turned to Russell and said, “Okay, but I think I’m going to die. I mean, seriously. I think my heart’s going to stop beating.” I was too emotionally and mentally underdeveloped  having a boy near me. He chuckled and said, “Then, I’ll get an A for rescuing you.”

Russell went flat on his back and I put my arm around his neck as I couldn’t reach across his chest. I began dragging him across the length of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He was much taller than me and it felt I was hauling a log. I was dog-paddling with one hand while doing the scissor kick and still moving only inches. He knew I was struggling therefore, he let his feet sink and began kicking his legs. I sailed across the pool with my rescue.

When we reached the other end of the pool, Russell and I talked for a moment under the high dive while I caught my breath. I knew it was my turn to be rescued and I was dragging my feet. I told Russell there was no way I could lie back while he had his arm draped across my chest and under my arm pit. He said to lie back and close my eyes. I finally felt comfortable enough to suffer through and we began the long journey back. All of a sudden, there was a massive blast of water in my face and I bolted up.

Mark, who nick-named himself Spanky, from “Our Gang”, had done a cannon ball off the high dive next to my head. He was in a fit of hysterics while pointing at my terrified expression. Before I could call him every name in the book, Russell quickly dragged me to the other end of the pool while I kicked and screamed. Ms. Comer dutifully marked the paper on her clipboard signaling, Russell and I completed the exercise.

Someone Up Above heeded one of my pleas during the Junior Lifesaving class. Thankfully, my unpredictable period didn’t appear for another couple months.

It’s been 43 years since the life-altering incidents during my freshman year. I wonder what happened to Stephanie and whether she’s still alive. Would she remember all the down and dirty details she experienced? Russell recently ended his corporate career and is now happily retired as a full-time rancher. Mark “Spanky” was killed in a head-on collision while riding his motorcycle through the park late one night. He was a dare devil until his short-lived, bitter end.

 Shasta Lake, CA. 1975

The youth-filled years have come and gone since I felt naked in my swimsuit. Never again will I experience the growing pains, which seemed insurmountable four decades ago. As a middle-aged woman, I know one’s coming-of-age is a big, gnarly deal. Sadly, it only happens once upon a lifetime.