Lake Leander

I don’t really recall how we got to Minnesota when I was in fourth or fifth grade. Did we fly into Minneapolis? I’m pretty sure we didn’t drive from California. Perhaps we flew into Duluth. In any case, the destination and goal was to visit Martie and Dave. I think they flew us out there.

My eldest sister, Martie, and her husband had made the decision to leave the Bay Area and move to the town where David grew up – Mountain Iron, Minnesota. There, Dave joined his father and brother in running the family business, “Vidmar Iron Works.”

I really had no concept of Minnesota at all - didn’t know what to expect. When we finally got to Martie and Dave’s, I remember the first impression of the warm and fun-loving extended family. I had never been a part of a large, close-knit family before. I had met Ben, Louise, and David’s brother, Bobby, at the wedding. They were nice and friendly there. But in their own element, out at the lake, they were the hub of a great social network.

The Vidmar’s little cabin didn’t look at all as I had expected. I thought perhaps a log cabin or an A-frame ski hut – like at home in the redwoods. No, I had forgotten who built this place: engineers who ran an Iron Works. The cabin was blue corrugated metal on the outside – with greater emphasis on function than form. On the inside, it was peaceful and cozy. More like a small house than a cabin.

Everything was vintage 1950’s. Louise kept the kitchen and everything in it polished. Embroidered dishtowels were crisp and white unlike the gray, stained ones we had back home. Sparkling Formica countertops and wood cabinets graced the kitchen, the first room one saw when entering the cabin. Then, onto the living room and porch and a view of the gorgeous Northwoods lake - Lake Leander.

Dave’s mother, Louise, was quiet and sweet – her eyes sparkled as she welcomed and invited us in. Ben was outgoing and exuberant – warm and friendly. Bobby, very, very tall and lanky, smiled and echoed their welcome. But once inside or out on the porch, the quiet did not last long. Uncles, aunts, and cousins arrived and made themselves at home, too - all of them included us in the fun. Silly jokes and animated conversation dominated the scene – “A little bit different than California -hey Karie?” asked Ben.

We played cards and took boat tours of the lake. We watched some crazy relatives do trick water-skiing – even barefoot skiiing. Over the week, David taught me how to ski. (No, this was not the summer I lost my swimsuit top while skiing...that would come years later, when it would be more humilating.) Uncle Joe let me be his partner at the favorite card game, “Smear.” We took on my mom and Ben – and they all let me think I was really good. (I believe, years later, I actually did catch on.) “We’ll outsmart them – hey, Karie?” Uncle Joe would say with a wink. Then we’d do everything short of outright cheating to get the bid.

On a Sunday afternoon, David and others pulled out accordions and played wonderful polkas. Uncle Joe’s wife, Auntie Ann, would work wonders in the kitchen with Louise. My sister, Martie, surprised us by fitting right in and playing hostess along with the best. We ate delicious food which was unlike anything I’d tasted before – I remember loving Polish sausage and potica, a wonderful Slovenian pastry that is sort of half baklava and half cinnamon bread, made from scratch. There were other delicacies, too – pasties (hearty, bland meat tarts) and blueberry desserts of all kinds. Ben took me blueberry picking – I had never seen so many wild blueberries or mosquitoes before in my life.

Then David arranged for a real once-in-a-lifetime fishing trip for our family. Mom and Dad and I went with Martie, Dave, and a friend of Dave’s in a boat with an outboard motor way up into the boundary waters. I believe this was before so much of the area became non-motorized as the BWCA. I had no idea one could travel so far on water that was neither an ocean nor a river. The network of enormous, beautiful lakes was awe-inspiring. I was not too interested in the fishing, but the adventure of the trip is something I’ll never forget.

Huge crystal blue lakes, some with densely wooded shorelines, some with gorgeous rocky outcrops and ancient Native glyphs. I loved the portages with their hiking paths across little islands. We’d watch our big heavy boat as it was towed on a conveyor-like track from one side of the island to the other. It reminded me a bit of a Disneyland ride. But the wildlife here was real – deer, moose, and birds of all kinds.

Then we got to Lac La Croix and the wonderful resort. David kept telling my Dad that we would really be “roughing it” on this trip. Instead, though, we found that the fly-in, boat-in resort had every amenity. We bought Canadian goods in the gift shop and ate delicious meals in the restaurant. My dad and I bought matching berets and hooded sweat shirts.

The next day, our fishing guide took us out to the best fishing holes in the area and we caught our fill of walleye and northern pike. Other people baited my hook and removed the fish, but I caught a 21-inch northern and was shocked. I have never had as good a fish lunch as we had over a fire that day, prepared by our guide. Fresh walleye, lightly breaded, pan fried, and little white potatoes that had come out of a can, I remember it vividly. Mmmmmmm...tasty.

I had no qualms about eating the fish but at the end of the long day, my dad wanted a picture of me holding the stringer of fish. He was bursting with pride. Due to my recently-acquired, delicate sense of care for all creatures, I begged not to hold the cruel instrument of the fish’s destruction. He insisted. I think I still have the photo of me in my Canadian beret, holding the stringer and crying hysterically.

But I got over it. At the end of the trip, my only negative impression was from the hundreds of black fly bites I received all along my scalp and hairline. I scratched myself raw.

Back at Lake Leander, we had another night and then would return to California. I had had the time of my life. Waterskiing, polkas, card games, Polish sausage, potica, and unparalleled hospitality from beginning to end. It left a real impression. And more warm and caring adults than I had ever met in one place at one time. “You’ll come back and see us again – hey, Karie?”

You bet I did. Later, there would be nephews and more cousins than I could keep track of. There would be a new generation of cabin stewards and a lot more waterskiing, followed by the Sauna. We’d play cribbage and Smear until we couldn’t see straight. But the hospitality and the friendly welcome were and are still the same. I’m still going back to Lake Leander...I rarely miss a summer.

My mother's garden

On Mother's Day, when I was around 29 years old, I gave my mother a little children's book I'd written about working in the garden with her. I think she liked it. (Sorry, this is a long post...I got carried away.)

Chaos reigned in our home when I was growing up. Hampers overflowed, people were stressed (or, alternately, unnaturally relaxed), relationships were complicated. My mom was, let us say, adrift. She tried to find purpose and security in a home, in a relationship that was irretrievably flawed and insecure. As a parent, let us also say she was oblivious – to her children’s needs, to their gifts, to the affect her life’s craziness was having on us. All of that said, there was one place where all the turbulence subsided: our backyard.

My mom, as a minister’s wife, had never had her own home. She had lived in a series of parsonages – and just when she’d get settled, the bishop would tell them it was time again to move. My dad left the ministry not long after our eventful trip to the Holy Land, when I was about three years old. They bought a house for the first time in their nearly twenty years of marriage.

For Mom, it wasn’t so much the house itself as having a yard, a place to grow and nurture plants, that was exciting. Mother was not a great housekeeper or cook. Her mother had died when she was born, and her dad had raised her. He didn’t really help to foster her domestic skills, but he was a gifted gardener. My grandfather was not the best parent (to put it mildly). But it seems that working together in the garden was a good experience for her, as it was later for me.

Mother loved fuchsias, geraniums, and anything in a hanging basket. She was inspired by great hanging displays and beauty in various gardens – the Tea Garden at Golden Gate Park, the botanical gardens near Monterey and Fort Bragg. In the yard behind our little home, Mom was relaxed and grounded. She taught me at an early age the difference between the weeds and the plants, helping me memorize the names of each. We weeded together for hours - not talking, just working. Mom had a full-time job outside the home, so she was limited to weekends and evenings for this hobby – but she rarely missed an opportunity. She’d come home from work, make dinner, feed us; we’d wash the dishes, then head outside to the backyard.

Sometimes my dad would get it into his head to join in, but his garden projects never really panned out. One spring he dug up the whole side of the house to plant a vegetable garden. Within a month it was filled with weeds – and I’m not sure if we picked a single pea, bean, or tomato.

Gardening was different for my mom. It was a stabilizing force, a refuge. On hikes, she knew all the wildflowers and trees. In our yard, she knew the names of these, as well as the birds, the bugs, and their habits.

One project my mom and dad did complete together in the yard was the “lath house.” They built a raised bed garden in one corner of the yard and then added a structure – two walls and a roof made of lath. It was light and airy. The lath provided shade and a place for creeping vines to anchor and grow. It must have been something they found in Sunset Magazine. Anyway, my mom loved it as a place for her fuchsias and tuberous begonias. A few of the sunnier boxes held colorful geraniums. The shadier corners grew lush clumps of baby’s tears.

I learned how to dig peat moss into the hard, clay-filled soil, how to tell when things needed watering, and how to water them without doing damage. Sometimes, while my mother worked on an area, I would explore and play in the “woods.” One side of the yard had tall evergreens against the fence, beside them ran a little path of gardening stones, then some decorative bushes (mostly junipers) and large-leaved ivy. In the far corner beneath the tallest tree, was a wild, open area under the big tree’s canopy. I loved to play there and explore. When I heard stories of fairies or elves, I was certain that if they existed anywhere, they would exist in this corner of my backyard.

But there was one backyard gardening duty that I found difficult to tolerate. My mom and I would water the yard in the evening after we had weeded. Then we’d go inside for an hour of TV until the sun went down. After dark, my mom would grab a flashlight and a coffee can for each of us. Then we went out back, got down on our hands and knees, and searched (with flashlights) for snails and slugs. Ugh. There were hundreds.

Our watering seemed to force them out of hiding and to stimulate their urge to visit the leaves of Mom’s flowers. We could follow their shiny iridescent trails of slime to find their location. As I write, I can still smell the moist peat moss and geraniums, and I can feel the slight “pop” of suction as I pull each snail from its perch on a leaf. I can hear the “plunk” of dropping it in the coffee can (of course, as the can filled with snails, there was more of a thud than a plunk). One trick was opening and closing the lid quickly and as slightly as you could. The snails tended to crawl up and try to climb out each time the lid was opened. If you didn’t do it just right, things would squish. Just let your imagination fill in the blank. When I found a big slug, I often called my mom over to get it. She wore gloves and I didn’t.

On our flashlight expeditions, Mom would call me over when she came across “Mr. Toad” the big grandpa of all toads who left an impression where he slept. Neighborhood cats liked to follow us around the yard as we worked and sometimes scared us when their glowing eyes appeared within a bush.

But it must have been the same year that I gave up playing with the neighbor boys that I gave up the snail hunt. I remember going to bed and imagining the snails, now out in our garbage, sealed in their coffee-can world. I knew they were gasping for breath and would die slowly. I knew this because I had checked them in the morning and many were still alive, but some had expired. My mother initially tried to rid us of snails using poison pellets. It hadn’t worked. Then she tried squishing them with her shoe. That was just gross and left a big, messy residue. Hence, the coffee can solution. It was that or no flowers – and Mom couldn’t give up her flowers.

Working in the backyard with my mother is one of my favorite memories. It was her form of therapy, and years later, it would work for me, too. I am still an outstanding weeder and nothing can bring me back to my Self more quickly than digging in the dirt. I don’t miss the snails or slugs…and I’ll never be a fan of escargot. But the smell of moist earth after the rain still takes me back to a very special place – to working in the backyard with my mother.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails...

I was something of a tomboy when I was a kid. I’d say that by late elementary school, I had grown out of it. But from about age four through eight or nine I spent a lot of time keeping up with the neighborhood boys.

There were several boys in the neighborhood who were my age. When I was very little, we played together in our yards. I remember at age four, when one of my little friends, Stevie, went off to Kindergarten that I was quite sad. I had to play with his dorky little brother. I was friends with Stevie and his brother for several more years. These were the kids with whom I built forts, climbed trees, played games, and got into trouble.

As I think of it now, a part of my tomboyish-ness was my own personality and a big portion was the result of parental neglect. I just wasn’t supervised. The boys in the neighborhood tended to be more free to roam, as I was. I remember the usual childhood mischief – hiding in the bushes and spying on passersby; ringing doorbells and running away; playing “doctor.” I recall friends of my parents' skinny dipping in our backyard pool and leading the gang around to the neighbor's backyard for a peek.

But I also remember when our mischief turned to destruction and petty thievery. The petty thievery gave me mild pangs of guilt, but nothing serious…nothing that wouldn’t soon be forgotten.

First, we discovered that we could put cardboard “pennies” in the gumball machine at the local candy store. If you put the cardboard piece in there and turned the handle, you could keep turning, around and around. One day we emptied it. We filled a bowl. We went back to one neighbor’s playhouse and chewed gum until we got caught. My mom made me empty my piggybank, marched me up to the candy store (the “Variety” Store) and stood there and waited while I confessed. The man at the store was very serious, but not mean. I was somewhat intimidated…but not intimidated enough.

Later, when we got a little older, we stole packs of cigarettes from my dad and smoked them in the playhouse. When our smoking habit became a big pastime, we went to the local grocery and stole a whole carton of cigarettes by stuffing it under one of our shirts. This was a more serious crime by neighborhood (or I suppose any) standards. My mom again marched me to the store with my life savings. The man at the store was more menacing this time. I was genuinely scared and quit even entering that store. But for Stevie and his brother, who were Mormon, the consequences were even more severe. They were grounded and got the belt (or the back of a hairbrush) for this. I remember feeling guilty because my punishment lasted one afternoon and an evening - theirs lasted for weeks and they were forbidden to play with me.

I hung out at the girls’ houses while the punishment lasted. But eventually, we sort of lapsed back into our regular old habits when the boys parents’ attention turned to other things.

There was also a boy in the neighborhood named Paul. Paul was a tough kid who went to Catholic school. We often heard his parents fighting in the back room of his house when we played over there. I had a crush on Paul from about first grade. He was a couple of years older than I. But my parents should have separated us sooner. If he had any affection for me, it took a strange form.

One evening while playing, for no apparent reason, Paul threw a brick at me and hit me in the head. I ran home bleeding. My mother fashioned a special band-aid and taped the skin back together. Another time, we were playing baseball with a ball and a metal pipe in Paul’s backyard and Paul accidentally swung around and hit me square on the forehead. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. His mother was a nurse. She cleaned the wound and put a butterfly bandage on my forehead. I still have the lump from that one. But the last straw for me and my mother was when he came after me with a crowbar. This time it was just plain old anger at something I said or did. He hit me over the head. My mom cleaned that one up. Another butterfly. It left a gash. It also reduced the size of our gang. Paul was out.

I think that must have been the turning of the tide. I began to have less interest in boyish things. The boys were just becoming gross, in my opinion. Every year in the spring, we would ride our bikes a few blocks to where the drainage canals went through town. We’d hide our bikes in the bushes and climb the fence. Down the cement banks we’d carefully crawl, to the bottom where the mucky water flowed – drainage from the streets above. This muck and mud didn’t bother any of us in the least. The algae that grew there was the perfect breeding ground for tadpoles, which we loved to watch grow. For a few weeks we would watch the development, then one day we’d show up with our buckets and little hoppy toads would be moving everywhere. We’d fill our buckets and take them home. They’d be re-introduced to nature in our backyards - and many of them would live there for a long time. Our parents didn’t mind because they helped to keep down the number of aphids.

But the year after the cigarette fiasco, was also the end of the road for our gang. This year I remember going down to the canal on a hot and sunny day. One of the boys took to showing off by throwing little toads against the cement. Another boy did the same thing in turn, calling it, “giving the toad a sunburn.” I tried throwing one, but I couldn’t hack it. I shouted at them to “Stop it!” but that just inspired them to greater violence. We left the canal with our buckets and walked our bikes home in sullen silence. After supper, when it came time to play with the toads, the boys decided to do dissections with sticks. That was it for me. The end of an era. I decided, from then on, to be a girl.

Yes, I left behind childish things that day. But I had guilty nightmares for years after about my real friends, the toads. I think my affinity for Buddhists and their non-violent ways was probably born the same day our little gang died.

Field Biology

When I was in fifth and sixth grades, there was a great summer school course offered through the public schools. I took “Field Biology” for two summers in a row. I don’t know how the school district afforded it, but they allowed a whole school bus filled with kids to take this class. We used several classrooms and had a variety of instructors.

Early each weekday morning in June and part of July, we would arrive at the elementary school (not our usual school, we had to get ourselves to a different campus than we were used to). The teacher would show slides. We learned scientific vocabulary words – and saw photos of whatever sort of “specimens” the teachers expected us to encounter that week. I remember learning about everything from the different types of coastal redwoods (Sequoia Gigantia and Sequoia Sempivirens…see, I still remember), to the names of things found in tidepools, to wildflowers, to birds, snakes, and lizards. But learning these names was not the best part of the class.

If we spent Monday learning all about tide pools, then on Tuesday, we would head to Half Moon Bay. We’d load up our buses and take our little field journals and bag lunches and we would explore Northern California. We rode various distances - not short rides – to arrive at our field sites. We went everywhere. I mean we went to Foothill Park, Half Moon Bay, Bodega Bay, Point Reyes, Point Lobos, Mount Tamalpias, Mount Diablo, Muir Woods, you name it. At each place, we would draw pictures of the items on our “list” for the day or we would keep a tiny sample – of leaves and flowers and grasses.

As we took our long rides and explored hot hilltops, foggy coastline, and shady woods, we became admirers and intimate observers of nature. We learned that if you stick your finger gently into a sea anemone, it will close and “stick” to your finger. That is how they feed. We learned that if you have a big fire in a redwood forest, it almost always comes back. Redwoods are very resilient. We learned about the various types of birds that live near water and how they survive and we learned why rattlesnakes rattle.

Then, at the end of the term, the course would culminate in a week of camping and hiking. The first year, we went to Big Basin. I remember I loved it and had a good time. But that’s all I remember. The second year, we went to Yosemite. Honestly, for a nominal public summer school fee, they were able to bus us off and let us camp and explore Yosemite for a week. It was unbelievable.

I know I had a crush on some kid from another school and that was interesting. It was a diversion and added a dimension to the week. But, the experience, in sixth grade, of a week of camping, hiking, and exploring Yosemite was just mind blowing. We hiked to the top of peaks. We hiked trails that took us to the base of spectacular waterfalls. We hiked and hiked and hiked. God bless those teachers. I can’t imagine what a responsibility it must have been to shepherd a group that size in a National Park.

At the end of the week, at the last campfire, I got some kind of award for being the “best trooper” of the group. It was a dubious honor. It started when I had tripped on a tree root sticking out of the ground near my tent when barefoot. We had been told not to go barefoot. Not wanting to get in trouble or to be left behind, I sort of rinsed off this giant chunk of skin that had been gouged out of my heel and taped it back up there with a bandaid. On every hike we went on, I was also getting huge blisters, but didn’t want to give up hiking, so I didn’t mention it. I developed blisters upon blisters upon blisters.

At lunch time, on about the fourth day of hiking and camping, I remember taking my boots off because I was in pain – just to give them some air. Unbeknownst to me, the instructor was standing behind me. When he saw the state my feet were in, I remember the shock and concern on his face. I seem to remember several adults with first aid kits attending to my feet for ten or fifteen minutes. Then we hiked the additional five or six miles back to camp. For some reason, they were impressed with my lack of complaining. That trait has not necessarily been a good one for me over the years, but it was apparently an asset in this setting.

I will never forget the beauty we encountered that week. From Half Dome to Bridal Veil Falls, we explored. Yosemite has changed a great deal over the years. You now have to take shuttles around the park and can’t explore in solitude the way we were able to. One has to share the park with hundreds of other nature lovers. When we were there, it was still a quiet majestic place. It is a good reason to be glad to be over fifty years of age. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

The experience I had at the age of twelve, I’m sure helped to inspire me to work in the Tetons when I was eighteen, the Rockies when I was twenty. It probably was a formative experience that caused me to push my own children out the door when they decided to blaze trails for the Minnesota Conservation Corps, to explore the great boundary waters, or to embark on their own great adventures. So, wherever those teachers are now, wherever the school administrators are who decided to set the money aside in the budget to allow us to do this, I say, “thank you.” Thank you and here’s hoping there are more teachers and administrators like you long into the future.

Good Neighbors

One of my best friends, growing up, was Lulu (aka, Laura). Lulu was three years older than I. Still, we were inseparable when I was age three through ten. I was the youngest of four sisters, she was youngest of the three. Our houses were across the street from one another and were part of the same development – so our homes had the same dimensions, the same number of bedrooms.

Whereas, our house was chaotic and topsy turvy, Lulu’s was not. This was because of her mother. Her mother, Goldie, took very good care of the house. Lulu's parents were of Danish descent, and there was a certain rule of householding that carried over. Each of the three girls had chores and they were not allowed to do anything else until the chores were done. So, I spent a lot of Saturdays at Lulu’s vacuuming, dusting, and doing dishes. I didn’t do these things at home, but if I wanted to enter their house (which I usually did) during chore time, I had to help.

Lulu’s father, Helge, was sort of a dreamer, a visionary. Less practical than his orderly and clean wife, he thought of artistic and creative things all the time. One example was the way they renovated the very structured layout of the house. They remodeled the rooms and expanded the master suite into the backyard, filled with windows. It made living in the room like living in a garden. Helge made beautiful jewelry and other things, too, in his workshop. In fact, I was over there one day when he cut his finger off while working with a circular saw. Ugh.

Helge was really, really funny. He made a joke of his stubby finger later. Even when I wasn’t hanging out with Lulu, Helge kept an eye on me. His garage/studio opened onto the street. As I ran to the other neighbors or came home from playing with other kids, I would hear him call: “Karie bearie!” or “Meep-meep” or “Prune the Goon!” These were all of his pet names for me. He’d beckon me over for a minute or two and find out what I was doing. Helge was pretty strict with his girls and he had a temper sometimes, but he was always gentle with me.

I remember being introduced to various foods at Lulu’s house. Very simple ones, but everything they ate tasted better than the food at our house. For example, when my mom made tuna salad, she put everything but the kitchen sink in there. I’m not kidding, Miracle Whip, green olives, green onions, green peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, all chopped up in big chunks – and then she’d try to make a sandwich out of it. What was that anyway? At Lulu’s, Goldie used some kind of mayonnaise (not Miracle Whip) with sweet pickle relish that she added to the tuna. She toasted the bread and the put big leaves of fresh, crisp iceberg lettuce on top of the tuna. It was terrific.

And they had English muffins. Lulu and I loved English muffins. They also stocked other types of jelly than we did at our home. We only had grape jelly. Goldie bought raspberry jam and strawberry preserves and exotic things like that. Lulu and I had a special recipe for our toasted English muffins. We slathered the butter or margarine on there, then we put just a tiny bit of peanut butter on the butter and sort of melted it altogether and then – to top it all off – a tiny scoop of raspberry jam. Yum. To this day, I love English muffins.

They also had wonderful soup. At our house we had watery Campbell’s chicken noodle. We were fed chicken noodle soup at the first sign of a sniffle or as the first food after the stomach flu (after we’d kept down Ginger Ale and dry toast). At Lulu’s they didn’t have Campbell’s, they had this wonderful Lipton’s noodle soup. It didn’t have those annoying chunks of chicken and it was completely filled with thousands of tiny noodles. The broth wasn’t all pale and watery, either. It was salty and flavorful.

One summer, Lulu went off with her family to a week-long seminar at Asilomar retreat center. The family came back full of vim, vigor, and enthusiasm for the inspiration they’d received there. I didn’t know it then, but it must have been some kind of a Christian retreat. Lulu taught me every song she’d learned. We sang, “We are One in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord” at the top of our voices. She and her sister, Louise, taught me the call: “Now let us sing” (“sing” was sung in a deep bass voice) and the response: “Sing ‘til the power of the Lord come down.” They must have broken these up into male and female parts on the retreat, because we always sang the call in a bass voice and the response in high soprano.

We played “Chopsticks” on the piano, and “Heart and Soul” for hours on end. When we got a little older we listened to LP records on the portable stereo Lulu shared with her sisters. We would put a speaker on either side of our heads and become “freaked out” by the stereo sound moving back and forth, side to side.

I know things weren’t perfect at Lulu’s house. There was one time that my dad and Helge had too much to drink and the two of them decided the three girls needed a hair cut (all three had waist-length blonde hair). When Goldie got home, she found her three girls with equally bad bowl-cut hairdos. But things at Lulu’s were much, much better than at my home.

I spent the greater part of my childhood over there – learning to clean, cook, play piano, and having just plain fun. Everyone referred Goldie as, “my second mom.”

We moved to Minnesota just as I was ending junior high. By that time, Laura and I spent less time together – going to different schools and entering adolescence had caused us to grow apart. She was in high school by that time. I do remember riding with her and Louise in the family convertible all over the Palo Alto hills when Laura got her license.

Whenever I thought of Lulu in later years, I thought of her, her sisters, and her funny dad. I rarely thought of Goldie, who was more of a fixture than a character in my memories.

Years later, after raising my own family, I visited my elderly mother who was living in a bleak little trailer in Arizona. My sisters were visiting, too. I was sitting in my mother’s living room and I heard the most familiar voice outside, talking with my mom. As I headed to the screen door, the voice said, “Where is my Karie Doll?” I burst into tears and couldn’t speak as Goldie came through the door and gave me a big hug. (I cried my way through the better part of that night, too, remembering the moment.) In that one moment, I saw in a way I hadn’t before, all of the things Lulu’s mother had done for me.

I remembered the meals, the sleepovers, the cleaning, the listening, the laughing, and the teaching. I remembered a very serious conversation that I had with her as a twelve year old, right before we moved, which I had completely forgotten. She could see what I could not: that I was headed down the wrong road. Not that anything she said at that point could have re-directed me. But I have to believe that all of the other things she and Helge did – day in and day out – helped to keep me in one piece. And their loving care and taking me into their family helped to give me a “self” – to which I eventually returned.

Goldie could only stay a little while, but just those brief moments were enough. Grace washed over us and gave us little glimpses of heaven. Goldie laughed and showed me the little locket she wore beneath her blouse that held a few of Helge’s ashes. The rest of the ashes had been scattered on various gardens and trees. But this little bit, she thought, would like being nestled so close to her breast. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. I will not forget them.

The Plum Tree

The following story is a longer response to the previous story, "Climbing." It is written by my sister, Nancy. Then Judy added her comments in italics, too. Anyone else have a "tree story"?

Our sister, Karie, recently wrote a story about everyone having a special tree. Her story prompted our story about a tree that we knew before she was born.

Neither Judy nor I can claim this tree as our own, as we spent more time in our “Plum Tree” together than alone. Our plum tree was behind our house, the Methodist parsonage in Santa Cruz. We don’t remember Martie climbing the tree with us as Martie was three and four years older than we were and was into teenage things in Santa Cruz. She also had rheumatic fever in Santa Cruz and couldn’t play with anyone for a period of time. Both Judy and I had private moments in our tree, but most of the time you could find both of us up there together. Climbing the tree would make us exhibit our athletic prowess, asking the other sister if she could do the same swing up into the tree. (What Nancy is forgetting is that we didn't just stop with the tree. We somehow navigated from the tree to the top of the two story garage next to the tree. We would sit for hours on the top of the garage. It was an escape from the parsonage that had to be kept in perfect order.) We loved Santa Cruz and for the most part were happy girls in Santa Cruz at ages for Nancy (9 – 12) and Judy (8 – 11).

From our tree you could access the garage (oops, I guess she didn't forget); you could see into the Santa Cruz Sentinel (newspaper) next to our house; you could see into the parking lot for the church; you could see the side door and the front entry of the Methodist Church; you could talk to people; you could spy on people and listen to their conversations; you could climb to different spots in the tree; you could hide; you could make up games. (We were pirates on a pirate ship, or Rapunzel at the top of her tower waiting for the prince to come. Sometimes we'd be in a stagecoach saving everyone from the bad guys who always tried to rob it. Sometimes, it was as Nancy said, a place two sisters could go to talk and compare notes of our many Santa Cruz adventures.) We remember it being our paradise spot to be to have private conversations. We had many quiet (or sacred) moments in our tree staring at the stained glass windows and bell tower of the 100 year old church next door. We were lucky to escape in our tree. (As Nancy explained there was a Newspaper on one side of our house, a mortuary behind us and another mortuary on the other side of the 100 year old church. There wasn't much 'play' room in our neighborhood.)

In those days Nancy spent a lot of her time on her blue bike at the beach and the wharf, but always seemed to come home to spend equal time with Judy climbing up into the tree. Judy spent more time downtown at Leask’s Dept. Store riding the elevator. We don’t think it was surprising to see Judy or Nancy in their “Sunday Best” up in the tree (if we let anyone know that we were there) as climbing the tree on Sunday was cool (with all the people coming and going). (Mother always told us that was how we met the people in Dad's church on the very first Sunday we were there. Nancy and I in the plum tree - throwing plums at the cars as they parked in what we considered our parking lot.)

One exciting time in the tree was the day our little sister Karie was born. We climbed to our spots in the tree and shouted to everyone coming to church that day “It’s a girl!”

In later years in Palo Alto, we should have known that our sister, Karie, would find her own tree.

Climbing

This is one of my favorite childhood memories. I have told it before in other settings. In sharing this story, I discovered that it has a universal quality. Almost everyone has had a special tree. That’s cool.

I was nearly thirty when I read an account of a woman who tried to describe the presence of the sacred in her childhood. She claimed that, for her, a tree was sacred. She claimed that this tree had, in fact, raised her.* A rather unconventional idea. But tears filled my eyes as I read the words, because I, too, had a tree.

My tree was an elm. Not a Midwestern elm - smoother, with silver bark. Tall and sleek, green and beautiful. There were many days when my house was not a place fit to inhabit. It was filled with confusion and chaos. Each day, as soon as I had completed the minimum required tasks, I would slip outside (and, because we were in California, slipping out was possible year round).

Many days I would knock at a neighbor’s door and ask, “Can Betsy play?” or “Can Laura come out?” Often the answer was, “No. She has to do chores,” or “She has to ‘practice’ before she can play.” It sounded so severe and regimented at my friends’ homes. Things were looser at my house. Musical instruments were played only when desired. Chores were done strictly to unclog the main arteries. Once we could see the floor and close all the cupboards, closets, and bedroom doors, we were off. So I often had time on my hands. I might ride my bike or play with dolls in an outer room. Overall, though, I was a people person and did not do well for long stretches of time on my own.

As an alternative to my solitary playtime, I would climb my tree. The tree sat in the center of the front yard, next to a fence. There was a trick to “entering” the tree environs. One needed to walk into a sea of large-leafed ivy and stand just under a particular straight and thick tree branch. Next, the climber would grab a special spot, pull in toward the chest and kick over at the same time. Once atop the branch one could either continue with the ascent or perform a “once around” circular motion and twirl the branch, just for added flair. This was Level One. Then it was time to get serious. Slide toward the trunk, perch on the fence, push up to the next, smaller branch; swing the legs up and pull one’s torso forward and up. At last, I had arrived at Level Two in the strong solid “V” of the tree’s main branches.

The V of Level Two was the most common stopping place. From this spot, I was firmly held, nicely camouflaged. I was also high enough to see into most of the neighbors’ front yards, to spot any pedestrian in the vicinity and to watch my sisters pull up in cars after their outings. It was amazing what one could observe from here. But the alternative, when things at home were really unpleasant, when I really wanted distance from the world was to go to Level Three.

Level Three was elevated, ethereal - and precarious. There was one medium-size branch and a choice of many smaller branches to help with navigation. Generally there was an accompanying rush of adrenaline to aid the next move. The small branches would sway or even crack under my toes. I remember legs wrapped around a larger branch, clinging tightly, before shimmying up to the final destination. (There was also a Level Four but it was so frightening, I only reached it twice.)

The third level destination was a smaller V than the first, a bit less luxurious and comfortable. My torso would have to be wedged tightly between the V of two large branches. However, discomfort was quickly forgotten. From here one could see the neighbors’ rooftops and several backyards (these were all single-story homes of early 1960’s vintage). A person would never be spotted on this Level. For one thing, no one in her right mind would imagine sitting up this high. For another, the leaves and branches were so profuse that this area had its own fragrant and protected atmosphere. I am sure if, at the age of seven, eight or nine, anyone asked me to describe heaven, it would have had bright green leaves and gray-green branches.

At night, in dreams, I imagined flying. I remember being chased by all manner of monsters, criminals, and playground enemies and then simply remembering, “Oh, that’s right, I can fly” and would take off. When I was awake, sitting in the V on Level Three was nearly as magical. An angry mother or father, a grumpy sister, a selfish friend. There was one solution to these things: a quick escape to Level Three. Kick up and over in one motion, slide to the fence, pull, swing, reach, pull again, wrap legs, shimmy, reach, pull... safety, peace.

If I was not raised by my tree, I was lovingly held and nurtured by it. To this day, my favorite symbol of God’s presence is not the cross, nor the star of David, but the leaf and branch, the Tree of Life. A student in my youth group once inscribed her art project with words that captured my heart, lyrics from a choral anthem, “The tree of life my soul has seen, laden with fruit and always green.”

When I was around 28 years old, I took my family to see the old neighborhood. This was last time I visited. The tree had been cut down. The moment I realized it was absent, I recognized its significance for me. “Mommy, why are you crying?” my daughter asked. “A tree is gone,” I whispered. I have not wanted to visit the old neighborhood again.

The sacred was revealed to me in childhood, through a leafy incarnation. In my late twenties, I found the sacred in an array of people, groups, and sensations. At fifty-something, “Everything is holy now,” as Peter Mayer says. The sacred is in trees, grandchildren, children, ocean waves, memories, hilltops, music, and enduring relationships.


* The other tree story is in The Feminine Face of God: The Unfolding of the Sacred in Women, Ruth Anderson & Patricia Hopkins, Bantam Books.

God's Country

Things at my home were not very good as a child. Things were crazy and unhealthy and ready to implode But I survived, and looking back, I am grateful to those “angels” who watched over me. Three of them were my older sisters. As I’ve said before, they were ten, twelve, and fifteen years older than I. They knew better than anyone else the scope of the nuttiness I was living through. As they each came of age, at eighteen, twenty, twenty three, they tried to lessen my exposure to my parents’ prolonged adolescence.

When I was between eight and ten, I remember Martie and Dave taking me to Daly City and entertaining me in their little apartment. I remember Judy, the youngest sister of the three, saving her hard earned money and flying us both to Disneyland for a weekend without parents – a dream come true. And I remember Nancy and her new husband, John, taking me away for long weekends – to their home in Sacramento, and, once, to John’s hometown in Nevada.

Nancy was fun – laughing a lot and telling stories, playing music. John was funny. He was able to make anything comedic. He was a satirist in his own right – and reminded me of George Carlin. But, as the little sister, it bothered me when he made fun of Nancy, which he frequently did. I guess I wasn’t used to teasing. She laughed it off and took it in stride. She must have had a stronger ego than I.

In Sacramento, I remember John building waterfalls out of driftwood and pipe for their little home. I seem to remember a flood of some sort one weekend I was there – some appliance or waterfall gone wrong. I loved their big dog, “Bear.” He did indeed look like a big black bear – and was the sweetest and most loyal dog I ever knew. John also gave me my first (and last) ride on a motorcycle. It scared the bejezus out of me. I was a tough kid in a lot of ways, but fast car rides and this ride on a motorcycle made me very insecure. But I liked that John took the time for something special like that with me. I think we also floated in inner tubes or something down the American River.

John’s sister, Kathy, was a year older than I. A couple of times, John and Nancy arranged for us to be at their house on the same weekend. Kathy was nice to me – and I thought she was very cool. She and I kept planning what we would do when I visited her home in Nevada. At last, we bugged John and Nancy so much that they decided to do it – to take me to Kathy’s for a long weekend.

I had been through Nevada on family vacations – we had driven several times from Reno to Salt Lake City. But no one in my family had ever considered hanging out there or staying there for fun. There was always a great fear that our car would break down somewhere in Nevada and the buzzards would find us later. I thought it was absolutely hilarious that John pretended to prefer Nevada to California. (He must have been pretending, right?) As we drove over the Sierra’s and crossed the border, he shouted, “Look, Karie! God’s country!” He had to be joking.

As we descended from the heights of the Sierras to the Nevada desert, John pointed out the difference in the roads. It was something I, as an eleven-year-old, had never considered: road surfaces. The road did seem blacker and less bumpy. John said it was because of gambling revenue. Nevada had much better roads than California. Okay, I could give him that, I guess.

We left Reno and headed east. John taught me that you could tell what county a Nevada car was from by reading their license plate. He taught me the code for Washoe County, his county. There were lots of cars with those licenses driving around. Soon we were in the desert.

“This is God’s country?” I asked. John scowled at me in the rear view mirror and shook his head.

At last we arrived in the small rural town where John had grown up. It was something like a movie set. I could picture Ben Cartwright riding into town. No, we weren’t in the Bay Area anymore. The home where John’s mother, stepfather, sister and brother lived completed the set. To me it was like Big Valley or the Ponderosa. It seemed rather grand – with French doors leading in to the living room and shelves and windowsills full of antique glass. So, this was Nevada.

John’s mom introduced me to a feral cat living in their garage. I spent my spare moments that weekend attempting to tame it. I always had a special way with cats. I coaxed it into letting me pet it for a moment, but then some movement in the distance spooked it and it was gone in an instant.

John’s mother also took us all on a day of arrowhead hunting. It was fuel for the imagination. We drove out to the middle of nowhere and she said, “Okay, here it is.” I couldn’t imagine anything interesting in this bright white, hard desert. But sure enough, in just minutes we were finding tiny seed beads – real Indian seed beads. I imagined the people who lived and apparently fought or hunted here. We found arrowheads and parts of arrowheads. It reminded me of hunting for seashells, but without the ocean.

Then we had some kind of car problem. A “float in the engine” - whatever that was – was causing us trouble. John’s brother rescued us with his pickup truck. John’s brother was a good looking older teenager. He was nice to me, quite mature, and reminded me of a cowboy.

Late that afternoon, things got exciting after we got home. The bright sunny day became cloudy in an instant and everyone ran through the beautiful house closing windows. I had never experienced a dust storm before. The wind blew black clouds of dust and then the rain came down in huge drops like mud. Nevada weather was more intense than I was used to. I worried about the cat hiding in rafters of the garage.

In Nevada, I got acquainted with another side of Kathy. I knew she was always talking about boys. The boys in my life, who I talked about, were just that, sixth grade boys. The boys in Kathy’s world were something else.

On Saturday night, there was a street dance – something I’d never heard of. The girls in town wore their jeans skin tight. I mean skin tight. Kathy helped me to baste a seam in my baggier pants so that I wouldn’t look so out of place. Kathy was tiny and I could never have fit into her jeans. These were not boot cut jeans, though they did wear boots. I remember she had a technique involving a pencil to get her socks up. All of the girls at the dance were dressed identically. No we were not in the Bay Area – where we wore peasant blouses and faded, baggy jeans. And these were not boys who were asking Kathy to dance, these were cowboys. In fact, these were young men.

There was live music – and the guys checked out the girls. We stood with other girls waiting for someone to come over and ask us to dance. I was out of my comfort zone and felt like a child. I can’t remember all the details of the evening. I do know I was relieved when we finally got home, later that night. I thought California girls were wild. Nevada girls were wilder.

The next day, of all things, we went waterskiing. We drove for miles through a bleak landscape. But there, sure enough, in the middle of the desert was a huge body of water - Rye Patch Dam. I had experienced my first taste of waterskiing on Lake Leander in Minnesota, where Martie now lived. I couldn’t wait to ski again. We skied all day and had a picnic on the rocky beach. But the thing I remember most was “Bear Dog” jumping out of the boat and off of the land, over and over – wanting to save us when we fell. It was the most endearing thing. This dog was fished out of deep water again and again because he was afraid John or Nancy or Kathy or I were going to drown.

At last, we were all packed up and ready to head home. I made one last attempt to befriend the cat. It peeked out from the rafters, but wouldn’t come down to say goodbye. I had a baggie full of beads and arrowheads to show everyone at home. I said goodbye to Kathy and promised to write her all summer – which I did. I also went home and mangled two perfectly good pair of jeans trying to tailor them and wear them the way they did in Nevada.

As we drove out of Reno and over the Sierras, John looked at me in the mirror as we crossed the state line.

“Okay Karie, say goodbye to God’s country...” he said, “and get ready for pollution, crowded highways, and crappy California roads.”

I looked back out the window. The weekend had truly been an adventure - it introduced me to a completely different world.

“Hmmm...” I thought, “maybe both California and Nevada are ‘God’s country’ in a way....” But I’d never give John the satisfaction of admitting it.

Too Close for Comfort

Besides my Christmas visit to Bethlehem, the other story my mother often told about me was recounting a mishap I had on the day of Martie’s wedding. It was truly a memorable day. But it wasn’t until I was quite a bit older that she told me two other “immersion” stories: about the day I nearly drowned, and about Chinese New Year.

In my mid-teens, I began to experience occasional claustrophobia. When the choir teacher placed me in the middle of the group on the risers during rehearsal one steamy spring day, I remember wanting to scream. It was all I could do not to run out of the gym. And I had a similar feeling on crowded elevators – like I couldn’t catch my breath. I mentioned this to my mom and asked her why I was having these experiences of panic.

Always one to look for a psychological explanation, Mom said, “Well, it could have been the time you nearly drowned as a toddler….” She paused thoughtfully, “or maybe it was Chinese New Year.”

I had no idea what she meant.
“I nearly drowned?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember? We were at Auntie Shirl’s apartment.”
I shook my head. I didn’t remember Shirley ever living in an apartment.

“Well, we were there one afternoon and were relaxing by the pool. Shirl and I were absorbed in talking, and you were toddling about. I heard the softest little ‘plunk’ sound. No splash, no crying, just a ‘plunk.’ We turned around and you were floating to the bottom of the pool. It was the strangest sight – you didn’t move a muscle. Well, we both jumped up and I reached way down in the water and just got you by the ankle. We pulled you out and then you started to cry – probably because of the looks on our faces. But you calmed right down and went back to playing. I resolved then and there that you would learn to swim that week. That’s why we were so relentless about teaching you to dog paddle when you were only three”.

I was bewildered by this strange and significant story. Then my mother added, “Since you were so little – just two-and-a-half – I didn’t think you had really registered what had happened, but on the way home, you turned to me with the most serious expression and said, ‘But Mother, I might have died.’ You knew what had happened all right.”

Later on that day, I asked what had happened on Chinese New Year.

“Oh…that,” Mom sighed and sat down. “Well, I don’t know about you, but that was one of the worst days of my life. You were about five, and Dad and I thought it would be fun to drive into San Francisco for the Chinese New Year’s parade. Well, we took you and drove up there. People were already starting to gather. We found a nice spot on a hill – a sidewalk - to watch from. But then the people kept coming – it got more and more crowded. We could hear the firecrackers and the sound of the parade getting nearer. People kept pouring in until we were packed like sardines and couldn’t move. Soon, I realized we were separated from Dad. I couldn’t even see him. You were standing by my feet.”

My mother was a very petite woman - only five feet tall. I tried to picture her there. As she told the story and even now as I write the words, I have a short-of-breath feeling.

“Then the dragon started coming down the street, dancing from side to side,” she continued, while a picture – a memory – formed in my mind. “It must have been the year of the Dragon. The whole crowd on the hill began to move with the parade, down the street. And then, I realized that I couldn’t even bend down to pick you up, we were wedged too tightly and the force of the moving crowd was too great.”

She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, “Right then, I was sure you were going to be trampled." She sniffed, "But just then I looked up. A huge man was right in front of me - well over 300 pounds - he was inches away, with you in between us. He took one look at the terror on my face and he must have seen what was happening. Without saying a word, he planted himself – like an oak tree – with his legs apart and his elbows out. He was not going anywhere. And just when the force of the river of people was about to sweep us under, and trample us with out even knowing it – all of a sudden it was like we were on our own little island in the river. The people swept around us and in a few minutes, they were gone – and he was too.”

As I listened, my sense of suffocation lessened and was replaced by a sense of calm. As she told about the man who came from nowhere and then disappeared, a sense of peace washed over me. I wonder how many angels (like that man) it took to get me to adulthood?

“Yeah,” I said to my mom, “I think that could explain my claustrophobia. That would do it.” She nodded.

These are not stories one shares over dinner in casual conversation. It is no wonder I hadn’t heard them. These are the stories that a mother locks away somewhere and tries not to think about. Stories one rarely revisits because of what might have and nearly did happen.

Wedding Day

The last in my series of immersions was an experience I remember vividly and my mother recounted many times.

A year before my summer at Camp Celio, my sister, Martie, was married on the first of May. Weeks of preparation had gone into this day. The house, where the reception would be held, had been cleaned to perfection. Loaves of white bread had been trimmed of their crusts, slathered with cheese spread, topped with pimento loaf , sliced and rolled into cute finger-sized little shapes. My father, no longer a minister, spent a lot of time making sure he had the bar fully stocked and had ordered enough champagne. The ingredients for Buddha Punch had been mixed and everything was ready to go.

In general, at that time, the days were usually my own and I was free to roam around and play wherever I wanted. But this week and month had been different. Adults were focused on everything, including me. As the flower girl, I had to have a fancy dress. Usually mistaken for someone’s rough and tumble kid brother, I had to bathe and wash and wear patent leather Mary Janes with my little white dress, replete with lace and bows. I thought it was going too far when they decided my hair should be curled in ringlets. But I consented and slept with curlers in my hair like the big girls, my older sisters, who were to be bridesmaids.

On the morning of the wedding, my mom and sisters got me ready first, then they attended to their own coiffure. I was fascinated by the fact that, because Martie was marrying a Catholic, all of the women had to wear hats or hair nets or something. There was still some fuss going on because the florist had forgotten the little headpiece that was to have been made for me.

While my mother and sisters primped, I went out of the master bedroom and onto the patio by the pool to look things over. There were tables with tablecloths, folding chairs and little bouquets. There were even flowers that had been set to floating in the pool. Since it was only the first of May, the pool was not yet heated for swimming, but it, too, had been cleaned and looked sparkling and beautiful. I noticed that one of the flowers had flipped upside down in the water. I bent and reached down to turn it over, and my patent leather slippers slid right out from under me and into the pool I went with a scream.

My mother, in her room, heard the scream and ran. Unfortunately, the windows and the sliding glass door had been cleaned that week, too. She didn’t even realize the door was closed and ran into it at top speed. We are lucky that nothing worse happened, but by the time my mother pulled me, soaking, from the pool – ringlets gone and petticoats drooping – a huge goose-egg was forming on her forehead.

Things ramped into high gear. Neighbors were called and every woman on the block was on the case of getting me dried and ready again. One neighbor took my dress, slip, socks and shoes to throw in their dryer (ours had caught fire and nearly burned the house down earlier that year, so we didn’t have one). Another neighbor volunteered to take the dress, when dry and iron it. The other neighbors, a mother and daughter, appeared with a portable hair dryer and curlers. My mother put an ice pack on her forehead, as the bump turned purple.

I don’t remember where Martie was during all this, but I have to believe that it was not the best morning for her. We still had the long drive to San Francisco to make it to the church on time. It appeared that we would certainly be late. I remember crying and crying because I was certain I had ruined everything. People were trying to reassure me, but I felt clumsy and embarrassed by all this fuss and chaos I’d caused. Martie and my sisters, who were all now ready to go, posed for some quick poolside photos on the patio.

My hair was droopy, but dry. My dress was dried and pressed and wasn’t too much the worse for wear. Even my little shoes were passable. Martie and her giant hoop skirt were wedged into the back seat of my Dad’s Caddie. Mom and I road in the front seat as we at last pulled out of the driveway.

With shaking hands and furrowed brow, my mom was still struggling to sew a little head piece for me to wear out of lace and ribbon scraps (leftover from the making of Martie’s veil). Halfway to San Francisco and with a sigh of relief, Mother pinned the lace to my head as we sped down Bayshore Freeway. She asked me to turn and look at her so she could see that it was straight. I turned my head and the little veil she had fastened was sucked right out the wing vent window (remember those?) and flew down the freeway behind us. Again, I burst into tears.

Mother, at this point, gave up. She cut a ribbon from my little bouquet, folded it in half, and bobby-pinned it to the top of my head. That would have to do – and hopefully God, the priest, and the new in-laws would all understand.

When we pulled up in front of the church, I reminded our little wedding party that no one was supposed to “tell” about what happened. It would be our little secret. We scurried up the big front steps of the imposing church. At the door, the priest waited. He bent down with a smile and took my hand. “So,” he said, with a beatific smile (as everyone else I met that day would also say), “you’re the little girl who fell into the pool.” I nodded in shame.

But my humiliation didn’t seem to ruin the day, after all. Martie and Dave were married in grand style, the parade of cars made their way back down the peninsula to our house. The finger sandwiches, champagne, and Buddha punch were all a big hit. The new relations from Minnesota, who had quaint Canadian-sounding accents, laughed and celebrated under the California sun. It was a grand day. And it has remained there, fresh in my memory, to this day. Truly one day I will never forget.

Camp Celio

My sister, Judy, was first a C.I.T. (counselor in training) and then, a year later, a full-fledged counselor at a Camp Fire Girl camp in the Sierra foothills. Judy was what everyone referred to as, "a late bloomer." My two oldest sisters, Martie and Nancy, were sort of the stars of that little trio of sisterhood. Martie, or Martha Sue, was a black-haired, gray-eyed beauty. Her fashion and style reminded me of Annette Funicello. With her cropped black hair and pillbox hat, I have to guess that the similarity was somewhat intentional. But since I was born a full fifteen years after she was, I may be unaware of half a dozen other fifties starlets who shared that style. Anyway, my other sister, Nancy, was the one everyone referred to as, "the beautiful one." She was a toe head blond as a child and had a gorgeous, pearly-white smile that I always envied. Yes, big blue eyes, a winning personality, and some voluptuous curves put her over the top. Nancy - or Nan as we called her - had confidence and a great sense of humor. Martie was more quiet and demure. Both were popular with the boys. In Nancy's case I think that it may have been something of a burden from being too popular. And then there was Judy.

My sister Judy was one of those beanpole girls in adolescence. Hers was a tall, thin frame. She wore a shy expression and was extremely quiet. In social settings, she loved to fade into the woodwork wearing her horn rimmed glasses and smiling with those two chipped front teeth (our parents should have had those fixed for her). Anyway, this shy, retiring girl was the one I was used to at home. The youngest of those three, Judy was the closest to my age. She was only my senior by ten years. And though I never gave it a second thought, she had been the cherished baby of the family until I came along as the unexpected caboose. I usurped her prized "baby" status. At home, we fought. She whined back then that I was a "spoiled brat" because I always got my way. Actually, that sounds about right. I had the gift of persuasion, let us say. Some people call that spoiled.

But my point, before I began this rambling, was that Judy was more or less seen and not heard. She lived in a hopelessly messy room with the door closed. Then she went off one summer to be a C.I.T. and I missed her terribly for three long months. The next summer, my mother had a stroke of genius: I would take the long ride and attend the camp where Judy was to be a counselor.

My session was just a week long, but in many ways it felt like an eternity. Scared and uncertain as an eight-year-old, I rode several hours from our home on the peninsula up into the hills of Grass Valley. I apprehensively got out, looking for the security of that familiar face. Searching the crowd of counselors and incoming campers, at last I saw my big sister. I ran to her side and pulled at her sleeve. She ignored me completely. There were apparently no parents around here to force her to treat me well and it was her chance to give me a taste of my own medicine. I think Judy saw me as the little star of our household. She would show me that, here at beautiful Camp Celio, the tables had turned. Here she was a star.

Honestly, I almost didn't recognize her. And the counselors all had camp names. She was, "Miss Zelda." I'm not kidding...and she chose that herself. Lucky for me, Miss Zelda's best friend from home, Marsha, had also found a job at camp. Marsha would look at me. In fact, Marsha even smiled at me and took me under her wing. Though nothing could completely remove the sting of my sister's snub, Marsha's attention went a long way to heal the hurt.

I don't remember any of my fellow campers or my own assigned counselor. I remember the "kiosks" where we slept - a sort of screen cabin. We each had a cot. I remember that I got my Red Cross intermediate swimming certification at camp. I was ahead of many of the other girls my age because at home we had a backyard pool. The pine and eucalyptus forest canopy stretched above us. We froze at night and took salt tablets with our lunch because of the heat. (You'd think that water might have been a more appropriate supplement.)

I was appalled at having to take "three camper's bites" of everything from cream of wheat to beef stew. The best parts of the week were: s'mores, singing by the campfire, and swimming. Those songs made a big impression. We didn't attend a church by that time, and I loved to sing. I think I still know almost every song we learned there. Marsha taught me a bunch of fun gymnastic tricks and paid special attention to me. She called me "Karie" as my family did at home. I needed that.

The little trauma I suffered that week was an odd one. We were with our counselor and were allowed to play in a rocky stream. I discovered a small silver coffee can full of clear liquid and dumped it into the stream. I'm not sure now if I knew what I was doing - and by that I mean, I don't know if I realized what I was pouring into the stream was gasoline. I also am not completely sure - but I believe I was harshly scolded and sent to my kiosk. Someone, I know, explained to me that this action would kill the fish, the frogs, and other animals. I vividly remember sobbing into my pillow believing that I had destroyed the ecosystem and caused vast extinctions through my actions. We also got in trouble that week for poking at a bat who was on the little foot bridge. We thought for sure the bat was dead and, surprise, it was alive. Little Karie, nature terrorist.

When the time at last came to leave, I remember getting a lump in my throat. I hated to leave camp, leave Marsha, and even Judy. We had experienced the mysterious Council Fire the night before and we had made it. We had survived homesickness, camp food, bug bites, stubbed toes, cold nights, hot, dry days, punishment, guilt, and blisters. No wonder Judy loved camp. She could spread her wings and be herself. She could overcome fear and convention and family norms. Here she was a leader and a member of a cool elite class: the counselors. (There were rumors, too, about boy counselors across the lake.) We little campers only got one week of this bliss. The counselors stayed the whole summer.

It sounds pretty John-Boy-Walton to say it, but I knew I would never see Judy the same way again. There had been a transformation. She had shown me that she was no longer, "Judy Bug." This summer, her true identity had been revealed. She was, indeed, Miss Zelda. And Miss Zelda didn't take any guff from little sisters.

When she came home at the end of the summer, she was nice to me. It was great. Much better, in fact, than when she had put up with me before. I knew she wasn't being nice this time because she had to. She was nice because she wanted to be. Judy was no longer a late bloomer. She had bloomed.

First Lessons

I'm trying to spend more time writing and reflecting these days. I've been getting lazy about writing since it is no longer part of my day to day work. So here's to getting started. I'm going to work on a story a week (and perhaps this week, two).

My earliest memory is something of a Christmas story. So though it is out of season, I want to commit it to paper.

There were earlier memories... learning to whistle at my second birthday party (and forgetting again soon after). My family actually did birthday parties and organized things back then. I have tiny slide-frame memory glimpses of Santa Cruz, where I was born. Frame One: the ocean, Frame Two: the redwoods. I remember Valhalla, a cabin in the woods (Frame Three) with a conference center. A narrow bridge (Four) crossed a deep ravine (Five, Six). And the memory of Valhalla's pond full of goldfish (Seven).

My dad was a minister back then. He was one of those brilliant people who had many, many issues and imbalances. His vocation was undoubtedly the wrong one for him. The urging of his parents had sent him down this road. Without going into it more deeply, I can simply say he had good intentions and bad outcomes.

When I was two and a half, he decided to take some members of his congregation on a tour of "the holy land." (Much of the telling of this story is from my mother's frequent recounting of it - there are only a few vivid moments and memories that are truly my own.) I'm told that we all made many sacrifices in preparation for the trip. Apparently, my family motivated me with the enticing promise that I would get to see "where the baby Jesus was born." My primary sacrifice was in having multiple shots and vaccinations. There were weeks and weeks of talking about the trip, packing, saying goodbye, and finally boarding a plane (and it was truly a plane, and not a jet, back then).

We left California and headed east. From New York, we headed to our destination. We ended up landing in Iceland due to some mechanical problems which were very traumatic, I'm told. I know for me the main trauma was a bit of motion sickness and a queasy feeling. I was thrilled to deplane in Iceland. It seemed to me that we had arrived. In the airport at Reykjavik, there was a small creche scene. Try though my mother might to dissuade me, I was convinced that this was where the baby Jesus was born. "No, no, this isn't it," they softly insisted. I was confused and disappointed. We had come all this way.

We continued on and at last arrived at a hotel in Jerusalem. Again, the requisite creche scene on display - though more ornate and detailed. I was thrilled. We had made it at last to where the baby was born. "No, honey, this still isn't it. Though we are getting closer." Hopes were dashed again.

Finally, the day arrived when we would take our tour to the spot where people said Jesus was really born. I suppose the anticipation was at some sort of peak for all these pilgrims, who had come from far away. We boarded our transportation with the tour group, our earnest guide pointing out significant bits of history along the way. At last we arrived at the structure, the church.

We followed the guide and went downstairs. Each place we stopped, the tour-folk asked detailed questions. "When was this discovered?" "How can they be sure?" "How many feet deep is the excavation around here?" and so on. In the midst of all the questions, I apparently found my way through legs and sat down at the little manger scene and began to sing. My mother's voice would break at this point in retelling the story. "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head." The adults hushed and then grew silent. I finished the song I knew so well (for heaven's sake, people had been singing it to me for weeks). My mother would finish the story, saying, "There was not a dry eye in the place."

I always loved to hear her tell that story. Unfortunately, the bright glimpses of that trip which remain with me to this day are: the gifts people gave me and the restroom facilities we encountered at each place. I remember a kind, smiling man giving me a yellow plastic purse filled with chocolate coins. I remember a kind woman who took care of me and let me eat peanut butter (there were many things we were not allowed to eat on that trip), and someone with a Hershey bar. And I remember slanted dirt floors, a dirt backyard, giant (to a two-year-old) holes in the ground over which we were supposed to stand and pee. I'm surprised I didn't get a bladder infection, because most places I simply refused even to try. But I do always have a warm and fuzzy feeling when we sing, "Away in a Manger."