I was a kid with chronic ear infections, which always got me a trip to the doctors' office in our small Georgia town. It was an excercise in misery--ear pounding painfully, face hurting and wet with tears and snot from my runny little nose.

The waiting room at the concrete block office building consisted of concrete blocks painted an institutional green. The chairs and and couches in the 12 X 14' space were upholstered in some kind of '50's-neutral brown fabric, covered with thick plastic which stuck to my legs.

The building itself was unshaded, positioned at the intersection of two streets with concrete all around it. Sunlight glared through chinks in the heavy, dusty blinds. This was the fifties, so fans hummed in the background to cool the hot, dusty room.

Mama held my aching ear against her chest and helped me read from the tattered children's books on the table. The walls in the little building did not go all he way to the ceiling, so the stuffy air was filled with the smells of acetone and alcohol. I heard voices murmuring in the exam rooms beyond.

As a little girl, I thought that if my kindly doctor and his nurse/wife would just paint the walls a pretty color and put some flowers in a vase like they did at Sunday School, maybe I I would feel better about going to the doctor and getting a Penicillin shot.

One day, leaving the office tearfully with my little butt hurting, I saw a door I'd never seen before. I asked Mama what the words were on the door, and she said "Colored Entrance".

What an idea! I began to wonder what colors the Colored Entrance might be. I sorted through my crayons, thinking of what might be a pretty color for the Colored Entrance.

I thought maybe the Colored Entrance would have pretty curtains on the windows instead of those dusty blinds. Maybe the chairs were pretty, and didn't have plastic on them.

I couldn't wait to go back to the doctor's office when I got my next earache. When Mama parked the station wagon, I jumped out of the car and headed for the Colored Entrance.

Mama said, "That's not our door, honey." "But Mama," I wailed, "I want to go in the Colored Entrance because it will be prettier in there." "Well, I don't know about that, but that's the door where the Colored People go. We go in the other door."

I knew about Colored People of course. Some Colored People worked for my daddy and they lived on the other side of town. I was indignant that they would get to use a better door than ours.

When I saw the doctor, I pouted, "I want to see the colors in the Colored Entrance". Mama shrugged and rolled her eyes. The doctor took my hand, and said, "Okay, I'll show you the Colored Entrance." He led me down a hallway to a reception area as green, dusty, boring and plastic as mine.

Disappointed, I went home and wondered why they would put a lie on the door about a Colored Entrance when there was really no difference at all.

When I was 6 my mother and father divorced. At the time we lived in Dover, Delaware (my father's home town). My mother (who was from Chicago) tried to stay in Dover for my sister's and my sake and "hung in" until I was 13. She moved to Bakersfield, California while we stayed with our paternal grandparents during the summer of 1970. My mom opted for Dust Bowl West or Buck Owens Territory as her sister and mother lived there. My sister and I were woefully unaware of the culture changed that we were about to enter.

However, I will share the first step into that abyss which was fun, exciting and unique. We had never flown alone, nor flown much at all for that matter. In 1970 airline travel was still a service-oriented adventure, not the cattle call it has become today. My grandparents were fairly well off and bought my sister (age 11) and I first class tickets from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. Funny, I remember my grandmother packing a lunch for the drive (Dover to Philly) which was about an hour and a half...ironically today my daily commute is the same hour and a half (Carlsbad to Irvine) but I manage the entire trek with nothing but an occasional Cup of Joe.

Wide eyed and half excited/half sad about leaving home, we boarded the United flight. I remember thinking about Los Angeles in terms of "isn't that where all the movie stars live"?

When we sat down my sister was to my left and a flashy dressed black couple (my grandparents would say "colored") were to my right.

At 13 my hormones were still a "work in progress" but a few of those were stimulated as I glanced over at the blouse the semi-busty black gal was wearing. It was a red crocheted knit top with holes reminiscent of my grandmothers arm chair dollies (holes and all). As there was no impediment to the view of the skin underneath (no shirt, no bra)...just lovely skin and at the right angle provided hints to parts that were (to date) foreign to my eyes my glance morphed into a 5 hour stare.

I'm pretty sure I was less than discrete with my staring during the entire 5 hour flight. Obviously aware that her chest had garnered my attention she tried to get me to elevate my eyes abit Northward by introducing herself. "Hi, I'm Tina"...she also introduced her companion as "Ike" (he responded with a low grunt that may have been "hello" but I couldn't make it out). Yep, our journey to Los Angeles included a ride with the stars...Ike and Tina Turner. Of course, those names meant nothing to me (a semi-sheltered farm boy from Dover, DE).

The rest of the flight was uneventful, but I did over hear people talking about Ike and Tina and it finally dawned on me that I was sitting next to Rock Royalty. That said, I was more interested in the red knit top with its peak-a-boo features which over the next few years provided countless late evening and early morning inspirations for this growing boy :)... (much better than Nation Geographic).

I remember hearing shortly thereafter that the couple split up in an ugly divorce.

When we re-united with our mother, she took us to Magic Mountain. During that adventure we met the star of Hogan Heroes (Bob Crane). He was there with his daughter (I think it was his daughter....certainly hope so) and we got his autograph at the food concession area. I recognized him from TV.

Later I learned he was murdered and tied to sex scandals.

In 1984 I was working for KMart as a manager and was treated to a celebration at the headquarters in Troy, Michigan. During this multiple day event a number of celebrities came to visit and entertain the management team. The final day Vanessa Williams (then Miss America) and her court performed for us. The headquarters was (now headquarters is in Hoffman Estates Illinois...part of Sears Holdings) a labyrinth of modular buildings and after Vanessa's show, I needed to find the travel department to make a change in my flight plans. I got lost and stumbled into Ms. William's dressing room. Had I entered a few seconds later, I would have had a great deal more inspirational material. Two weeks after this event in Troy, Michigan Vanessa was decrowned due to some racy photographs which ran in contradiction to pageant rules.

Fortunately for Hollywood and the Entertainment Industry at large, I didn't meet any more celebs until after I turned 30 and hence no further stars suffered tragedies simply because they had met me.

The universe does center around all us 13 year olds you know!

Childhood to me equals depression and anxiety. My mother married thee times, and had bad taste in men. The first divorce ended in Cumberland Furnace Tennessee. I was born in Tennessee, moved to Colorado Springs, to Las Vegas, to Colorado Springs, and back to Tennessee by the time I was five. My Mother put up with a lot from my biological Father. He was a drunk. He kicked my mother in the stomach when she was pregnant with my little sister. The result of the kick left my sister born with her guts on the outside, instead of the inside. She had emergency surgery as soon as she was born. She has always been very self conscience of not having a belly button. In Vegas he came home drunk one night and decided to knock out every light bulb in the place with his boot. She finally threw in the towel shortly after my little brother was born. We were living in the hills of Tennessee. We were living in a shack that was literally falling down. We did not even have our own well. My Mother carried water from the neighbors well. We had a wood cook stove, and an out house about six feet from the cemetary fence. (real fun for a five year old at night) The shack originally had three rooms. A kitchen, and bed room, and a living room. We used the kitchen and the bedroom because the roof had caved in and was laying on the floor of the livingroom. I don't remember this myself, but have heard my Mother say many times there were cracks in the walls that you "could throw a cat through."

My earliest memory is of franks and beans. My mother was sick in bed and my father and I proudly made her dinner -- warming up franks and beans from a can. This was the 1950s, and my father's cooking skills were limited to the charcoal grill -- used for more festive occasions. I remember being proud that my father and I could take care of my mother, and not worried about her.

It wasn't until I was grown that I found out that this memory was of my mother's miscarriage, in between my birth and that of my sister 5 1/2 years later. I know now that my mother was despondent over whether she was too old (at 33!) to have a second child. And that for decades my father thought the miscarriage was a "perfectly formed little boy" -- clearly a fantasy on his part that he had never shared with my mother until the night of his 60th birthday party. She was stunned, it hadn't been a formed anything.

Most of my childhood memories are no longer of the event itself, but of the re-telling over the decades. My family likes to tell, and re-tell, our stories. But the miscarriage was a big event that never got discussed, so I know the memory of the franks and beans is genuine.

Ever since I was a very young girl I was a bride in training. This was a way of life in a traditional Italian family. It wasn't subliminal, it was intentional, a fact of life. At the time it was enjoyable. What did I know?

Family and food. Food and family. Growing up in the Bronx, we were all in close proximity. The family gatherings were regular, the food was plenty and most, if not all, was homemade.

Weekly pot of gravy and the staple of every Italian family, macaroni. It was fun to sit at the table and watch grandma in action with a mountain of flour that turned into a volcano with eggs that some how became pasta. The kids would sit at the table with little balls of dough rolling them into cavatelli.

My grandparents house in the Bronx was the most magical place on earth. To me, it still is even though I'm not even sure it still exists. They owned the lot next door which was my grandmother's flower garden. It's the place were fairies and gnomes resided. There were paths and flowers of all types and sizes. I was so tiny & little I would get lost going down this one path & just disappear into this magical land of flowers.

There was a fig tree, a few cherry trees and peach trees. The grape arbor encased an entire area which I thought was the outdoor dining room.

There was a full wine cellar where grandpa made homemade wine. We grew up sipping wine & having a wonderful dessert of fresh peaches soaked in wine. Us kids snuck in there & opened a barrel to taste. It sprung a leak. I got in trouble being the oldest & only girl.

Every summer there was a big production in the backyard of making fresh tomato sauce. Everyone was involved in the canning process. The world turned bright red and delicious.

They were simple, wonderful times and some of the best memories of my life. Even standing on a chair at the sink to wash the dinner dishes while everyone stayed chatting at the table was fine by me.

Yes, growing up I was definitely a bride in training. Somethings are better off remaining a far distant memory. As magical as this time was, it must have been exhausting as all hell to my grandmother. Come to think of it, she passed away at the tender, young age of 54.

I think I'll pass.

My parents were people who saved their money and wasted none of it, so my first bike was a considerable investment. I was to treat it with care, put it away at the end of the day, and above all, I was not to lend it out.

"We didn't sacrifice our budget so the whole neighborhood could wear out your bike," my mother reminded me.

My first day out, I was in love with my wheels. The sun was on my back, and it felt as if I were flying. Soon I was met at the top of our hill by a playmate of mine, who stopped me to have a look at the bike. I showed it off and she asked to try it out. It felt really bad to refuse her, because I liked her quite well, but I cited my mom as the lawmaker.

When I got home my mother was raving. My little brother had told her I had lent out the bike. I denied it.

"Don't lie to me," she said, now whacking my butt with the belt. "Bad enough you disobeyed." Not only was I hurting, I was HURT. She didn't believe me!

Thinking to mitigate my punishment, I then "confessed," promising never to do it again.

Was that the end of it? Nosirree! I caught hell again for "lying" the first time, and what I learned about the truth from that, I couldn't tell you. But I learned something about unfairness, and about the value of a dollar.

To this day, I still don't know if my brother, at four then and five years my junior, was lying because he was mad, or he really saw what he didn't see.

I have asked him, but he has no childhood memory of any of it.

“’Tings were better in the Old Country,” my grandmother was saying. “Everybody was white. Everybody was German.”

“Oh, no. Here she goes again.” I groaned to myself.

I was twelve years old, and sitting in the dusty, cluttered living room of my grandmother’s house in Detroit. She lived in a massive, gray stone building, with a wide front porch that was perfect for watching the neighbors stroll by . . . in sharp contrast to my parents’ house, a small brick “ranch-style” house in the suburbs, with a big picture window and a tiny cement slab in front.

My grandmother’s living room boasted a black player piano against one wall, its tattered rolls of punch-out music stored in the scratched, brown piano bench. A faded, pinkish couch occupied another wall, its once-bright roses scorched to oblivion by the afternoon sun. A big, unused fireplace took the place of honor against the far wall, flanked by mahogany bookcases that were stuffed with musty books from my mother’s childhood.

“Don’t listen to grandma,” my mother would caution me. “Remember, she’s had a tough life. Just ignore the nasty stuff she says, and above all . . . don’t argue.”

Usually I was able to follow mom’s advice. Most days I’d just let my grandmother’s words wash over me, sitting quietly and doing my best not to let her know how I felt. But today was different, somehow. Today, she was really getting to me.

“The niggers,” she was saying, wagging her finger in my face, “dat’s what’s wrong with dis country. We didn’t have no niggers in the Old Country.”

I gulped.

“And we didn’t have no Dagos, either,” she raved. “Dirty, lazy Dagos.”

I sighed.

“And da Kikes,” she ranted. “Cheap, pushy Kikes.”

I shifted in my chair.

“And dat loud Greek across the street,” she was really in full voice. “Da smelly Turk next door . . . “

Suddenly, all of my twelve-year-old indignation welled up and poured out of my mouth.

“Grandma!” I shouted.

“Ja?”

“What about the Krauts, Grandma? How do you feel about the Krauts?”

She shot up in her chair. Her pale, blue eyes widened. Her mouth opened just a little. Her shoulders began to shake, and her massive bosom started to heave.

“Uh! Uh!” came out of her mouth. “Ah! Ah!” Then, “Ha! Ha!”

Oh, my god, she was laughing!

“I-I never thought you had it in you,” she snorted. “You’re-you’re . . . funny . . . ”

Then her eyes narrowed, her mouth turned down into its customary downward slant, and she wagged her finger in my face again.

“I know vere you get dat from,” she said. “Dat no-good Black Irishman your mother married, he’s funny . . . at least he thinks he is. He vastes time making jokes ven he could be vorking harder . . . typical drunken Irish . . . “

She was at it again.

I tuned her out then, but never forgot the lesson I learned that day, when I was twelve and she was seventy-seven.

Never, but never bother arguing with a bigot. Especially if it’s your grandmother.

It was a pony; a little palomino sorrel, and he loved me and hated Dad.

I had a red and blonde saddle with my name inscribed on each side of the leathers. The smell of new sewn leather is one never even to be replicated in my BMW years later.

Goldy was his name... and as we crunched through the snow, Dad said, "Lancey poikka (pronounced boyka)... he's a little stud and will hurt you if you don't be careful."

He scratched the area of his chin : pony hooves had grazed closely.

A starling flew though the newly opened door as I looked for my prize. Goldy nickered a welcome to me, and stomped at seeing Dad. He quivered the entire time I saddled him. I had been holding the bridle under my armpit - eeek! cold - so was glad it was warm when I put the bit between his teeth. He nickered again. A thanks, I thought.

Through his mane forelock, a wary brown eye viewed my Dad, a snort and hoof stomping told him to be aware and wary.

My Dad snorted back with a Finnish epithet not for use in polite English or Finnish company. He roughly thrust me on top of the saddle. It was not the way either Goldy or I wanted to be introduced to each other. He bucked.

I fell off and whacked my head against the corral post. Dad screamed, "That's enough of that! Get up Boy!"

I did.

"Remount!"

I did, and whack! a leather strap curled me and Goldy. He bucked me off again into the corral headpost. The name fit.

When I came back to, there was blood on the snow and Goldy shaking in the corner. Dad had a glint in his eye, and after he saw I was awake, brought forth a bloody trophy: Goldy's balls.

"This is for lunch, boy! No one is gonna hurt my boy ever"

I wasn't interested, and got the beating of my life when I said, "Sell him, he ain't worth shit as a stud."

Maybe that would have passed, but a five year old burning a $165 saddle probably didn't help matters any. As a five year old stud stood bleeding in a corral corner,. and a little boy snifled through a newly broken nose, it was a cold December day.

My sixth birthday.

It was the first family reunion we'd had in awhile and I think I was 14. It was held at a state park outside of Binghamton, New York, and the clan was coming in from everywhere. It was July, hot, and everything a lustrous green. Even though I was close to much of my father's side of the family, there were second and third cousins I'd never heard of attending.

This side of the family was a bit of a freak show. My father was considered a bit short at 6'5"; cousin Buzzy was 6'10" and even Ruthie was 6'2". She had once been approached to be a show girl in Vegas back when they had height requirements, but stuck with her stock brokering instead. There was Little Al, my great-uncle, and his wife Little Margie. Al (and Margie) was a dwarf, worked for years as a mechanic for Boeing (he could stand in the engines) and married late in life. He and Margie were both raging alcoholics (well, to be truthful, many of the family were) and their marital conflicts were the stuff of legend. They each had their own chihuahua. I couldn't make this up.

To see a hundred of these, my relatives, my ancestors, all together in one place was a bit overwhelming. The drinking got started early and got out of hand quickly. I sneaked off in a row boat with my cousins Gene and Cheryl to smoke a joint--a necessary addition to the already surreal surroundings. Got back in time to hear my grandmother tell one of her favorite stories about the guy who almost drowned after the coal mine blasts liquified the ground under the outhouse he was in. She would roar with such malicious laughter at this, that I never could find it funny.

Once everyone was sufficiently liquored up--and I mean everyone, old ladies included--cousin Janet stepped up the revelry by bringing out her accordian. She played nothing but polkas. The last thing I remember about that day was my upstate New York third cousins yelling out to us in their horrifically accented voices, "The midgets are dancing! The midgets are dancing!" And there were Al and Margie, dancing amongst the drunken giants, spinning around and in between them, and all I could think of was I hoped they don't get squashed.

"You've ruined Christmas!" my mother shrieked.

It was about midnight Christmas Eve. I had awoken with a start, wondering if it was Christmas yet. There was no clock in my room as I was a young boy, but I could look out the windows and see it was still night. So, no daytime Christmas yet. But what if it was really, really early on Christmas? Wouldn't that still count? Wouldn't Santa still have come, dropped his presents off for me, and eaten the cookie I left out for him? (I ate the other one. I was always hungry.)

Well, only one way to find out. I eased out of bed, opened my bedroom door, and padded down the hallways in my oversized nightgown, which was my brother's hand-me-down t-shirt. As the youngest of five, hand-me-downs were a tired reality.

I stopped at the edge of the hall which opened onto the kitchen to the right and the living room to the left. The kitchen was dark but the living room....

The living room was softly lit from just the glowing lights on the Christmas tree I had helped my mom decorate a few weeks ago. Gobs of tinsel (my contribution) thickly draped over the piney green branches and the mostly red globular ornaments. Some were matte with skewed gold filigree, but my favorites were the simple, shiny, blood red ornaments.

A carol played on the stereo system in the lower cabinet under the bookshelves, the cabinet doors open, the large gold chassis Marantz receiver with the missing cover providing not only music but light as well from its wormglow tubes, and if you got close enough, the ozone smell of heated tubes and wiring.

What captured me, though, were the mounds of presents, most wrapped, a few not, piled on the chairs on sofa cushions. Our tradition was to pin an index card to each chair or sofa cushion with the child's name on the card, and under that card was a pile of presents to be opened whenever the recipient desired. This was meant to tide over the child until the adults woke up, drank coffee, woke up more, and stumbled into the living room to begin the massive gift-unwrapping operation that seemed to require the same planning as D-Day.

I walked over to my chair, and saw the toys there, I ran my fingers through them.

Suddenly my mom's voice went off behind me. "Ken! What are you doing? Now you've ruined Christmas!" Get back to bed!" I ran back to my room, crying.

Not because she'd yelled at me, but because the idea of Santa Claus had finally been assassinated in front of me. I had hoped, prayed that in an increasingly mundane world, free of the magic I read about in stories, there might be this last piece of something outside the normal world, and now...there wasn't.

Christmas was ruined, just not like my mom thought.

The phone. Ringing and ringing, the sound was more insistant than usual, my mother's "Hello" stunted and pinched. I looked on vaguely aware of a world about to change.

My mom. She broke into near hysteria as soon as the phone hit the cradle. I wanted to run, fast, to get away from that scene; I hated seeing her cry, but more than that, I was preoccupied by figuring out what to wear to my Junior Prom. I didn't want her hysteria to overshadow my happiness.

Through sobs and gasps, I was able to gather that my father had had some sort of accident with his car. She said the word "pills" and "gin" a few times and then I heard the word "Jail." I waited to hear what the impact on me would be. If there was a problem, hopefully she could go take care of it.

The car. I sat in the driver's seat angrily staring out the windshield. Mom stood at the door waving at my urgently to start the car and get moving. Somehow I had been drafted into this family drama in spite of my resistance. My mother had quivered in fear, her sobs coming hard and fast and I felt pity and disgust in equal measures. She explained that my father had hit someone with his car after drinking too much and taking some sort of tranquilizer pills. No one had been hurt, fortunately, but the police came and found my father slumped over at the wheel. He was revived by an EMT crew and sent off to the local precinct cell to dry out overnight. Now here I was in the car left with the task to pick up my father's belongings from jail and to gather his things from his car, which was behind the police station.

I finally shoved the car into reverse and peeled out of the driveway in a showy display of anger. I can only wonder what my mother thought as she watched me drive away. I was enraged at this latest insult by my father to bring shame to our family, the latest in a long string of drunken and outrageous behavoir that made our suburban-family life appear too torrid for me to tolerate.

Jail.

"I cannot believe this." I thought, as I pulled into the police station and got out of the car. Suddenly, the reality of what was happening poured down on me and I broke into a cold sweat. Shaking, I reached the door and walked inside. I felt conspicuous, like a criminal myself. I didn't even need to explain who I was when I arrived.

"Mr. Joe?" the duty cop nodded to me. "I'll get his things."

He was off without even waiting for an answer. What if I was just a regular high school girl wanting to sell ads for the lacrosse team? How did he know that was my dad? I went cold with embarrassment.

As the cop walked back through the double doors with the plastic tie-top bag, I could hear yelling and a horrible inhuman moaning coming from the next room. The cop and I looked at each other pretending not to notice; I was trying hard not to contemplate the fact that the noise was my father.

The bag. Inside the bag was my father's belt (so he couldn't hang himself, according to my morose little sister), his wallet, his keys and his handkerchief. I rolled the bag tightly into my fists and walked around back to his car. The bag clung to my sweaty palms and I almost couldn't unclench it to remove the keys, which I forgot were inside. I didn't want to reach inside the bag. I felt like an invader, taking my father's freedom from him, even though upon later reflection, I realize that was something he did to himself. But at the time, that bag and its contents WERE my father, all that remained of him at the moment, frozen in time, when he surrendered and passed on the responsibility for his freedom to his eldest daughter.

Let's just call me Desperately Seeking Memories or better, She of No Past. For the more I seek, the less I find.

It's always been like this for me, even as I age. The memories of my childhood did not exist even as I was living them, for I was blessed (or cursed) with the ability to live in time with no awareness of its content. How this is, I don't know. It could be genetic or environmental or I could have an overly sensitive soul, but the protectiveness of my psyche dims out the unpleasant even as it is happening. Functional, yes, but the problem is that it dims everything.

So I hunt for a memory, surely there is something I can vividly describe, something so significant that it has left an indelible mark.....wait, there's something, my first kiss, we were on the balcony, his name was Al, and I felt.......the opaque curtain begins to drop and it fades. I should know better - this happens every time. Don't ask me to remember for it guarantees a forget.

Today I had a conversation with a co-worker about my dying dog. He has cancer, I said, it's awful. Oh, yes, she replies, mine did, too, remember? I look at her blankly. He did? Yes, in November, I told you and she begins to remind me of the details and, yes there is a vague recollection and as I sit there I am thinking what a bad friend I am, what a horrible listener for the memory is so not there, the death of her dog and its impact on her.

Is this a carry over from my childhood, the inability to hear the difficult and to magically make it vanish? How am I able to do anything? Can I make it change?

I wish I knew, for if I did I would become the Queen of Memory and live on and on.

my name is Bobby and I'm eight years old. I live in upstate New York and it's really cold here this winter, I have to wear two socks on each hand when I play outside! I should be out there now but I've been sleeping more since I got sick. I feel ok now so I'm going to get out from under all these blankets and ask mom.

The floor is really cold for bare feet but I have to find my mother. There she is on the couch watching tv, boy is it dark in here! The funny papers are on the floor by her feet. Oh no, it's Sunday! She feels my head without me even asking and says I still have a fever. No outside, no church, bed,bed,bed.

Crap! I don't feel any fever.

I went back to my room but not to bed. There is shuffling and bumping noises outside the house. Who is out there? I can just see through the frost and plastic on the window. My dad and big bratty sister are out there. It's not fair! Why won't dad come in and make mom let me go outside? Now what are they doing!! They just got in the car and left for church without me!! And they were smiling too!! They don't care about me at all.

I'm not going to bed and I'm not playing my games, I want to see what they were up to. I'm sick of them always doing things without me and leaving me with mom in this dark house. I'm putting on my boots and coat and going out there.

I made it! Mom didn't even try to stop me! It's even warmer out here, maybe a little slushy, and brighter too, the snow is giving my eyes a headache. Look at all these tracks, dad and miss bossy sister sure were busy. What did they do? Maybe around the front..... no.. they wouldn't...they did! Three snowmen; a dad, a big sister and me. I got two blue and yellow marbles for eyes and an old rusty pot for a hat! I hate it! I hate them! I'm gonna kick the crap out of this thing. It hurts my toes but I'm not done yet. There, it's flattened, it's gone, it's dead.

I hope mom is not looking out the window. What is dad gonna say?

I could have been no more than 8 or 10 years old. Too young to know who I really was, but old enough to know I wasn't it.

The envelope lay alone, and in stark contrast to the dark wood of the credenza it rested upon. It's size and shape suggested invitation, and the much-practiced script surprisingly spelled the letters of MY name.

For a brief moment, I fantasized my mother as June Cleaver or Samantha Stevens, even. She would greet me at the door with a smile and lower herself to her knees to meet me eye to eye. She would hold the prize behind her back until she had my full attention and then, with great fanfare, and proffered hand, reveal the source of her excitement.

But, this was not TV, and my mother was no Samantha Stevens. I collected the envelope and hurriedly carried it to the relative safety of my bedroom. Closing the door, I forced back the urge to tear open the paper enclosure by putting my things away, just as I would on any old day.

Minutes later, I sat, excitedly, on the edge of the bed and admired the little envelope, marveling that it belonged to me, and not one of my other, more popular sisters. I knew what waited inside. There was a buzz around school.

My neighbor, and future Homecoming Queen, Judy Williams, was having a birthday. I had overhead several girls in the "popular clique" talking about what they would wear to the party, which was being hosted by a local Saturday morning children's program. Unable to contain myself, any longer, I tore open the wrapper to reveal pink exclamation points announcing my Arrival!

Carried away, I slung open the bedroom door and ran through the halls, calling to anyone within hearing. "Hey, guys! Look! Look, I got an invitation! I'm going to Judy's party!"

I found my mother in the kitchen. As she turned to look at me, a tiny piece of ash fell from the end of an ever-present cigarette dangling from her bottom lip, into the spaghetti sauce she was stirring.

"That's nice." she murmured, turning to incorporate the ash into the sauce.

My enthusiasm grew unabated as the party approached, and I reminded my mother, daily, of my need for a new dress for my "debut". Her pat answer of "We'll see." came from the side of her mouth not preoccupied by a Salem.

Saturday morning came much too quickly, and, as my eyes were opened by shards of sunlight sneaking between the blinds, my heart sank, as I was forced to fully realize there would be no new dress. There would be no celebration. There would be no recognition.

As I sorted through my school-clothes in an effort to find something suitable, Saturday became just another day. I remember a quiet ride to the television station and my self-conscious offering of a gift to Judy as I arrived. Carrying her smile, and furtive up-and-down glance with me, I slid onto a bleacher as far to the left of the stage as I could get; out of the way of the cameras and the probing eyes of the "clique". I watched, for one hour, as children shouted, and laughed, and whispered conspiratorially.

As the show ended, I was the first one on the sidewalk to greet the line of cars and waiting parents.

The ride home was silent. The invitation was not repeated. An opportunity missed.

It's a good thing my best friend's Dad grew roses - we needed them to reenact Tricia Nixon's Rose Garden wedding. We did it all summer.

The roses lined a walkway that led to a circular path with a bird bath in the middle. Edith's Dad grew roses because he loved to garden and roses were for his wife - Rosanna. "My Rosie, my Rosie," he'd say. He had so many roses, all kinds, all colors, and didn't mind when we asked to snip bouquets for the wedding.

Since it was my idea, I was Tricia Nixon. And I took my job very seriously. Arm-in-arm with imaginary Richard Nixon, I walked serenely to my waiting invisible husband, Edward Cox. I loved him, but I wished he had a different last name. Julie Nixon Eisenhower preceded me,so pretty in a lavender and green Maid of Honor gown. After the ceremony, we hummed the Wedding March and waved to our guests - the birds, the butterflies, the earthworms.

To write this memory, I looked up the date of Tricia Nixon's wedding - June 12, 1971. I had figured I was about 8, but was actually 12. Twelve was a lot different back then.

I don't know if it was early feminism or just that she'd be damned if she was going to do the dishes every night, along with everything else - whether she had any daughters or not - but from a fairly young age, us boys took turns with the dishes. We griped of course, and I always felt slightly exhilarated evenings when as dinner wound down I realized it wasn't my night for the dishes.

But my observant brother Jeff scornfully pointed out that I must not hate it all that much or I'd do the job quicker. I never timed it, although I know I didn't slap-dash through it in a rush like he did. It was a slow, rather quiet process, first sorting the dishes carefully into like objects and stacking where I could, while a cumulus cloud of suds billowed up in the sink under the faucet turned on full force. Those snowy billows of fine bubbles reminded me almost of whipped cream and were more even fun to play with.

Pretty quickly I figured out the best order to wash dishes in, and it was satisfying to know that I was doing a good job. The glasses and silverware touch your lips, and should be washed with the cleanest, hottest water - with the glasses first because they would show any dirt. Then the plates and bowls, just one step removed from our mouths, then the mixing bowls and such, with the cookware last - it would be essentially sterilized from all that heat next time it was used anyway, and would make the worst mess of the dishwater if it got in there ahead of the other dishes. It just all made sense, although I don't remember telling anyone about my system.

I also discovered something I am quite sure my brothers never did, based on certain evidence (we had to set the table, too), that when we had something like lamb, there'd be a little grease floating on top of the dishwater right away, and it got on the bottoms of plates and bowls. Or maybe they sort of knew that but also understood the principal of 'good enough' in a way I suppose I didn't, because I was sure to wash all surfaces of all dishes with good hot soapy water - unlike certain brothers I won't name. The hot water in the rinse pan was pretty interesting too, the way the foam on a glass set in there would spread across the surface, gradually dissolving - little tiny bubbles popping invisibly, I suppose - swirling in unpredictable patterns that I could influence by dragging my finger lightly through the water.

It was less pleasurable work as the pile of dirty dishes shrank to just a few pans and the glowing white mounds of suds had been reduced to dull patches between which I could see the discolored dishwater with particles of I don't know what suspended in it. From that point, if I wasn't pausing with a pan in hand to stare out the window while my mind was elsewhere, I would move briskly through the remaining dirty dishes and finally get that same slightly exhilarated feeling of freedom as I walked out of the kitchen.

"Here we go again, " I thought. Apparently Dad had forgotten to tell Mom about a dinner invitation. Again. This time she put her foot down. Dad said that he wasn't going to just not show up to these friends' home and he turned and told me to go change my clothes, comb my hair and I could go with him.

I don't remember much about the meal--other than the flaming cherries jubilee that was dessert. I do remember the lie my dad told to the host and hostess about my mother being sick and therefore unable to come. I also remember the look he gave me when I piped up with, "No she's not sick, Daddy, you just forgot to tell her!" Funny. I don't remember how he covered up for my innocent six-year-old honesty.

Most of the evening I sat in the livingroom while the grownups talked in the kitchen. The TV had plastic over the front like it was brand new. It was off. It had a colored picture of Monty Hall from "Let's Make a Deal" and I thought it was cool that these people had the first colored Tv I had ever seen.

Finally it was time to go home.

Dad parked on the street in front of the house like he always did and I scampered happily to the house to tell my sisters that they had missed out on a dessert that was on fire. Much to my surprise, the livingroom was full of boxes, bags, and piles. Everything my father owned was sitting there. My two sisters were sitting there. My mother was sitting there. Dad was quiet. Nobody said anything. I didn't understand.

Mom had finally had enough. Dad didn't say anything to try and change her mind. He pulled out his wallet and gave Candee some money, telling her to walk with Julie and I down to the A & W to get us something to eat. I don't remember what our conversation was on that three block walk. I had orange soda. Julie had root beer and drank it too fast because on the walk home it came out her nose and dripped onto the sidewalk. At thirteen, Candee was so much older and wiser than Julie and I so she explained on our way back up the street that Mom was kicking Dad out and that our parents were going to get a divorce. I didn't know anyone then whose parents were divorced. I cried.

When we got home and walked into the house, we were met by total silence. Dad calmly told us that he was going to go stay at Grandpa's for a couple days. He carried some of the boxes, bags and piles out to his car and said he'd come back to get the rest when he found a place to live and drove away. Mom didn't say anything. I saw her wedding ring tied onto the cord of an electric blanket that was sticking out of a box.

I never did tell my sisters about the flaming cherries.

After I was born, I had a mild form of hydrocephaly, brain decease that caused my head to deform and up until my mid teens, I did not have too many friends.

Not too many kids wanted to play with me; I think they were scared of me on some way. Therefore, the only entertainment I had left was the books.

I am not complaining about it, I don't think I even missed playing with them too much. I had my books.

I don't remember when I began reading, but at first grade I already had membership card for the library. The lady working there was my mother‘s friend and by the 3rd grade she had the chore to control what I am reading, I remember she let me read The Thousand and One Nights when I was in 4th grade. I read Gogol and Dostoyevsky in 6th grade, ever since I think that The Idiot is the best love story ever.

I am may be the only child dreaming to be locked in the library and left alone there, just bring me food and water. I was the only child ever grounded for not going out with friends to swim on the river, but hiding instead at the barn to read.

I was very happy child, most of the time my parents did not have problem with my reading and the library in our little town was one of the best public libraries I have seen.

However, one of my best childhood memories is not connected with books.

I was maybe 11 or 12 years old when one summer night I woke up hearing my parents talking outside. I walked there to see them getting off the bikes, coming from somewhere. I asked them where they have been and my mom told me that they have been listening to the nightingales by the river.

Of course I wanted to hear them too. We got back on the bikes, this time we had our portable cassette player with us. They took me by the river at small wooded area. It was beautiful night, I was laying on the warm ground between my parents looking at the stars and listening the nightingale's song. I remember the hope and love and desire for life and beauty in the trills, I remember holding my breath in amazement of the sound coming out of this small bird.

We stayed there till the sun began coloring the skies and hiding the stars.

Few years ago, I asked my mother if she remember that night and she pulled the tape from that night. I think she still has it back in Bulgaria.