The House on Oak Street

As most of you know, I'll be taking a trip back home in September. It's not your usual going back home journey. It is a trip that will be filled with bygone memories and, hopefully, new beginnings that will help cleanse my soul of past haunts, so to speak.

If you look in the right hand sidebar, you'll see past posts of why it is that I am to make this trip, so I won't get into that, but there have been new developments that I must blog about so that I can remember all the friends that have helped me make this dream of going back home again possible.

I was driving home from work today thinking about how much I really don't care for where I live now. It's not a horrible place, but with the recent robberies in my area, it's a place where I really don't want to live anymore. I know this happens around the world...god knows I watch it every day on the TV about how sick this world is, but after the massacre at VA Tech and the robberies at gunpoint that has taken place the week before and yet no one has been caught, it makes me not even want to go out of my own house. And it shouldn't be this way.

I had a co-worker come into the restaurant today and we were talking about the recent events being blasted on TV and she said, "You know, this used to be a nice place to live."

Anyway, when I was ten, I was dragged across country to live here. Three-thousand miles away from the home I used to live and was forced to blend in with people and a lifestyle that I just wasn't used to. It was hard. Being an army brat, I was used to living all over the place, but this time was different. This time, I didn't have my mother beside me.

My grandmother was like a mother, though, and I loved her very much. But, I couldn't help to think of my mother 3,000 miles away and I couldn't do a thing to bring her to me.

Ahh...that was many, many years ago. And, I really can't blame this area for the way I feel...it's probably a nice place to live...for someone else.

I have managed, though. I got married, had two beautiful children who I love to pieces and am very proud of. But, in all the years I have been here, there was always this haunting urgency to go back home.

Of course, it wasn't that easy. California was all the way across the country; not exactly a short road trip. So, I suppressed this urgency to go back to my roots and have tried to ignore the fact that there was always some kind of emptiness that just couldn't be filled.

I was telling an online friend about this one day and she told me I really needed to go back. Neither one of us knew what would happen once I did, but she could tell this was really bothering me. After all those years, I still couldn't chase it.

So, because of this friend, I am going back.

I had planned to make the trip last year, but something came up and I couldn't go. Looks like this September, it's going to happen.

When I found out I was going for sure, I began to do some searches on the Internet for my home town. I lived on Oak Street in Burbank, California. I attended Abraham Lincoln Elementary School there. And this is my intended destination.

As a boomer, I think a lot of us are looking into our pasts for different reasons. My reason is to find my inner child again because once I do that, I believe I'll get a better understanding of why certain things happen and will stop questioning what could have been and go on from there.

I have had a lot of online friends help me and that's the reason for this post. There is a woman named Kimberly Robella who just happens to be one of the best artists out there and who just so happens to be a member of one of the online groups I moderate for authors. When I mentioned this trip in my group, she emailed me offlist and told me that she passed the Buena Vista Library (what used to be my old school) every day to work and would be more than happy to send me pictures with her cell phone.

I was elated! Thank you, Kimberly! ;o)

So, this is the first one she sent. This is a picture of the Buena Vista Library where the Abraham Lincoln Elementary School stood. Even though my old school no longer stands, it is the same ground I walked upon in my childhood. Can you imagine how emotional it is to see this?



I mean, this was my childhood! Right in front of my eyes is the place where I walked to, day in, day out. Oh, the memories. I remember one time I was walking home for lunch and this bully kid decided he'd try to scare me and run me down with his bicycle. Just as he was about to hit me, I jumped over to the side. Guess what. He veered to the side, supposedly trying to avoid me, but never the less, he got me. Limping home, I begged my mother not to let me go back to school that day. I was humiliated.

Now, the next picture is Buena Vista Street. This is supposed to run past the library and supposedly to the first house I lived. I'm still sketchy on where that house was, but at least this gave me an idea of the route I took to go home.

But, it wasn't the first house that held the most memories. It was the second one. The house on Oak Street. To get there, I would have to take the road opposite the school, which wasn't Buena Vista and I can't figure out just exactly what that road is called, but I know when I went out the back of the school, I veered left, walked down the street, then cut a left. My house was a little ways down that road but intersected Oak. I'm trying to figure out what the name of that street is, too, but I'm thinking it's Olive Street.

Anyway, Beverly surprised me today with two shots of Oak Street as it is now. Keep in mind it's been about 45 years since I've been there, so I know a lot of change has taken place. But, even though buildings come and go, the streets usually stay the same. Usually.

So, here's what Beverly sent me today from her cell phone...

It's looking to me that that corner you see there to the left is where I used to live. The house is different, as I presumed. But, that's the corner of my childhood.

This next picture is Oak Street heading toward Buena Vista.

If you could just imagine what it's like to be staring at these pictures. The things that are going through my mind. The trouble I'm having trying to get my memory to latch onto these images and remember. The memory of my mother standing in front of the stop sign in the first picture and me taking a picture of her. The memory of a life I once had.

I feel as if my body was transported to Virginia, but my spirit still lingers on Oak Street. I can hear my mother's laughter and all is well again. I am that child again. There is no massacre with someone brandishing guns and shooting innocent children who were to embark on a new life. There is no fear.

It was a time in life when you could roam the streets and not worry that someone would harm you. Don't we all wish we could have that again?

Unfortunately, that place does not exist anymore. But, what if...what if for a brief time...you could transport yourself back to that time?

This is what I'll be doing in September...visiting that child again...that child who lived on Oak Street.

Tags: boomer chick, Over the Hill Boomer Chick, Burbank, California, Abraham Lincoln Elementary School, California Dreamin', Oak Street, VA Tech

California Dreamin' - Back Posts

I'm putting all the back posts about my trip to California on this page so that whenever anyone hits the California label at the bottom of my posts, all will be there. Stay with me on this; it's going to be a fun ride!

A Little Explanation as to What This is All About
My Humble Beginnings
The Last Ferry Ride
Glucose Intolerant, Anyone?
California, Here I Come!
How I Blew My First Stage Performance

Tags: boomer chick, Over the Hill Boomer Chick, Burbank, California, Abraham Lincoln Elementary School, California Dreamin'

California Dreamin' - Pt. 6 - How I Blew My First Stage Performance

The Continuing Journey of Finding My Roots....

California Dreamin' - Pt. 6 - How I Blew My First Stage Performance

The most I can remember when living on base at Fort Ord, California, was that the houses were so dang close together. Reminded me of the brownstones in New York, only these houses were shaped differently and had yards, but they were dab smack right beside each other.

I shared a room with my sister, who was only two. I loved my room, though. I especially loved to line up my stuffed animals in rows and play teacher. They all had assignments, but it was really boring grading tests.

I was much of a loner, but friends gravitated to me. Not sure the reason why, but that’s the only way I had friends at all. I was never the first one to make the first move and sometimes I felt my personal space being invaded. I guess anyone else would call it shyness. I’m not sure what you’d call it. A need for privacy, perhaps.

I really enjoyed being by myself and would come up with all sorts of projects craft-wise. My little sister especially hated it when she found me crawled up into her high chair using the tray as my desk and working on some kind of project. I was crazy even back then.

But, I had a creative mind, the teachers told me.

Teachers. School. Ugh. Don't even get me started on that one.

Being an Army brat had its consequences. You hated school. You hated starting new schools and you hated attending them when you did.

I think it’s because the traveling bug had bit you and being confined in one room for hours at a time wasn’t your cup of tea. You would stare out the window at the sky wishing you were on one of those airplanes passing over, taking you to God knows where, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to go.

I wish I could remember the name of that school or even the teacher, but unfortunately, I can’t. Even as much as I despised the whole institution for confining me, the teacher loved me. She cast me as Mary (top billing) in the school play at Christmas time and I hated her for it. I think my long blonde hair was what turned this teacher on to me or maybe something else, but whatever it was, I wish I didn’t have it. These people just didn’t realize I wasn’t meant to be in the spotlight and fought it every step of the way.

I got even though. Feisty little kid as I was.

For my part, I was supposed to pick up baby Jesus out of the basket, hold him and cradle him at a certain point of this particular Christmas song. Not only did I hate school and hated being in the spotlight against my will, I was supposed to do something that totally went against by beliefs—hold a fake baby for the entire world to see.

You see, baby dolls were sissy.

Being somewhat of a tomboy, I was never caught with a baby doll in my hands or anywhere near my possession. While I did cherish my Tammy doll (she was hip) and I did think a lot of my grandmother sending me a bride doll from Rhode Island (you didn’t have to cradle her), baby dolls were what sissy girls played with. After all, I was seven and that’s what little girls played with, not me.

I’m not even sure why this was. I had baby dolls as a young child, but once I became “worldly,” they were a thing of the past and to make me pick up this baby doll and cradle it in my arms was the sissiest thing I could think of.

Now, if it was a real baby, then that was fine, but not a fake baby. ACK.

My “boyfriend” (or at least, that’s what he said he was and I have no idea how that happened) was chosen to play Joseph. I think that’s the reason I had this problem with the whole baby thing. If he saw me do this, I wouldn’t be one of the guys anymore and would be reverted back to being a sissy girl and he wouldn’t like me anymore.

The day of the play arrived. Most of the parents showed up except mine. I’m not even sure of the reason. Perhaps I never told them because I didn’t want them to see me pick up a sissified baby doll.

I took my place on this throne-like chair with “Joseph” right beside me. I was nervous as shit. I kept looking out the window hoping someone would throw a bomb inside but I had no such luck.

The song came on and they came to the part where I was to pick up baby Jesus, only…I didn’t do it.

My teacher glared at me, nodding towards baby Jesus, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

“Joseph” leaned over and said, “Pick the baby up, Mary,” with this shit-eating grin almost daring me to do it and I ignored him and made a mental note to can him as my boyfriend just as soon as I hung up my Mary hat.

All the other children were giggling, figuring that I must be the worse actor in the world not to remember my one thing I was supposed to do, but I didn’t care.

I had principles.

After it was over, no one said a word. I guess it didn’t matter after all whether I picked up baby Jesus or not. I was just glad it was over. This was my first stage appearance and while I guess I didn’t make the best actor in the world, I proved to myself that when I believed in something, I believed in something and nothing in this world was going to make me change my mind.

While this was my first stage performance, and possibly my worst, it didn't stop people from trying to get me to perform. Again and again. Stay tuned to the next installment of "California Dreamin'" and find out..... ;o)

California Dreamin' - Pt. 5 - California, Here We Come!

I don't remember too much about the trip to California as I was only seven, but things come to me in spurts so I might remember them later. I do remember that feeling when we crossed the California state line!

I remember the clouds and the mountains more than anything. And, I remember all of us breaking out in a chorus of "California, Here We Come!" I'll never forget that!

We were all weary but when we hit that border, it was as if something inside of me came alive. My mother was beaming, my aunt was acting crazier than usual and even my baby sister took on the good vibes.

Someone, probably Mother, yelled for Bob...er...Daddy to stop the car, that they wanted to take a picture. My mother grabbed the baby and I joined her in front of the sign that said, "Welcome to California." Oh, just remembering it, gives me chills. If you could have been there, it was WONDERFUL. We had made it!!!!

My step-father took the picture and we jumped back in the car.

It was a long trip from the border to our destination, Fort Ord. I don't even know if we stopped over, but I do remember arriving at the base in the daytime, so perhaps we did stay over somewhere. I really doubt it, though, because by the time we hit that "Welcome to California" sign, we were psyched and I'm sure my step-father floored it.

Oh, the mountains!!! They were soooo beautiful!!!!

Anyway, we arrived at Fort Ord and Bob...damn keep forgetting...Daddy...got out to sign in. They gave us a key to our new home and we couldn't wait to see what our new house looked like!

To the right is an aerial picture of Fort Ord. I'm not sure if this picture was taken then or now, but it will give you an idea. At one time, Fort Ord was the largest military base in California!

Despite the little bickerings that went on with him and my mother, I really was proud of my new dad, even though I didn't take a liking to him making me drink milk, and a few other odd things he made me do. Oh, nothing perverted. Well, one wasn't so kosher which I'll talk about later, but all in all, life was super!

Our new house was so cool! Bob...er...Daddy bought a German Shephard we called "King" and we were now the perfect family. My sister and I shared a bedroom, but it was cool as I was having recurring nightmares about being taken away in a spaceship. Other than that, life was fantastic.

School was about to start, but I took advantage of the last lazy hazy days of summer by checking out my new digs. There were houses right beside us and across the street...I had never seen so many houses so close together before. But, it was cool because that would mean I'd have plenty of kids to play with! All of the kids were army brats like me, so generally, we all got along. Life was super. A new beginning for me and my family...a picture perfect life!

News from Buena Vista Library & LA Times!

I am just jumping up and down for joy….if you’ve been following…I will be returning to my old homeplace, Burbank, California, the end of September to find out just why I have this spiritual need to return and guess what I got in my email box yesterday.

A letter from the librarian at Buena Vista Branch Library in Burbank, California, telling me that she will gladly accept my book as a donation. Oh man, it was wonderful hearing from her. This is what she wrote:

Dear Ms. Thompson,

I was forwarded your email about donating a copy of
your book, “Romancing the Soul” to the Buena Vista branch of the Burbank
library. We would love to have a copy of it.

I am sure that you will be
pleased when you visit as to what’s become of the Lincoln School site. The Buena
Vista Library is a very beautiful and popular branch library that gets close to
50,000 visitors every month. I would be happy to give you a tour of the
facility. A special part of our library is that we have obtained copies of
pictures of “old Burbank” from the Burbank Historical Society and reproduced
them in sepia tones and have them on display. Across from my office is a picture
of your Lincoln School.

Please send a copy of the book to the address
below, and please contact me when you are in town on your visit.

Sincerely,

Christine Rodriguez
Supervising Librarian, Buena
Vista Library

Now, is that cool or what? Not only are they placing my book within their library system, but I will be leaving behind a piece of myself when I have to leave and go back to Virginia. This is just so unfreakingbelievable.

But, wait, it gets better….

Someone from the LA Times has agreed to an interview! Can we say oh my god I’m going to faint? Freaking LA Times! Do you realize how huge that is?

You gotta admit, though, it makes for one fantastic human interest story. Author Travels 3,000 Miles to Hand-Deliver Book to Hometown Library. Hey, I might set a new world’s record on that one. Anyone have the number of Guiness Book of World Records? Talk about walking a mile for a Camel, how about traveling 3,000 miles for a chance to leave your legacy at your own stomping grounds you thought you’d never ever see the rest of your life? Unfreakingbelievable.

California Dreamin' - Pt. 4 - Glucose Intolerant, Anyone?

Forty-five long years later, I still can remember not having any remorse for leaving the Virginia, the place in which I was born and spent the first part of my childhood and then my teens and beyond. I know why there was no remorse. Even though I was technically a local, theoretically I wasn’t. I was far removed. My home was in California. This I knew the moment I stepped foot in the soil.

Was it the fact that my mother’s enthusiasm and happiness were contagious? Was it because I finally had a real family again complete with mother and father? Was it…was it…the fact that California was talking to my spirit, just like soul mates do, trying to relay the message that there is a connection?

Although this was my first trip to California and I was only seven, it was as if I belonged. It felt right.

The last entry in my California Dreamin’ blog series had my family and I traveling across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel and about to embark on a seven-day arduous trip across country to Fort Ord, California, where my new step-father was employed. We were to live on base for awhile, until we moved on to Burbank, but I’m getting ahead of my story.

I still haven’t figured out which route we took as I haven’t gotten up with my aunt who might know, but for the story’s sake, we’ll just carry on from here…

My new father, who insisted on my sister and I calling him “Daddy,” was full of surprises. I really owe him a lot for taking me to my new homeland and showing me a piece of myself that I would find out more about many years later. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t know what the craving to visit California was all about. Now I know and for that, I thank him.

He was from Rhode Island. I have no idea how my mother and he met, only they did so in Norfolk, Virginia. I guess that’s a love/hate story I’ll never find out about. As my mother has left this earthly plane, I can only rely on the sparse memories that jump in my head as they please.

The only known person on his side of the family that I ever had contact with was his mother, who still resided in Rhode Island. She sent me birthday presents every year, although I hardly knew the woman. She was rotund, but sweet as they came. Anyone to accept someone else’s family and even give presents to them was okay in my book.
Other than that, I don’t recollect any of his family.

We had been on the road only a day or two when we pulled into a restaurant by the side of the road to get some breakfast. Maybe we had been traveling all night and that attributed to my step-father’s sour mood. Or, maybe the reality of a family package deal was already starting getting to him, who knows, but I saw another side of him that I wished not to remember.

I remember ordering sunny side up eggs and bacon. But, Bob – er Daddy – ordered me milk to go along with it. I told him I didn’t like milk. I learned years and years later that I was glucose intolerant. I’m not even sure they heard of the word back in the early sixties; or at least, I hadn’t, and it was obvious my step-father hadn’t either.

The milk sat on the table untouched. I couldn’t even bare to look at it.

“Drink your milk,” Bob said.

I stared at the cup, then to my mother and aunt, praying they would help me out of this.

“Drink your milk!” he demanded.

“Bob,” my aunt said, “she doesn’t like milk. Besides, we’re traveling. Don’t you think it would upset her stomach?”

He wasn’t listening. “She’s skinnier than a rail, Caroline. She needs her milk. Now, Dotti, drink it.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I was super sensitive anyway. Mother was sitting there with her head down, avoiding my glaring, teary eyes. Guess it had to do with something about honoring thy husband or something, but she was of no help. I could tell my aunt wanted to pulverize him for making such a big deal out of this, but she felt it wasn’t in her place to tell him what to do, I guess.

I caught my step-father’s glaring stare out of the corner of my eye and I figured I really needed to at least try to drink the milk. My stomach already started heaving when I picked the glass up and took a wee sip.

And I puked all over the table.

My aunt laughed about it later, saying she was damn glad I did it so that he would realize he was wrong all along.

Of course, he was enraged. I don’t remember too much after that except for crying and belching and having to listen to one of many arguments between my mother and him.

I will say this, though. He never told me to drink another glass of milk again.

On the Street Where I (used to) Live

What a wonderful development that popped up this morning!

I've gotten in touch with a Greg Bowman from the City of Burbank who is helping me dig up some information about a school I attended in the early sixties called Abraham Lincoln High School.

To back up, with the exception of a school I attended briefly at Fort Ord, this one school was the only school I attended while living in Burbank. Such memories that school brings to mind! I remember walking to and from school each and every morning. And at lunchtime for an hour. Man, they can't even do that anymore! Walks are spiritual in themselves as you're always thinking and pondering over life's problems, so you can imagine why this particular walk was so important to me. And what is more important, I feel the need to take that same walk. If I can retrace my steps, I can find the location of my two homes I lived while attending Abraham Lincoln School.

I am just so psyched about all of this and want to remember all the vital information, so I'm going to blog about my findings this morning.

So, Greg Bowman from the City of Burbank emails me with somewhat bad news (so he thinks) that the school was demolished and in its place is a library - the Buena Vista Library. Well, hell, I'M AN AUTHOR! Oh man, this is just so freaking ironic! Anyway, here's what Greg had to tell me about it...

Dear Ms. Thompson,

First, let me thank you for your inquiry and for noting that you were
impacted in a profound way by your attendance at Lincoln Elementary
School. It is often difficult to revisit a previous place and experience
the same impressions as in the past. Having said this, the Abraham Lincoln
school was closed in the late 1980's due to a significant decline in enrollment,
and then became the administration center for the Burbank schools. The
school facilities were transformed into offices and the playgrounds were
converted into parking lots. The former school site served the district
until 2001, when the property was sold to the City of Burbank.

Now, on the former school site sits the elegant new Buena Vista Library
surrounded by the Lincoln Park. Yes, the school is no longer, but has been
replaced with a much needed branch library. You will no doubt find other
such surprises in Burbank. For example, the aged Burbank High School was
completely replaced with a stunning new structure, and John Burroughs High
School underwent a complete renovation. I'm sure that the spirit of the
Burbank community has survived all of these changes. I occasionally hear
some nostalgic comments about the past, but for the most part, the community is
pleased with the changes which I believe are commonly viewed as necessary
improvements to the quality of life. Again, thank you for contacting
us.

Warmest regards,Greg Bowman, Ed.D.Superintendent

Is that the most coolest information? So, I check out the library's site and oh man it's beautiful. Then I got to thinking about something. I'm an author with a book...hmmm...so I emailed them, telling them briefly why I need to come to California and would they be interested in a donation of one of my books. I haven't heard back from them, but I'll keep you posted.

Now, here's the interesting part. There was a map on the library's website. I clicked on it and omg...a few streets away, I saw it. Elm Street. The street where I last lived! I had lived on another street, across some highway from St. Joseph's Hospital (anyone been there?) and I'm presuming it's Buena Vista Street as it leads right into the library and on my walks back and forth from school, I didn't take any turns. I remember I had to cross a big highway and then continue on, but that's about all I remember. Omg...that was the same street I walked when I heard about John F. Kennedy's assassination. My girlfriend, Marge?, and I walked in silence. They had let school out early for the day. What a terrible time and it's as if I'm reliving it right now. But, here's something else that just jolted my memory...the day JFK got shot, I didn't walk to either of these houses, but instead, an apartment complex...so that makes 3 places I lived while in Burbank. We're getting there...the memory clicks in every now and then.

This is simply amazing. If I could get to that library, and walk the same steps, being as the streets are still named the same, I can visit where I used to live. Isn't that freaking incredible? I know the houses or the apartment complex won't probably still be there, but the land will and that's good enough for me. I want to become that child of seven again. I want to find my home again. I want to feel the emotions as I stand there and remember a time when my childhood was taken away from me and I had to move to Virginia to live with a grandmother.

It's sad really. But I need closures.

I'm thinking about just flying to Burbank instead of Vegas and then just driving a rental to Vegas to see the casinos and all that, but make Burbank my main stop. Still thinking.

BF isn't going to like it, but this is my journey. He can make his journey some other time, but this is all about me this time. I need this. Before I die, I need to go back and find out what it is I'm looking for. I'll keep you informed..isn't this fun?

California Dreamin' - Pt. 3 - The Last Ferry Ride

Saying good-bye to my grandmother and aunt was perhaps the saddest thing I’d ever encountered in all my seven years – with the exception of my grandfather’s death, of course – but as life can’t be measured in what ifs, it was imperative we make this long journey to see what surprises life had in store for us.

We all had our reasons.

My new step-father insisted I call him Daddy, so Daddy it was. I didn’t care. It actually could work in my favor when I met new friends and introduced him. I really couldn’t introduce him as Bob. While he technically and biologically wasn’t my real father, it would have been okay, but this was a new beginning for me and part of the bargain was that I got a father out of the deal. So, Daddy it was.

Bob, I mean Daddy, had dark black hair that was cut so short, you could feel the prickles sticking up if you ran your hand across the top of his head. I don’t remember what he looked like before the Army recruiting office shaved his head, but I’ll always remember that crew-cut. Fit him to a T.

He was Army material. I didn’t find out just how Army material he was until we progressed further into our journey, but take my word for it, when my mother and aunt nicknamed him “Hitler” behind his back, they meant every word of it. But, that’s further along in the story.

My mother was the typical star-struck movie star wannabe. I knew why she married Bob…er…Daddy. It was her ticket to stardom, leaving the sticks, where until the day she died, hated with a passion. Not even leaving her mother and sister behind would have stopped this woman from climbing to her dreams.

I always thought Mother was a dead-ringer for Marilyn Monroe. She had the hair, the style, the pout, the sex appeal. If anyone had more ambition to be a movie star, it was she. And she fully executed her plan to become one, dragging me along with her, which also will come later in the story.

My aunt was crazy. Crazier than a looney-tune. I loved her, though, especially for the really neat presents she gave on birthdays and Christmas. Now there was a woman that would always be #1 in my book. One thing that really irked me was that she didn’t think twice about reprimanding me like she was my mother or something. But, I loved her and up until the day she died three years ago, I never stopped loving her.

My sister was but three and barely knew what was going on. I remember her sleeping most of the way. I don’t really remember much fighting at all. Give me time; I’m sure I’ll remember and if we didn’t then, we sure made up for it later.

I always blamed the fact that she had a different father than I did and that was the reason we were so different. Different isn’t even touching it. While I had blonde hair that cascaded down my back in curls, she had the reddest hair you’d ever seen. Kinky red hair. Which she hated the rest of her life.

We were a strange family indeed, but we loved each other. No matter what happened later, we still loved each other.

Since none of us had our licenses, Daddy was the driver. Another power position in the family. And he used this power whenever he could.

It took a couple hours to drive from Exmore to Cape Charles where we were to pick up the ferry to take us to Norfolk. The ferry stopped running a couple years after we made this journey and I am so thankful I got a chance to experience it. That was before they constructed the Chesapeake Bay-Bridge Tunnel, a massive bit of construction overtop the Chesapeake Bay. Where it would take hours to cross from the Shore to Norfolk, it would only take a half hour by car.

The Chesapeake Bay-Bridge Tunnel opened on April 15, 1964, and cost in the area of $200,000,000 to construct. This was big money back then, too. It did save time to cross the bay to get to the rest of Virginia if you were going that way, but that ferry was neat to ride on—except for the fact I spent most of the time in the john throwing up—while it was still in operation.

We began our journey by ferry by pulling up and paying the lady at the window (I had to scrunch down real low so they wouldn’t see me and I could get in free—another one of my Daddy’s ideas to save money perhaps), then drive the car into the bottom part of the boat. At least, that’s the way I remember because once we got out, we climbed up.

I don’t think there was ever any child in the whole universe who had thrown up so much on that ferry as I did. I couldn’t wait for it to end. I did manage to stay up on board a little while, just long enough to get some Pepsi before I had to go throw up again. I slept in the car most of the way after that.

I remember some kind of argument, but I don’t know what it was all about. I think it was over my sister, but my memory isn’t kicking in. This was the first time I realized my step-father had a temper, but it sure wasn’t the last.

California Dreamin' - Pt. 2 - My Humble Beginnings

The family I was born into was a proud southern Baptist family. While we didn’t have much to eat on the table, I really don’t remember actually being poor. Looking back, I knew we were, but as a child, I really didn’t think about it.

I’ve written many stories about my life growing up, so I won’t bore you with what’s already been said. Instead, I’ll start at the beginning of my journey to my new homeland, California, which this blog series is all about.

It takes a lot to remember back forty-five years ago, but I’ll try. It’s very important that I do remember for the sake of finding out why my spirit and soul is telling me to go back.

I’m thinking this is a sign of old age. Never in all my life have I wanted to accomplish things so strongly. Passing fancies was all it was during my youth; unbridled obsessions are what they are today. I just go with the flow.

Around the time that my mother announced I was to have a new step-father, she also announced we were moving. Double whammy. Actually, triple whammy, as I was about to leave someone very dear to me, my grandmother, who was to stay behind on the Eastern Shore of Virginia.

The Eastern Shore of Virginia is a peninsula surrounded on both sides by huge bodies of water. To the left, if looking at it on a map, is the Chesapeake Bay and to the right, the Atlantic Ocean.

While it was the poorest section of Virginia, it was rich in any kind of water sports you could imagine. I never really saw much of the water sports as a child and that is probably why to this day I can’t swim. I’m not sure why this was; perhaps, everyone was too busy or I have forgotten the reason.

However, we did eat great things coming out of the water—drum, flounder and the famous Chesapeake Blue Crab. Actually, I never ate the crabs, but many people did and thought they were a delicacy. We ate things mainly that friends or relatives gave us and there was many a time they would show up with fresh fish that my mother or grandmother cleaned and fried up fresh.

For entertainment, I played with the neighbor’s children next door. One of our favorite games was putting a penny on the railroad track that ran near our back door to see it flatten. They were supposed to be good luck charms and we’d carry them around forever. Or, at least, until we lost them.

I do remember playing with my dolls in the backyard while my mother and aunts, Caroline and Junie, suntanned. Oh, how glamorous they looked, I thought, and I couldn’t wait until I filled out and could have all the boys in the neighborhood staring at me, too.

Junie was only twelve years older than I, and I loved to go up to her bedroom and listen to her play her Elvis and Chubby Checker records on her Victrola. A Victrola—if I have it spelled right (seems the spell-check is having a fit)—was a record player. I’m not sure why it was even called that.

I do remember a tree swing out in the front yard. I loved to jump in it and watch the traffic as it zoomed by on Main Street which went right by our front door.

My grandfather made it for me, as he made it no secret that I was the apple of his eye.

When I was four, my grandfather had an accident. I was running through the house as children are apt to do and scuffled up a rug that was in the middle of the floor. He walked through the room, slipped, and died of a coronary.

I remember my aunts and mother taking me into the kitchen and giving me some new toys I’d never seen (as it was the first week of December, I figured it to be early Christmas gifts) to distract me.

I remember even thinking then that I killed my grandfather. I never got over it. My grandmother, mother and aunts, all reassured me that it was just his time to go.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother was never the same. I guess she also worried about how the bills were going to be paid as she had three almost-grown daughters and a grandchild to take care of, so she moved briefly to Norfolk, Virginia, to study nursing, and we went with her.

Memories of this are vague, but it was during this time when my mother announced I was to have a new step-daddy.

I never had a daddy, much less a step-daddy, and being as my beloved grandfather had passed away, I remember feeling elated. Now I would be like all the other kids and have a daddy, too.

My grandmother got her LPN certificate and moved back to the Eastern Shore and into the same house we all left. This house was actually my grand-grand-parents house. It had a tin roof and lots of space to run and hide in. It was haunted, though, and I found myself sleeping in between my grandmother and grandfather when he was still alive, A LOT.

My sister had come along just before this new step-daddy entered the picture, but the baby wasn’t his. Actually, no one knew whose it was as my mother kept it a tight secret.

However, I do remember someone in my past that could have been her father. In Norfolk. I don’t even know why I know this, but I do. Funny the things you think you have forgotten comes back to you in spurts.

After my mother married my new step-father, she announced we were moving. Again. To a state far, far away and the name of it was California. She said this is where the movie stars lived.

Although I was just seven, I knew all about movie stars. They were the people on the black-and-white TV that sat in the living room with the tin foil-covered rabbit ears.

Although it sounded like fun, I had reservations about leaving my grandmother. I’m not even sure why she didn’t go with us. Perhaps my aunt, Junie, was still in school.

But, my other aunt, Caroline (who I called Sissy), did go with us.

On the day that we were to leave, everyone was crying and carrying about. My new step-father, who I was instructed to call Daddy, was trying to hurry us and I didn’t want to let go of my grandmother, no matter how much in a hurry he was.

I wish I could remember what kind of car it was. The one aunt that did go with us died three years ago, but, Junie, the aunt that is still living (my mother has passed, also) might be able to remember.

I’m also not sure what time of year it was except it wasn’t cold out. I’m thinking late summer, but I’ll have to get up with my aunt about that.

So, this gives you a little background on what was going on in my life prior to leaving for California. I was seven and my sister, Vee, was only three. Very young, but I do recollect quite a few memories as I will post in upcoming blog posts.

California Dreamin'

As most of you know by now, I will be starting on a journey into my past in a few months in which I will be traveling 3,000 miles from Virginia to California, in an attempt to put old ghosts to sleep and find out why my spirit and soul is pushing me to do this. It will be a trip back in time, to a place where happiness infiltrated every part of my being; and, truthfully, the only place I can rightfully call home.

I haven’t been home for quite some time. In fact, when most people think of going back home, they think of family and friends who were and still are an important part of their lives. It is where they feel comfortable and at peace. It is the place where they discover things about themselves that they had forgotten or remember things that are important but had been buried because of time and, well, just because.

But, for me, there will be no family. No friends. Just a piece of my life that still lingers there that is calling for me to return to it.

I have felt this for years, but could do nothing. It sat harboring inside my soul and it was literally eating me up. I needed to go back home and finish something. But, what?

Didn't matter what. It was something I needed to do. By the end of my journey, I will find that out; but, meanwhile, I will be charting my progress. Boring you to tears with my thoughts and emotions as I begin a trip to my past and uncover those ghosts that have haunted me for years.

I will put the links in the right hand side bar for anyone who would like to go on this journey with me. Believe me, it's going to be something. I know it and I feel it.

It's really hard to put into words why I must do this. I mean, think about it, it's 3,000 miles away and money isn't exactly growing off of these pine trees in the back yard.

I was telling my good friend, M, the story of why I needed to go back and it must have struck a chord within her for she is responsible for making this happen. The only catch is, I have to write a book with her about this. No problem. Writing books is what I do best. Selling them might be another story, but for M's sake, let's just imagine that this is going to be a best seller.

This will be a true story. Nothing I write will be false.

This is the story of an inside yearning to do something that is so all-consuming that the only way it will let up is to just do it.

I am hoping that in writing this, I will uncover some hints as to why this has taken over my life and soul. So, this will be a healing tale, hopefully. By the end of my journey, I will find out the reason why it is so urgent for me to return.

Why this story is any different than anyone else's trip back home is that this is a story of a child who lived a fairytale life. She had everything she could ever want. Then, her life was ripped apart when her aunt whisked her and her five-year-old sister to a land that has tormented her for the last fifty years. While the grandmother she was forced to live with loved her dearly, the little girl sat on the front stoop day after day waiting for her mother to come back and get her. That day never arrived.

Her toys and games and all of her other childhood treasures were promised to return any day. That day didn't arrive either.

Not only that, she was shunned by the children of this new land because she didn't belong. She was from another place and the children of the land ruled. They were the ones who were living the fairytale life and the little girl retreated into a shell and never came out.

Years later, that little girl grew up and she never forgot what was rightfully hers, but in order to recapture her lost childhood, she knew that she needed to return to her homeland to make peace for herself. It is there that she will find out why it is that returning meant so much to her.

So begins the journey. In the next few posts, or however long it takes to explain why this is so important to me, I will begin to tell you about the little girl who had everything and then all of a sudden, it was gone.

As the trip gets closer, I will share my thoughts and feelings as they progress. And I will take you with me when I begin this trip and will share my thoughts during and after. So, buckle up, we're going on a road trip!

If you'd like to subscribe to this blog, there's a place to do that in the upper right. If not, I will put links in the right hand sidebar.

I'm excited to begin this journey so I shall start tomorrow with my humble beginnings. Hopefully, I won't bore you.

Miracles Do Happen...I'm Going Back to California!

If anyone has been reading this blog for some time, you might remember me talking about having this inner urge to go out west...but it's not just anywhere out west, I have a certain spot I need to visit. Or revisit.

You see, years ago, when I was seven, my aunt took a picture of my mother, sister and I in front of a sign at the California border. It read "Welcome to California." Well, for some unknown reason, I've had an inner calling to go back to that sign. I know this sounds crazy so maybe I can explain more clearly.

When I was seven, my whole world was a happy place. My mother had just married what was to be my step-father and we moved from the Eastern Shore of Virginia to Burbank, California. Actually, Fort Ord was where we were heading and Burbank came later.

It was the first time in my life that I had a perfect life with a mother and a father at the same time. My real father left me when I was a baby so not only was I going to California, but getting a daddy, also. I was elated.

We drove by car and it took us seven days to get there. I remember the car breaking down constantly, but we made it, and when we reached the border, we all got out to celebrate by having our picture taken in front of it. I was a monumental occasion and one I never thought I'd need to relive fifty years later.

When I was ten, the family broke up and I was forced to live with my grandmother back on the Eastern Shore. While I loved my grandmother with all my heart, it was hard not to be affected by the move. After all, my whole world had fallen apart.

I never thought much about going back; although, I would have given my right arm to do so, but it never took over my every thought, every desire, every part of my soul to want to return to the last place both my mother and I were the happiest.

Until the last few months when plans to return to that same spot were destroyed. BF forgot to get in touch with the people who were sending near there as a promotional thingee and they replaced us with someone else. Long story too depressing to talk about.

I'm not one to act like a baby over it, but I was clearly depressed that I wasn't going. I mean, don't offer me a candy bar and take it back.

Well, for the past three days, I've been sick. And when I've been sick, I get weepy and things that normally don't bother me, hit me like a ton of bricks. I hate the house. I hate the area. I want to move. I want a contract with a NY publisher. Little things. But, these little things were getting on my everloving nerves and was only making me sicker.

Tonight, I had a talk with a friend I know in Scotland. I call her M. M beeped in on IM wondering how I was. I told her fine, but not feeling well, and before I knew it, I was blurting out the whole California story.

M and I go way back. She's one of the contributors in Romancing the Soul and I've known her for a long time. She'd send me postcards from Scotland and we'd stay in touch over the Internet. I have never met this woman in person but I feel a strong kinship with her that is hard to explain. We even started writing a book together a few years ago, but as life would have it, she and I went off in different directions, fully intending on finishing the book.

But, I've never forgotten M. We've been there for each other several times and no matter what, we never argued or anything, but it wasn't until tonight did I realize how strong our friendship really was.

Tonight, I was telling her what was going on in my life and she was helping me through it, when I blurted out the California story. I fully believed that the reason I needed to go that bad was because that sign represented my mother who had died thirty years ago. "It's not about your mother," M said, "you need to go for another reason."

I wasn't sure what she meant by that but as she had been on the ball in diagnosing what was wrong with me and helping me through it, I thought maybe she was right.

Think about this. To get to the California sign, it took a tremendous amount of time and energy to do so and once we got there, we celebrated by taking the picture. It was like the end of the road had come and all was right. We had made it. No matter what had happened - the car breaking down, me puking on top of the table after my step-father forced me to drink milk, driving all that way in the heat and with four other people, and wham...we made it.

M seems to think I need to go back. I need to take that same road again, but why?

And this is where the miracle comes in.

Someone with whom I've never met is sending me back. Yes, you read that right. Someone with whom I've never met in person, that is, is sending me all the way from Virginia back to that California sign.

I'm not used to this.

I tried to argue with her, but she insisted. She said I need this to be happy and to be able to write books.

So, the deal is, we have to write a book about it. Together.

I'd say that's a fair exchange. ;o)

M, I know you aren't reading this, but you're in my thoughts tonight...this is what miracles are all about. People helping people. People just opening up their heart to make sure someone else achieves their dreams.

Wouldn't it be a nicer world if everyone was like that?

So, tonight I told my daughter, whose mouth dropped right off her face and BF, who is still scratching his head in wonder, that I am going back to California.

I am going back home.

Life is great.

You Can Never Go Home Again...Or Can You?

They say you can never go home again...or can you?

In February, as some of you know, I will be taking a trip to Las Vegas for some kind of promotion thingee that was bestowed on BF from the casino he frequents a little too...uh...frequently.

When he told me about this free trip, I was elated of course, since it means VACATION TIME, but it wasn't until tonight did I realize that even though I've never even been to Las Vegas ever in my lifetime, I will be going home.
You see, as a child, I lived in Burbank, California, and duh me, I didn't realize that Nevada was right next door to my blessed homeland.

But, let me explain a little something to you that I rarely talk about before I get to the point of this post.

When I was seven, my mother married a man named Robert Manders who was stationed in the army. Right after they married, he was given orders to be stationed in Fort Ord, California. My sister, aunt, mother, new step-dad and I drove the 3,000 miles to a place I'd never been before, but was looking forward to it never the less.

For the first time, I was NORMAL. I had a father again, since my own father left me as a baby, and I felt like this was a new beginning as a family - something I'd never had up to that point.

I loved California. There were so many neat things to do and see which was so different from life back on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. But, most of all, I had a family just like everyone else with a mama AND a daddy.

However, as all good things come to an end, they didn't get along and separated three years later. I was taken by my aunt by train back to the Eastern Shore to live with my grandmother, which I did until the eleventh grade when my mother came back home and I lived with her for a year before she died.

For all the years since that tragic day when I had to leave my homeland, I've always had a secret desire to go back. Actually, it was more than that...

California represented family to me, something that was stolen from me and I knew I'd never get it back. It was like it represented a time in my life when my mother was alive and we were doing all sorts of fun things and I can't even remember a time in my life when I was so happy. I had it all. And then, in the dark of the night, my aunt whisks my sister and I off to live with my grandmother in Virginia. It was like my life ended.

I sunk into a shell afterwards. I lost everything. I lost my possessions, my mother, my life as part of a real family.

When I was in the eleventh grade, my mother came back home. She had remarried and rented the house next door to my grandmother and I moved in with her.

About that time, I met my husband and we married. One month later, I found my mother dead in her bedroom. I screamed and ran next door to my grandmother who called the ambulance.

We never found out why my mother died. My step-father was nowhere to be found and we suspected him of being involved, but it was never proven. Her death certificate said that she died of heart implications, but the coroner told us otherwise. He said that there was carbon minoxide found in her system and we never found out how it got there.

The years passed and I grieved for my mother. Holidays and birthdays were never the same. Instead of being happy, I was depressed on those days because of some unknown psychosis I suppose, but I knew why. Those days represented family, something that was stripped away from me at the age of ten. And, of course, there was the death of my mother which I never came to terms with.

When we initially made that trip to California, my step-father took a picture of my mother, sister, aunt and I standing in front of the California state sign. I saw that picture every now in then throughout my youth and marveled at how happy I looked in the picture. In fact, we all looked happy. We were on our way to a new home with new adventures...as a family.

Over the years, my aunt died and she took along with her that picture for I have yet to find it again. That picture symbolized so much and just like my mother's passing, it disappeared, too, leaving me empty inside.

When I found out about this trip to Vegas, I did a random search on the internet to see just where exactly it was. I thought it was more in the middle of the U.S., but you should have seen my expression when I found out where it really was.

Forty-five minutes from that same "Welcome to California" sign. It might not be the same exact sign, but it is in the exact same area.

I need to go there. I need to cross that border and have my picture taken underneath the sign. No, it will not be the same and no, it will not bring my mother back, but then again, will it?

Will she be standing there beside me, grinning that Marilyn Monroe sexy grin like she used to do? Will she reach over and put my hair behind my ears that irritated me so much as a child? Will she finally have a chance to tell me that she's okay and that I can relieve myself of the demons that have haunted me for the thirty years since she died?

I will get that chance to find out. It's my only chance and maybe my last chance. I need that picture more than life itself and I will get it.

For, standing there at the California border, I will have come home again.

*Note: This picture was grabbed off the internet and I hope the owner forgives me for borrowing it. It is where I need to go. To find that picture of my mother and I standing at the California border forty-four years ago. I need it to clear up the demons that have haunted me all my life and to prove to myself that you really can go home again.