Freque Factory - My Spiritual Journey

Freque Factory

My Spiritual Journey

   As much as I've tried, Freque Factory is not complete without the spiritual writing about my spiritual journey.  Especially the next segment.  So here is a brief tale of that journey so far.

   Monique was raised Mormon.  I was Roman Catholic.  We used to enjoy talking about the differences between our faiths.  The worship of the Virgin Mary made no sense to her, and the Temple work she did was a mystery to me.  We both stayed active in our parents faiths until late in our high school years, which is pretty typical.

   Monique and I started community college typical hippie types.  We were open to non-traditional spiritual paths.  We had dabbled in what would now be called Wiccan stuff, but it hadn't stuck.  My own grandmother had been known for a fortune telling gift and I experimented in that.  it seemed I had a bit of a gift there as well.

   But I was fated for a different path.  While at college, while I was hanging out with my new friends and my new roommates, an acquaintance from childhood found me.  Lisa and I had crossed paths for many years.  Never close friends, but we kept having classes and such together since we first met on a district bus trip in elementary school.

   Since graduating high school, Lisa had become an active Christian.  She felt compelled to share her new faith with me and everyone else.  I was polite, but everyone else ignored her.  But Lisa was persistent.  She kept coming back and talking to me about the change in her life.  And she was different.  What she talked to me about was making me think.

   As life would have it, Lisa and I went on a road trip together.  She and I both wanted to go up to UC Davis to visit friends (a boyfriend in my case).  She had a car and I knew how to get there.  So we went.

  It's a long, 8 hour trip up there.  All the thinking I had been doing came to a point.  Did I believe that God is real?  Did I believe He/She was who He said She was?  Yes.  Then what was I going to do about it?  Lisa had taught me what is known as the Christian's Sinner's Prayer, and I prayed my own version of it.  I wasn't expecting anything, but suddenly I felt a deep peace come over me.  I don't know how to explain it.  Sort of like coming home, but better.  I resolved to keep my new promises.  Then I promptly tossed the contents of a dime bag of uppers out the window.  My boyfriend had asked me to bring them to him for finals.  Lisa was a bit upset that I had planned to transport drugs in her car.

   New Christians like me usually need some guidance.  I certainly did.  Lisa did the right thing-she brought me to her church.  There was one problem-I had been a Catholic and this was a Spirit filled Pentecostal church.  To say it was different from what I was used to was a vast understatement.  Towards the end of the service I found myself praying, "God, I know you're in this place, but it's way beyond what I can handle right now.  Is there another way?"  My Deity was gentle and did provide alternative teaching, but it was a much longer road.  The guest speaker at Lisa's church that night was a Prophetess named Sister Kietley.  Remarkable woman.  I would run into her again.

   After all that I gradually slid back into my old lifestyle.  And that led me to Huntsville.  It was on that second trip, when I had returned because I was in love, that I hit rock bottom.  Within a few months I was unemployed and without any job prospects.  I was running low on money.  My friends were not really any help.  I became desperate enough to pray.  I told God that if He got me out of this mess, I would return to serving Him.  It was the best I could do.

   And my God heard me.  It wasn't an audible voice, but I "heard" Him in my head, telling me to call my father for the money for plane fare home.  That stopped me in my tracks.  Why would I want to go back to Southern California?  And why, oh why would I contact my father, asking for money?  The floozy was living with him and had him and his money all tied up.

   Since that message wouldn't go away, and it clearly didn't come from me, I decided to call my father.  He didn't remember the phone conversation afterwards, but he did send me a check.  To this day I do not understand how that happened.

   Before I left,  I had met a young woman who had become a close friend.  We wanted to move in together.  She couldn't understand why I had to back to LA first.  I didn't either, really.  But I did fly home to sunny, Southern California, where I moved in with my mom and worked at the bank.

   Since most of my friends were either living out of the area or busy with their own lives, it was easier to live a more Christian lifestyle.  I started reading the Bible.  I even went back to my old church, but it wasn't quite right.  It was a good start though.

Freque Factory - Home Again

Freque Factory

Home Again

  I was home again from Huntsville.  My dad was still living with the floozy, so my mom took me in.  Her divorce from my dad was final and she had moved on with her life.  She really liked her new job and was doing well at it.  She had developed a new set of friends too, a new support system.  She was to keep these friends for many, many years.  Some of them became my honorary Aunts and Uncles.  I'll talk about them now.

  The apartment complex we lived in was comprised of 3 buildings.  We lived in the one around the complex pool-7 units.  Ours was the one over the garage.  Mom, Dad, and I had moved there when I was 8.  When dad moved out, mom stayed.  The pool was the social center of the complex.  Especially in hot weather, almost everyone in the complex ended up there.  There was a bar-b-que in one corner, and the landlord didn't mind if people drank, as long as we kept the language pg, and the drinks weren't in glass containers.

   Just like we had made friends when we first moved in, with dad gone, mom started making friends with the other tenants again.  After my friend from high school moved out, a couple named Shirley and George moved in.  They ended up moving out to Arizona to be with mom after they retired.

   Both of them were originally from upstate New York.  They were what I would call functional alcoholics.  Both were able to work, but drank most evenings, and heavily on weekends.  George was a machinist.  He was an uncomplicated man.  He got up early, drove to work, came home and relaxed.  He played horseshoes.  He bore a resemblance to Barney Rubble of Flintstones fame.

   Shirley was as outlandish and complicated as George was boring and simple.  She held a good job at a downtown Los Angeles bank.  I have no idea how.   She didn't drive and so she was up early every morning too-so she could catch the bus.  Aside from work, her personal tastes ran to bright animal prints and pink-the brighter, the better.  Shirley was game for almost anything.  She would take mom to the races, out drinking or dancing, and other adventures.  Shirley was also somewhat flakey.  And squirel-ly.  But fun.  I sometimes wonder if her inability to have children (they checked, it was her) had a lot to do with her antics.  But she was loyal and loving.

   Downstairs was Loretta and Mike.  Mike was her second husband.  I liked Mike.  He did his best to be a good father to Loretta's two kids from her first (horrid) marriage.  But the marriage didn't last.  Too many loud fights.

   Loretta was pretty remarkable.  She reminded me a lot of my parent's friend, Pat Casey.  If Pat had been from the hills of West Virginia.  Loretta was hardworking and fun.  She was short, but she had a heart twice her size.

   I wasn't really friends with her children.  The older, the son was a couple of years younger then me.  He was probably smart, but he was so socially awkward that it was hard to tell.  The daughter was a smaller version of the mom.  Unfortunately the boy eventually got sucked in by Scientology.  He broke free many years later, but his wife stayed with his child.  Sad story.  The daughter married and moved out of the area.  Still doing well, last I heard.

   There were others that moved in and out.  They provided mom with friends and confidants.  She was happy.

   Because I was planning to return to Huntsville, I got a job via mom's head hunter.  I wanted a well paying job that I wouldn't feel bad in leaving.  Well, I did that.  I got a job working at a bank in Downtown Los Angeles.  Like Shirley I got to get up early every day to catch the bus.

   It was a pretty boring job.  I had a monthly report to type up that was almost entirely numbers.  This was back before computers, so it was me typing numbers into a report with an electric typewriter.  When I wasn't working on that, I had small reports to do.  But mostly I was the secretary/receptionist for a small group of management trainees.  The older of the bunch was the trainer.  Like the rest, he was a graduate of USC.  All had been members of frats.  Can you say bro?  And all of them were spoiled pains to deal with.  On top of that, the boss of our department was a sadistic, former alcoholic turned vegetarian tyrant.  He only left me in tears once, but he was the terror of his secretary.  She was a very sweet Christian lady who was working to help her husband get through Bible College to become a minister.

  Of all the stupid stuff My management trainees did my favorite was the hooker story.  The trainer, despite the fact that he was "happily" married to a former USC sorority sister, had a local prostitute that he saw on a regular basis.  One day, he took his trainees to see her (and her friends).  They came back, all happy, like kids back from a bit of mischief.  Then one of them giggled and said that he had called the bank and cancelled his check.  To the hookers.  The trainer turned pale.  After quietly really chewing out his trainee, the trainer sat at his desk and tried to figure out how to solve the problem.  It was already too late to cancel the cancelling.

   Less than half an hour later my phone rang. It was the prostitute-really, really angry.  I have never heard someone so angry that their voices were like ice.  I was impressed.  Before I could put her on hold she informed me that her client had better talk to her (my trainees were all motioning me to tell her they weren't there) or she was going to show up to our office downstairs and start yelling about what she did and his participation.  I fully believed she would do it.  The trainer took the call.  He knew I would have had his hide if he didn't (besides what the hooker was going to do).  He left immediately after to get cash to pay her double.  He made the trainees pay that bill.

   When I had the time I did check in on my friends.  Christmas time I got together with two of my former roommates.  HJ now had a very cute baby.  I hadn't heard from Monique in quite a while.  Her mom said that she was expecting Monique to move back home any time.  Ma expected the marriage to end any day.  Joanne and Jim were in Texas with the army.  Due to very, very strict anti-marijuana (and other drugs) laws, Joanne was miserable.  Jim was feeling adult and useful, a new thing for him.

   I did visit Susan and her husband.  It seemed a mismatch.  She had cut off all contact with Freddie and had cut way back on her drug use.  They were tying to start a family, but no luck so far.  They told me an odd story.  They lived near the train tracks and would often walk down to the local convenience store (to buy cigarettes) via the tracks.  One night they started their walk, but for some reason they took the longer route via the streets.  Just a feeling they had that they should go that way.  As they were walking they heard a horrid set of sounds-metal screeching and such.  A train had, for unknown reasons, jumped the tracks and crashed.  If they had walked their normal route they would have been right where the train landed.  Strange.  And scary.

  

Momma Sandy Says - Nightmares

Momma Sandy Says

Nightmares

   Nightmares are universal.  Everyone has them at one time or another.  How we handle them and how we teach out children how to handle them is my topic here.

As I was thinking about this topic it occurred to me that how we train our children is often related to how we were trained.  I think it is a good idea to evaluate how you were taught to handle nightmares.  Did you think it was good?  If not, why not?

   My own childhood is an example.  Both of my parents were raised in households where emotions were not to be shown publicly.  Nightmares were a personal, private thing.  To be handled by the individual without disturbing the rest of the household.  Especially in my dad's family, the adults exhibited a lot of selfishness.  When I was very small, they would comfort me when I had nightmares, but the older I got, the more I was expected to deal with my own fears.  If I couldn't, I could come to them, preferable the next morning.

   For an imaginative, sensitive child like me, this was not the best approach.  I still remember times of terror when I would wake up from a nightmare and not be able to overcome my fears for a very long time.  When I had my own children I wanted to avoid that for them.

  How are you going to teach your children how to deal with nightmares?  Remember, both parents should have a united front.  There is a wide range of options.  Everything from fully available for every bad dream your child ever has, to unavailable.  Both extremes have their issues.

   Being there for every bad dream, while helping them to recover from the dream as quickly as possible, does not build character.  They can grow up thinking they will always be comforted.  That they do not have to "tough it out" sometimes.  I think that's a disservice to the children.  Also, the continual comfort can play into Control struggles between parent and child.  Do you really want your kids in your bed every night?

   The other end, without comfort, can contribute to night terrors, which can become a lifelong problem.  And also leave children with the feeling that they cannot rely on their parents to help them when they really need them.

   I recommend a balance between the two extremes.  Be loving and comforting.  Yet set limits and teach them practical steps to recover from nightmares.  You might have to walk them through those steps a few times, but it's worth it.  You will have taught them viable methods that they can use the rest of their lives.

   Time to talk about the nightmares.  As smart folks have figured out, there are lots of causes for nightmares.  They can be the result of traumatic events.  It can be the mind working through issues.  And it can be outside stuff that can become triggers.

    It seems like every child has a trigger, something that tends to cause nightmares.  It might be certain movies.  The Chucky horror movie series was a trigger for a lot of kids.  It might be a normally harmless image.  It might be a smell or a sound.  For me, it was hearing horror movies (usually B or lower grade) late at night.  I was fine watching them, but with my imagination, just the sounds were often a trigger.  One example was the horrid movie, "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman."  Hearing it from the other room gave me nightmares for several nights.  I've watched it since-not scary at all.

   If you discover something that triggers nightmares for your child-do your best to avoid them being exposed to it.  Your kid has problem with the Chucky series, don't let him or her see them.  Change the channel.  The good news is that kids often outgrow these childhood triggers.

   As we know from our own lives, our minds are often still processing information when we're sleeping.  And thinking about problems and causes of stress.  How many people have had the dream of being naked while giving a speech?  The dream of not being prepared?

   As these kinds of dreams occur, help your children to understand them for what they are.  Your children need to prepare as well as they can.  You can tell them not to worry, but teaching them how to separate themselves from the worry is a useful skill to learn.  Encourage your children to talk about these dreams.  It helps you to understand your child's minds.  You should tell them your own stories..

   Lastly, trauma based dreams.  These are the hard ones to have and to help with.  Again, this is a case of your brain processing information/events.  The more traumatic the event or image, the more your child will need to talk about the event and the dreams.  To understand that they are now free from the initial trauma, but their brains just haven't caught up yet.  If the event is traumatic enough, professional help may be needed.

   The underlying trauma can be from a wide range of things.  And the trauma may also be effecting you.  Grief due to death can fall in this.

  Sometimes nightmares go beyond simple bad dreams.  They can be reoccurring.  It can include abrupt, almost violent awakening, crying, even sleepwalking.  The key is vivid, realistic, dreams that are hard to shake and reoccurring.  These kind of nightmares can impair your child's sleep, and ultimately his health and/or his mental state.  Get professional help-starting with the primary care physician.  There could be a physical cause.

   If your child is able to talk about these dreams, look for reoccurring themes.  What fears seem to be underlying it?  Any information you can glean about the causes will be useful.

  I have a story from my own childhood about this.  When I was around 4 years old (before starting regular school) there was a wild, brush fire in the hills somewhat close to my home.  We were safe, but we could see the flames at night.  Even as a child that young I understood the destructive power of those flames.  I had a nightmare.  A strong, scary one about fire.

   My parents calmed me down after I woke up screaming.  I did better the second night-no screaming, but still waking up terrified from the fire dreams.  This continued even after the fire was out.  Then I started sleepwalking while having the fire nightmares.  That scared my parents.  I had never done that before (I haven't since either).

   So, my parents took me to our family doctor.  Luckily he was a wise man and I probably wasn't the only patient with the problem.  The doctor reasoned that the continuing smell of smoke and the ashes that were still on everything were probably serving as triggers to convince my mind that there was still danger.  His recommendation?  Get me out of town for a few days-away from the smell triggers.

   My parents followed his recommendation.  My mom and I joined some friends who were traveling out of town to visit relatives.  About a 6-8 hour drive away.  With the change of scenery my nightmare about fire went away.  It and the sleep walking did not return, even when we returned home.

   The episode was not completely over though.  I would continue to have fire nightmares for many years, though never as severe.  I found that watching television coverage of brush fires could be a trigger.  As could the smoke smell when they were close again.  I've largely outgrown those triggers, but I still avoid watching tv coverage of fires for very long.

Freque Factory - Alabama Interlude, Part 3

Freque Factory

Alabama Interlude, Part 3

   I met some pretty interesting people in Huntsville.  Most of them lived on Lincoln Street, the "hipped enclave" for a block, near Downtown.  They are worth recording.

   Possibly the most interesting person was a woman I'll call Rachel.  She was the most pure "free spirit" I've ever met. She was from Minnesota, but rarely lived there.  For some reason she had been arrested and spent time at Leavenworth.  That's a federal prison.  I think she was involved in some protest/anti-war stuff that went wrong.  But when it went happened she was either 17 or 18.  She was released from prison after a short time, but had odd probation requirements.  Once a month she had to show up in Minnesota to see her probation officer.  The rest of the time she hitchhiked around the country.  The first house on Lincoln Street, where I spent most of my time, was a regular stop.

   Rachel and I became friends.  I could never live the life she did.  It was interesting to realize that.  She was almost totally uninhibited.  I would watch her say and do things that I would never think of-and I'm from California!  She was amazingly frank about sex.  I called her tri-sexual.  She would try pretty much anything sexual.  Remarkable.

   When I met her, Rachel was almost 20 years old, almost my age.  Her probation would be over when she was 21.  Her free ride would be over then.  No monthly checks from the state.  Rachel was realistic about it though.  She was making plans to settle back down in Minnesota then.  It sounded so boring.  I couldn't imagine her living that life for very long.  I don't know how her story ended.

The first house on Lincoln Street was rented by 3 very different men.  Gary B. was nor particularly a nice person, but a very good musician.  He had been in several well regarded local bands and it was felt that he would "make it" in the music industry.  So he had the rock star arrogance.  Unfortunately for him, he had an aggressive case of psoriesses, a nasty skin disease.  As it sometimes does, the disease was giving him crippling arthritis in his hands.  He was watching his musical ability fade away.  Gary and I ended up friends.  We had  several very heart felt conversations about his need to change his life.  The rock star ego faded.  Don't know what happened to him.  I wish him well.

   On paper, Gene should have been a cool guy.  He had the same last name as me (spelled differently from me) and was from California.  Gene had drifted into Hunstville after surviving the Army.  He found other vets and stayed.  He was just a blah human.  Even the hippie girls who would sleep with anyone weren't all that interested in him.

   Shane was the man I spent the most time with.  He was from South Carolina, but was going to welding school there in Huntsville.  Once he graduated he planned on returning home.  He was a simple man.  Smart, and he knew what he wanted.  I think a lot of that came from his Vietnam War experiences.  He wanted to hang out with friends and to have the world leave him alone.  He and I were casual lovers.  The interesting thing was how he coped with post Vietnam stress.  Shane would insist on some part of my touching his all night long.  As long as there was physical contact, he was fine.  But sudden contact could trigger war reflexes.  Since my brother's wife had talked about similar experiences, I wasn't all that surprised.

   The rest of the block was an ever changing cast of mostly male hippies.  They were fun, but not that memorable.

   

   Eventually summer was over and the temperatures were starting to drop.  There was a hint of fall in the air.  I still didn't have a job.  And it did snow in Huntsville sometimes.  Time to make some changes.  I contacted my mom (I still wasn't talking to my dad much) and she told me that I could move back home with her.  She was sounding much more sane. She had a job and appeared to be moving on with her life.  So, time to go home.

   Before I left I had some final adventures with Marie.  She wanted me to come back in the spring so we could get a place together.  She had a car, so it seemed like a good plan.  I would go back to LA, get a job and save money to move back to Huntsville.

   We went back to the club up in Tennessee one more time.  Back then, someone under 21 (and over 18) could go to a club there and drink beer or wine.  No hard alcohol.  Usually canned music.  But we could dance and have fun, so we had been there several times.  It was near Polaski, Tennessee.  That last time my former lover came with us.  It was an odd night.  It was like he wanted to make up with me, but not.  Finally I was like, I'm going to go dance...

   And before I knew it, I was packing up my stuff and getting on another airplane.  Back to Los Angeles.  Time to find out what the other freques were up to.

Momma Sandy Says - Kids and Fame

Momma Sandy Says

Kids and Fame

  When I talk about fame I'm really talking about two different things.  One is the desire to be around or attached to famous people.  The other is the desire to be famous yourself.  Both are normal desires.

   I think we all desire, at one time or another to meet certain famous people.  I remember a fellow employee at Disneyland who smoked her first (and last) cigarette because Johnny Depp was backstage smoking and it was something she could do to interact with him, how ever fleeting.  Fan fiction, in a way, is people wanting to interact with characters from movies or tv.

   As much as we'd like to meet and maybe be a part of the lives of, famous people, there are codes of behavior that limit what we do.  Crazy stalkers usually end up with restraining orders, and, or jail time.  So, as adults, we learn to use our imaginations.  We can daydream about being with someone famous, but we understand that those are only daydreams.

   What happens when children desire to be with famous individuals-real or imaginary?  As parents we get to guide our children in proper behavior-and this topic is part of that.  A lot of how we handle this depends on the age and mental maturity of the child.  A very young child may not have figured out the difference between fantasy and reality.  That's a topic for another time-how to help your child keep the Wonder, but understand the reality.  Also, mentally limited individuals may have issues with real vs. imagination.

 But if your child is older, you can work through with them what is possible and what is not.  It may be possible to see their idol perform.  It may take a miracle for them to actually talk with that person.  And even if your child gets to talk with their idol, that person is probably not going to want to become their new, best friend.

   Note:  If your child has a celebrity they are enamored with, do your research.  Is that individual or group a good role model?  Are they people you want your child to meet?  Your child's idol may portray a wonderful person on screen, but be a drug using sleaze bag in real life.  They will need to understand the difference between acting and a person's real personality.

   I guess the bottom line is that as parents we get to teach our children how to respond to people who are famous.  Teaching them to respect their idols and to let them be people is important.  

   I live in Southern California, so I have a somewhat different perspective on all this.  Because there traditionally been so much film, tv, theater, music, etc. going on, residents here grow up around it.  We learn proper behavior early.  If a film star is shopping in my market, I was taught to treat them like any other person.  Give the star a chance to feel normal.

   And we also learn, early on, that people that others would consider "stars" are just people with jobs that are more glamorous.  For example, growing up, a kid from my town was in a major tv show.  None of us cared.  We didn't see him due to his filming schedule, but even if we did, he'd just be a red headed kid.  In my apartment complex as a kid there was a family whose older brother was working in a tv show.  I even met the actor.  Didn't care.  The younger brother taught me to swim.  He was the one I cared about.  Recently I found out that a guy I graduated from high school with is directing stuff for Disney.  He didn't seem any different.  Better stories.

  Personally I wouldn't want to be an actor or professional musician-too hard and too much rejection.  I know folks who work behind the scenes.  I respect what they do.  All of it takes artistry that I don't have.

   I will close this section of wanting to be around people who are famous with my Grandmother's story.  My father's mother was born in Minnesota and lived mostly in Arizona and New Mexico before the family finally settled down in Los Angeles.  She was star struck, to use the old term.  She took a job in Hollywood, just for a chance to be around the film people she so admired.

   My grandmother met and married a Hollywood projectionist-a man that worked on many of the early special effects.  He would be invited to these big Hollywood parties and would turn them down, to my grandmother's dismay.  To make her happy, he finally took her to one of the parties.  Yes, the actors were there, in all their glamor.  But they were ignored.  Her husband was only invited so that he could run the film projector as part of the entertainment.  What a let down!  And seeing these stars in this setting, she began to realize that they were just people.  And some of them were not nice people, despite the publicity!

   The other kind of fame I want to talk about is the desire to be famous.  This can get broken down into two topics.  Does your child have talent and desire to do something that may result in them becoming famous?  Or do they just have a desire for the fame itself?  You and they many not know at first.  Wanting to be known and admired by others is a pretty normal desire.

   If your child is talking about wanting to be a performer of some sort, let them try.  One season of lessons in their desired art form probably won't hurt them and it will help them find our more about themselves and what they want to do and be.  Once they realize how much work is involved in becoming proficient they may choose to try something else.  But it it's something that really calls to the core of them, your child will be willing to put in the time-even if you do have to remind them to practice sometimes.  They are only children.

  If your child has finished their first season of lessons and tells you they want to continue, be flexible.  If the talent just isn't there you will have to let them quit when they're ready.  At the same time, you need to be there to encourage.  The consistency of practice will help them as adults.  Show up for performances too.

   Every child is different.  My kids for example.  There are musicians on both sides of the family, so we encouraged our children to take music lessons when they asked.  In grammar school my son played percussion, but wasn't serious about it.  It wasn't until middle school that he found his love for music and drums.  Once he found his love, we didn't have to remind him to practice.  His younger sister was another story.  Her first instrument was the clarinet.  That instrument was not the one for her.  Mercifully, after 2 years she dropped it.  We figured she was done with music,

   Once both my kids were in high school, my son convinced my daughter to give drum line a chance.  Interestingly enough, she had the skills.  But not the heart.  After my son graduated she dropped band and she arranged to be involved in what she had learned to love-technical theater.  She has her bachelor's degree in technical theater design.

   If your child really wants to be an actor, musician, dancer, artist, etc., don't stand in their way.  As you can, help them with their dreams.  Encourage them to be active in the arts locally.  They don't have to be a Broadway star.  One of my classmates discovered in high school that he had a natural singing voice.  But he loved science.  He did both.  He's a respected engineer of some sort, and a member of his local opera company.  The wise high school theater teacher who sent him on this path realized early that he would much rather teach than be on stage himself.  There are lots of options.

  So encourage your talented children, but be ready to catch them when they fall.

Freque Factory - Alabama Interlude, Part 2

Freque Factory

Alabama Interlude, Part 2

      As I've said, when I returned to Alabama it was because I was "in love."  My young man arranged for me to live with his parents when I first got there.  With my own family so broken it was healing to be around a functional family.  The father was a brilliant, scientific minded man with his own company.  The mother really ran things.  She was intelligent, strong willed, caring, and determined to keep her family safe and healthy-and happy, if possible.  I always thought of her as an example of an iron fist in a velvet glove.  My lover's first sister seemed like a younger version of the mother.  While she loved her brother, he exasperated her a lot.  The second sister was about 5 years old-smart, inquisitive, and cute as a bug.  My only complaint was that my lover was being more and more distant.

   Looking back, I know now that I was not a good guest.  Since I wasn't going to school and working, I had time to start to deal with my parents divorce emotionally.  I suspect I was a bit of a wreck.

   After a few weeks I suspect my lover's mother had a few words with him-like when was I moving out?  Before I really knew what was going on my lover had found me a studio apartment on the east side of town.  And a job interview that he took me to.  I got the job.  He helped me move into the largely furnished apartment, then vanished.

   I didn't understand at first why my lover wasn't around.  Didn't return my phone calls.  I eventually figured out that I had been dumped.  First love, first heartbreak.  Damn that hurt!  But I am a resilient sort of person.  I couldn't cry forever.  Besides, I had that (really cool) job to go to.

   My first job in Huntsville was at the snack bar at the Alabama Space and Rocket Center.  This was before Space Camp.  In fact, the location we had out snack bar in is no longer accessible.  It was a fun time to work there.  I've always been a space geek and this had exhibits that had me drooling on a daily basis.  The job itself was fun-making and selling sandwiches and hamburgers.  The crew was all female and around my age.

   Our boss hired us because we were all young and cute.  We all wore white space girl looking jump suits-that were hot pants length.  And white knee high boots.  I wish I had a photo.

   I didn't have a car and the only public transport in town was only used by the local blacks.  So I hitchhiked.  I was very, very lucky.  If I could, I walked.  And I discovered that I was not all that far from where my lover had moved to-a house on a street that was home to many of us hippies.  I had found friends and a place to hang out!  Robert and I sort of ignored each other.

   Those days in Huntsville were some of the most free in my life.  I had my brother who lived near town, but his wife was still angry with me, so they had little to do with me.  I was really on my own, living in a strange place.  I had new friends that I liked and that liked me.  And I was having fun.

   One day I was sitting in the sun in front of my little place.  I liked that apartment. It was tiny and had giant roaches, but it was all mine.  Anyway, there I was sitting and a hippie couple I knew was driving by and recognized me.  They stopped and invited me to join them for the day.  I wasn't working, so off I went just over the border to the small Tennessee town where the mom lived.  It was like a scene in a hick movie.  But they were all nice people and I had a good time.  It all seemed so far away from California.

   After a couple of months I got laid off my job.  No real explanation.  My boss turned out to be a real sleaze.  He owned a couple of strip joint on the edge of town.  I had driven by them and hadn't recognized them as such-very different from LA.  He offered me a job working as a dancer there.  And if I wanted to make real money he could set me up as a prostitute.  And he told me all this while he was giving me a ride home.  I was furious!  The only thing that kept me from screaming at him or causing him real physical harm was that he still had my final pay check.  And I was a girl from California-I would have wound up in jail.

   Things were different in Alabama.  I didn't qualify for their version of unemployment and I was not able to find another job.  What to do?  While I was deciding I had more adventures.

   One of my former lover's good friends came visiting one day when I was over at Lincoln Street visiting friends.  I'll call her Marie.  We began what was, for a time, a very close friendship.  Marie's dad really was a rocket scientist.  We were at her place one time and she showed me a book.  It was the proposed flight plan of one of the Apollo spaceships.  It had pages and pages of math, followed by a graph showing a flight correction.  And this book was full of those course corrections-Amazing!  

   Marie's family came from a small Southern town nearby.  We visited one time.  It was one of those towns that was owned by three families.  As we drove to her Grandmother's house she pointed out the businesses owned by family members-including the gas station where her Uncle sold moonshine out the back.

   While we driving back Marie decided she needed her favorite hamburger, found only at the shack out in the middle of nowhere (as near as I could figure).  We went inside and I realized two things.  One, there were only whites inside.  Blacks were being served from a window from the outside.  Two, there was a larger than life sized photo of Governor Wallace with a shot gun.  This was the famous picture from when that man promised to not integrate Alabama schools (he lost that one).  I was so uncomfortable that I asked Marie to order for me and that I'd meet her back at the car.  Scary.