The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThrough These EyesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Through These EyesAuthor: Lauren Ann IsaacsonRelease date: August 13, 2011 [eBook #37060]Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THESE EYES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Through These EyesAuthor: Lauren Ann IsaacsonRelease date: August 13, 2011 [eBook #37060]Language: English
Title: Through These Eyes
Author: Lauren Ann Isaacson
Author: Lauren Ann Isaacson
Release date: August 13, 2011 [eBook #37060]
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THESE EYES ***
Last Revised August 5, 2011
Through These Eyes
The courageous struggle to find meaning in a life stressed with cancer
An Autobiography by Lauren Ann Isaacson 1961-1986
Original Hardcover Book: Copyright 1990Released into public domain: 2006Library of Congress Catalog Card #90 93276ISBN 0-9628196-0-3
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THROUGH THESE EYES, written by Lauren A. Isaacson (10 Dec 1961 - 16 Jul 1986), is rare in several respects. At the age of twelve, she was diagnosed as having cancer of the stomach; leiomyosarcoma is a cancer prevalent in older women. She was accepted at the Mayo Clinic for research, and after a five year period was given a clean bill of health. During her sixth year following chemotherapy, she was diagnosed as suffering from the same cancer; it had invaded the liver.
Lauren decided to write her life story. Her treatment of elementary school days, junior high, her year of chemo and her home tutor, her return to ninth grade wearing her wig, the first day she went without that wig, high school experiences, her modeling contract, the way she coped with her impending death, the continuing of her college education until she could no longer physically endure, the trauma of seeing her 32 year old brother die; all relate an aura, a searching for quality in each given day.
Her thoughts on acceptance, awareness, anger, guilt, her views of an omnipotent being, God; her ability to write poetry as she viewed and photographed life around her; the maturity and depth of her writings bring with them humor as well as pathos. She was concerned about those who loved her and those who medically assisted her. It was her hope to help others facing adversity, or who have loved ones suffering the direct trauma. Her journal was her companion as she coped with life. It brought her peace and acceptance; she would hope it could do the same for others.
Much of her manuscript is complete; it was necessary for her to outline journal entries she wished copied. I, her mother, have completed those listings and have related her final two and one half days at Hospice.
Journal entry June 29, 1986…The night is loud with thunder; the deep, sharp rumbling that shakes the house as if to remind the world that it is alive. It is not subtle, but in its brazen clap, I can find reason to rejoice; I live in the shadows of a wondrous and beautiful world, yet thunder is one element of nature from which I have not been excluded, for it penetrates walls.
Lauren's exclusion began after Christmas, 1985. She was confined to her hide-a-way in the upstairs of her home until Hospice on 14 of July, and died 16 July, 1986.
Respectfully submitted,
Muriel K. Isaacson (Mother)
Dedicated to…
those who came with culinary delights who shared of their time making crafts and visiting who brought lovely plants, curios and books who shared roses from their garden who, through Laurie's five year illness, remembered her often with cards and gifts of money and especially those who lifted her name and her family in supportive love and prayer.
Journal Quotes
"Carrying a secret would have been like transporting a dandelion seed head on a windy day."
"Cancer. One word, and yet it made such a difference; it was almost mathematical; just as surely as positive and negative numbers, multiplied, equaled a negative response, certainty coupled with uncertainty yielded uncertainty."
"Cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer took the weak, the strong, the indifferent, the proud, the cheerful, the embittered; it took all, greedily in an unquenchable hunger."
"Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair."
"The more the mind grows the more humble its 'master' becomes, for he realizes that knowledge is infinity and infinity cannot be encapsulated in the human brain."
Excerpt from DiaryJune 22, 1984
…In a relationship, truth can often times hurt. So, I am faced with the problem of whether to tell the truth or speak nothing. I would never choose to jeopardize a relationship, yet if that relationship is full of deception, or other undesirable attributes, and undiscerned by the other, is it noble to hold one's peace? For to bespeak truths could lead to ruinous separation…yet, a one-sided relationship is of no account.
If I could but harness the energy begotten of my anger towards self-obsessive persons, I could heat the house for a month. Perhaps, with time, I shall be able to transfer that energy toward the thinking of constructive thoughts. Anger cannot be felt without sustaining internal damage; a raging emotional fire surely must char the mind.
Prologue
Man's basic instinct is to survive, and despite all the civilizing and technological factors of the present, that basic instinct has remained. Though the improvements rendered on society through modernization has allowed each individual to live at a more leisurely pace, those same devices, conveniences and services have also separated each life from the healing qualities inherent in a life lived close to nature.
So often I have heard the remark, "Nature is cruel," yet I cannot regard that statement to be wholly true; nature should not be given a character which is labeled, at various intervals in time, as "good" or "bad"; it merely functions to the mutual interactions of all life. For life to continue, there must also be death. Nature is the intricate mechanism behind all living and dying things; it is reality in its most elemental sense. Unfortunately, it is the one reality which modern society has attempted to purge from all minds, and replace with a perverted idea of life; since it is nearly impossible for a man to live naturally, society has also obliterated the idea that one can die naturally, and quietly.
Even though one is facing death, it is yet difficult to relinquish that instinct, as well as the instinct to escape pain. One will do everything in his power to escape a sniper's gun, just as he would remove his hand from the hot kettle or jump at the prick of a needle. It is natural to protect ourselves. While sightless and immobile elderly may "want to die," they would never take their life.
In the case of disease and debilitation, a line must be drawn. When no treatment is available, one must say "enough" and try to find peace. Perhaps mercy will one day be a part of medicine.
Death should not be shielded from the young, and borne solely by the old; when death is faced, one can better learn to live.
Overcoming Disability and DeathThe True Hero
Some may argue that the only true heroes confronting a terminal and/or disabling disease are those who have overpowered that disease. May I respectfully disagree?
Lauren fought valiantly to retain a best level of health and ability, in spite of day after day, night after night, of chronic nausea, sweating, and fatigue. To give courage to anyone facing chronic disease, she fought to continue writing, even when physically and mentally exhausted. She continued to write, even up to her very last days of life. She was, and is, the true hero.
If you have faith in a higher power than either yourself or humanity in general; and if you have overpowered your disease or disability by faith, you are to be highly commended. If, by the grace of that same power, you have given your best effort, and your disease or disability either totally destroys your capacity, or demands your life; you are also deserving of honor.
Even those who found healing through faith in a higher power eventually met their earthly death; most likely by some disease that they could not, in spite of their faith, overcome. And death is a blessing, a relief from earthly suffering, not a horrid finality.
Faith in a higher power can afford courage in death, and timeless eternity in love.
Lauren's brother,Todd Isaacson
Monday, April 3, 2006Revised November 29, 2006
Spanish Letter (from a pen-pal from New Zealand)
Hola!
Me llamo DeanSoy de Nueva ZelandaTengo 29 anos
Hay cuatro en mi familia, Mis padres, mi hermana y yo. Mis padres viven en Auckland, Nueva Zelanda. Mientras mi hermana vive en Wigan, Inglaterra con Su familia.
Mi padre Uama Merv. Fune cincuerta y cuatro anos. Frabaja en La policia. Habla Maori y Jngles. Juega rugby y tenis. Foca La guitarra. Es muy simpatico, generoso, introvetido, sincero y sentimental. No es cruel, terrible y impulsivo. Se gusta viajar con mi madre.
Mi madre Uana Jan Fiene cincuerta anos. Habla Jngles, no habla Maori. No trabaja tambier. Se gusta nadar y beber. Es muy simpatico, generosa, servical, impulsivo y guapa. No es cruel, introvertido y rebelde.
Mi hermana Uama Tracy. Tiene Viente y seis anos. Tiene un esposo y dos ninos. La nina el mayor que la nino. Habla Italiano y ingles. No habla Maori. Es guapa, simpatica, maravellosa, Trabajadora y divertida. No es optimista, terrible, cruel, y aburrida.
Letter as corrected, with gratitude to Esther Erbele, Waterloo, Iowa, April 19, 2006.
Please note: Since the English alphabet lacks certain features commonly used in Spanish, the following words are given below, with explanation:
llamo - pronounced YAH-mo.
anos - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the n,pronounced AHN-yos.
nina - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,pronounced NEEN-yah.
nino - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,pronounced NEEN-yo.
ninos - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,pronounced NEEN-yos.
Ingles - requires an accent mark over the es,pronounced een-GLES.
simpatica - requires an accent mark over the at,pronounced seem-PAT-ee-kah.
simpatico - requires an accent mark over the at,pronounced seem-PAT-ee-ko.
Punctuation: In Spanish, the exclamation point (and the question mark) appear at the end of the sentence, and "upside down" at the beginning of the same sentence.
Hola!
Me llamo DeanSoy de Nueva ZelandaTengo 29 anos
Hay cuatro en mi familia, Mis padres, mi hermana y yo. Mis padres viven en Auckland, Nueva Zelanda. Mientras que mi hermana vive en Wigan, Inglaterra, con su familia.
Mi padre se llama Merv, tiene cincuenta y cuatro (54) anos.Trabaja en la policia. Habla Maori e Ingles. Juega rugby y tenis.Toca la guitarra. Es muy simpatico, generoso, ocupado, sinceroy sentimental. No es cruel, terrible o impulsivo.Le gusta viajar con mi madre.
Mi madre se llama Jan, tiene cincuenta (50) anos. Habla Ingles,no habla Maori. No trabaja tambien. Le gusta nadar y beber.Es muy simpatica, generosa, servicial, impulsivo y guapa.No es cruel, introvertido o rebelde.
Mi hermana se llama Tracy, tiene viente y seis (26) anos. Tiene un esposo y dos ninos. La nina es mayor, que el nino. Habla Italiano e Ingles. No habla Maori. Es guapa, simpatica, maravillosa, trabajadora y divertida. No es oportunista, terrible, cruel, o aburrida.
Letter translated by Esther Erbele,Waterloo, Iowa, April 19, 2006.
Hello!
My name is DeanI'm from New ZealandI'm 29 years old
There are four (4) in my family, my parents, my sister, and I. My parents live in Aukland, New Zealand. Meanwhile, my sister lives in Wigan (Manchester), England, with her family.
My father named Merv is fifty-four (54) years old. He works in the police department. He speaks Maori and English. He plays rugby and tennis. He plays the guitar. He is agreeable generous, involved, sincere, and sentimental. He is not cruel, terrible, or impulsive. He likes to travel with my mother.
My mother named Jan is fifty (50) years old. She speaks English, does not speak Maori. She does not work also. (She is not employed outside the home.) She likes to swim and drink (refreshments). She is agreeable, generous, a helper, impulsive, and good looking. She is not cruel, introverted, or rebellious.
My sister named Tracy is twenty-six (26) years old. She has a husband and two (2) children. The girl is older than the boy. (Tracy) speaks Italian and English. She doesn't speak Maori. She is good looking, agreeable, marvelous, a good worker, and enjoys herself. She is not opportunistic, terrible, cruel, or boring.
(Lauren's trip to Mexico is presented on PAGE 160Chapter 21 - Twelfth Grade.)
Early Years
"Having no definite values, one is nothing, insubstantial and devoid of character."
Early Years
Long before I entered the world, my family indulged in activities which germinated lasting memories in their minds, and though I do not personally recall such events, their existence often touched my life in some way. Had my ancestors lived differently over the course of time, the most insignificant alteration could have impeded my very life. Such is the delicate thread from which humanity is suspended and on which we depend to obtain, and retain life.
The two individuals to whom I am inextricably bound, are, of course, my parents. Through their childhood reflections, I have been able to meld history into my being, for their past is part of me.
I always loved older people, especially those who had not allowed themselves to become embittered by time and the changes it renders upon all living and inanimate things. Too often, old age is maligned, as if it is a communicable disease that, avoided or ignored, will never touch more than that which it has already claimed. Reacting thus, an individual gains nothing and loses the joy begotten of the remembrances related through wrinkled smiles and twinkling eyes. Older people have much to give; love, which like a fine wine, matures and is sweeter with age; reflections of the past that, unheard, will be buried and appreciated by no one; and the wisdom and tranquillity of character that comes with the acceptance of death and the ability to live.
Many times I hear the complaint that an older person is "set in his ways" and will yield to no fresh mode of thought. To me, this indicates that the older individual has an established ethical and moral code which evolved through a life-long struggle for inner peace. Predictability, under these conditions, is earned; each of life's problematic questions had been meticulously solved, carving daily the beliefs which became the man. Having no definitive values, one is nothing, insubstantial and devoid of character.
I cherish my father's childhood memories, and always listen with fascination when he tells and retells past events. Through his speech, I am able to grasp the bygone years and color the family portrait of which I was never an active part.
My father's father died before I was born and his mother shortly thereafter. John Emil and Hilda Isaacson; ancient names, they seemed to me, yet Dad's memory brought life to their photographs and instilled in me a wish that I could have known them as had my father. John Emil was a character; and insatiable tease who provoked the more serious Hilda: he made dandelion wine and tested it so frequently that it was entirely consumed before attaining an alcohol consistency. He ice-sailed on the Mississippi, showing little concern for the dangers of air holes and thin ice while traveling at a high rate of speed. He had learned to swim by being pushed off a river barge.
Dad never learned to swim, perhaps because he was never given as good an opportunity as his father. This served as no impediment to fun, however. He was always busy; if he did not have toys, he made them, setting to work with a natural expertise for the mechanical realm. From the Buddy L and other junk yards and garbage heaps, he and his brother salvaged rejected parts and recycled them into usable toys. He fashioned bicycles in the same manner; later, parts were gathered….a scrapped frame, a model T motor from a neighbor, a coupe body from another area….Bravo!…the finished product…a car! When the gas in the tank was low, it was necessary to go backwards up the hill, allowing gas to flow into the carburetor.
Dad told of dares waged between himself and a neighbor boy wherein each boy jumped from one large tree to the branches of another tree; he laughed about the crabapples which he blew sky-high using firecrackers and a metal pipe. He recalled holidays, from the Christmas when his father told the children, "There will be no toys this year because you'll have a new baby brother," and his accompanying joylessness toward that news. Joy returned, however, when he received a wind-up train and the accompanying round track. He reminisced about the Easter egg hunts where the hoard was heaped upon the table, and, under four watchful sets of eyes, divided by size and color until the remaining odd number of eggs were given to his mother. I heard of the one valentine which he received in second grade that had been used and reused countless times. I learned, also, of the severe case of diphtheria, which at six, nearly claimed his life. He related actually seeing fiery flames leaping from his bed sheets while struggling to overcome his high fever.
About the time that my father had reached ten years of age, my mother was born in Elgin, Illinois. I was privileged to interact with my mother's parents whose heritage was somewhat different from that of my father. My grandfather, Leslie Howard Anderson, was a descendant of Mary Chilton, who crossed the ocean on the Mayflower with her parents James and Susanna. She became the wife of John Winslow whose family came from Dartwich, England. There follows such historical places as Plymouth and Bridgewater, Massachusetts; the era of the steamboats and Mary Chilton's name gracing one of the boats; the name "Howard" down through the lineage to my uncle, Leslie Howard Anderson, Jr.; the descendants move from Bridgewater to Detroit, Michigan and on to Dixon, Illinois; the trek from Illinois in a covered wagon to lay claim to a quarter of a section in Ole Brul County in South Dakota, and the stories of homesteading in the little sod house whose walls were papered with newspaper…all fascinating!
My Grandmother Anna's parents came from Germany to America before they were ten years of age. In the 1800's the Kaiser was mobilizing his forces. Immigration was popular during this period. Grandma tells of fighting with her sister over who was to control (by hand) the dasher for the wooden washing machine; of hitting a fellow schoolmate over the head with her lunch pail because of his incessant teasing, of the shoulder that was a little lower than the other, and how her brothers would sit in church and keep moving their shoulders up and down to remind her to hold that shoulder "up" while she led the group in "Opening Exercises." Church school was an important part of her life and she served as a Sunday School teacher well into her 70's.
It would be nothing short of a lie to say that I actually remember my first years of life, having, as it was, little to do with life's crises except assuring myself of thoughtless comfort. I indulged in the selfish desires that typify the usual child, gleefully absorbed in play until I discovered that I had soiled my diapers or was shot with a pang of hunger.
Perhaps it would be accurate to say that my earliest memories were not truly remembrances at all, but rather, images that were repeatedly described to me until I finally adopted them for my own.
My earliest actual memories evolve around the age of four years. By that time, I was capable of performing many duties for myself, and my vocabulary was developing rapidly. I had the ability to form conceptions of others, and thus relationships began to materialize. I could now be considered an active family member, for I was no longer solely dependent upon my parents, or my siblings, to be the mechanism behind my existence.
I suppose that one might say I was spoiled to the extent that good loving can spoil a child, although each member of my family agrees that I was not spoiled in the obnoxious sense of the word. I was never a nuisance, either to other children or to adults. I promptly did what I was instructed to do; so obedient was I, in fact, that a strong word or tone of voice had the ability to bring tears to my eyes. I caused no trouble, nor did I want any trouble.
I recall an encounter with Great Uncle Gust in which I was bidden to sit on his lap. Upon close observation, however, I was appalled to discover that the elderly gentleman had only four fingers on one of his large hands. I shied away from him. This was a rather traumatic sight to deal with at that age, for I had only been exposed to the facets of life which would be classified as "normal."
Despite my timidity toward sharp words and unusual events, I cannot say this trait carried over into the physical world of scrapes and bruises. I rarely cried for bodily injury, electing on most occasions to laugh and exclaim about the stupidity of my lack of coordination. A case in point, falling off of Mary's bicycle into her father's bed of roses. I was willing to testify that rose bushes have plenty of thorns; however, I felt no use for tears.
A very early and, at the time, quite unpleasant instance would have to include an ill-fated picnic at a local park. After having eaten my fill of grilled pork chops and corn on the cob, I gingerly led the way down a well-worn trail. As I descended, I gradually gained momentum, eventually finding myself duly out of control of my legs. Consequently, I hurdled over a projecting tree root and landed in a ditch of broken beer bottles. I rose in terror, admonishing a true battle scar on my right hand.
Once at the hospital, a doctor was doing his best to aid my injury. I considered myself to be in terrific pain, and when he began attempting to clamp my wound, I felt that he was doing me no service. Outraged, I bit the doctor squarely on the arm. Apparently he didn't relish my lack of enthusiasm and quickly bit me back. I was a trifle shocked; however, I accepted the unspoken truce with no further outbursts.
I was also given to occasional inexplicable fears, such as a fleeting intolerance for what I considered "fast and dangerous vehicles," including sled rides and motoring about in our home-made go-cart, dubbed "the chug." My mom would soon tire of my ridiculous reactions to those things most children would consider fun, and override my stubborn insecurity by making me ride. The other kids were right. It was fun!
More than anything else, I liked to be at home. I loved to romp through the woods or busy myself indoors. Aside from my neighborhood friends, I seldom sought interaction with others of my age; spending much of my time with adults or alone. I was content with my crafts, swing-set and the like. This attribute may account, to a degree, for my shyness and lack of enthusiasm for group activities. On the whole, I found it very difficult to speak at gatherings unless a question was deliberately pointed in my direction.
As do most children, I enjoyed Kindergarten, although I did not mingle with others during free-time. I found the various activities to be interesting and to my liking. I loved the many art projects, except those in which we were forced to use messy paste pots. I detested sticky fingers, and was shocked to discover that some children liked paste to such a degree that they would eat it. I recall stringing beads to create necklaces through the duration of many play-times; the teacher would sometimes suggest that I play with the other children, but that idea I strongly opposed. I would, on occasion, join the group at her bidding, but shortly I would excuse myself to once again make necklaces. I simply did not relish pandemonium.
Grade school proved to be neither a happy nor unhappy affair. I considered it an integral part of growing up through which every child must pass. I made acquaintances, for I could not truly label these individuals as friends, so cruel and insensitive they often showed themselves to be. Many would mock less fortunate children, reasoning that their standing amongst their peers would undoubtedly be raised for their unjust behavior. Only once did I resort to such base inclinations for the supposed purpose of gaining popularity, and once was enough for me. Coupled with the fact that I was nearly "caught" by the subject of my ridicule, I despised myself for behaving in such a lowly manner. From that day to the present I have kept my comments hidden, or if I do speak aloud, I am prepared to stand behind my statements. I speak only of my distaste for actions which I personally regard as wrong or spurred through a lack of control; any further comments are of no consequence unless the subject is able to change those things about which he is being ridiculed.
Although I excelled academically in school, I was always content when the time would come to be dismissed. I liked school only in the sense that I enjoyed the result of successfully completing my assignments. I felt a certain compulsion to produce perfection: I believed that if I was to engage in an activity at all, I should do my best, or my time thus engaged would be without worth.
This desire for perfection had a price, however, because certain activities conflicted with my personality. Although physical education was my ultimate terror, the only subject with which I grappled considerably was mathematics. After the most elementary techniques of addition, multiplication, and their counterparts were mastered, I found myself to be floundering in a sea of the seemingly "unknowable." I had extreme difficulty accepting the various theorems and equations without asking the method behind their stated form. I was alarmed to deal with absolutes, finding it hard to believe that any subject was so unyielding and allowed no room for error, however slight.
In my inability to accept the laws of mathematics "wholesale," I soon discovered that there were those teachers who disliked students who failed to grasp their subject matter. Perhaps they felt that one who did not understand was undoubtedly inattentive in class and was therefore undeserving of any further assistance outside of class, especially when the extra time was the teacher's own. In many instances, I would seek the mathematically inclined intelligence of my cousin, Gary, or attempt to work out my disaster through additional reading and calculation, rather than face the malignant stare of an insensitive instructor.
My other enemy throughout school was, as mentioned, physical education. Although I was not uncoordinated, I was unfamiliar with many of the sports, and my lack of social aggressiveness affected my performance in a way which could only be described as unfavorable. I felt the class to be senselessly competitive; so concerned were my schoolmates with winning that to say we were involved in a "game" was totally incomprehensible. Except for running, and a somewhat comical aptitude for standing on my head, I dreaded the activities, and detested any sport which dealt with balls. The teachers augmented a student's frail self-image by allowing individuals to choose their own teams, resulting, of course, in the less able participants being chosen last. Once the game began, I felt besieged by paranoia; my blunders were met by icy glances of derision, despite my desperate attempts to perform in an admirable fashion. I soon learned that sports were not games, but battles in which winning meant everything. Under such conditions, I had absolutely no hope or desire to fight.
I have always found it quite interesting that children will attack one another about many short-comings, but will say nothing of certain other equally embarrassing occurrences. My observations include those bodily accidents which could be avoided, such as dirtying one's pants or vomiting in the classroom. One is always amply warned, but sheer embarrassment often will not allow the child to mention his predicament before the entire class is visually aware of it.
I once vomited in second grade, too afraid to raise my hand to ask permission of the substitute teacher to be excused. I was always wary of substitutes, and perhaps I also thought that my nausea would eventually subside if I remained very still. It did not, and I spewed gastric liquid all over my book and desk. I was allowed to go home, pacified only by the fact that my "boyfriend" happened to be absent that day. On my return to school I found that my anxiety was needless, for no one mentioned my catastrophe of several days earlier. No one ever ridiculed another person for those types of accidents. Perhaps there exists an unspoken truce amongst children to avoid such harassment because each child knows that it could have happened to him.
I fostered a slight fear toward substitute teachers throughout grade school. They often tended to be rather insecure, a trait which I felt they were justified in having. Substitute teachers paralleled chaos; either the class would be utterly uncontrollable and would be allowed to do as it pleased or the teacher would be unreasonably strict and foreboding. More than the substitutes, I hated when the regular teacher would return. Inevitably, he or she would verbally lash the class, leaving my spirit crushed, albeit the fact that I deserved no such punishment. Those who do not need chastisement, and for whom it was not intended, are always the ones who take it to heart.
Throughout my earlier years, my main playmate was Mary, a girl who lived several houses up the avenue. That her age bested mine by four years did not seem to restrict our friendship in the least; I had a habit of better enjoying the company of those older than myself, and obviously this was no exception.
Much of our play involved the riding of our tricycles, which placed us under the fire of the neighborhood boys, who were sporting bicycles at considerably younger ages. We would ride our trikes despite the ridicule, however, as they afforded a modest degree of mobility and could also be manipulated to serve as reasonable scooters if one so desired.
One of the boys whose tongue was particularly keen happened to acquire a bicycle after a mere six years of life. He would fly past us, wearing a smile of overt superiority, as we tramped our much slower vehicles up the avenue. We bore his stately self-assurance as if it were an inherent factor of childhood which would one day be relinquished for a more affable character, as eventually, it was.
We looked on as he joyously raced through the neighborhood amid a cloud of arrogance; he circled, and returned, then lifted the front wheel off the pavement a trifle too far, causing an irreversible conjunction with the unyielding cement. His back found the street as his bike crashed to its side nearby. I believe the entire neighborhood must have heard his pride dissipating into the humid summer breeze; after that decidedly rough lesson, he no longer jeered at our mode of transportation.
Mary and I rarely played with dolls, although we were both fortunate to have them. Playing with dolls, for us, consisted more of dressing our "Barbies" in their various costumes, and perhaps, dreaming that we would one day appear as shapely and attractive as they, rather than actually involving ourselves with dialogue.
We would often gather together an assorted array of trinkets and gumball machine prizes for the purpose of trading those we no longer treasured. Although I admired the appearance of certain "stars," my devotion was more pretense than real: I could not love an individual simply through reading a handful of trivia gathered by prying, assuming publications. The inclusion of an idol in one's imaginings could result in nothing short of disappointment, and is therefore a cruel waste of time. Thankfully, I was free of any form of infatuation for those in the midst of stardom by the time I reached junior high school.
Mary and I shared many entertaining hours, but the most memorable occasions were those of our overnight slumber parties. I loved going to her house, as her parents maintained a different store of food than did my own. We would often eat "Wonder Bread" spread with butter, accompanied quite nicely, we thought, with a bottle of Pepsi. (My mom always bought the kind of bread that would not stick to the roof of one's mouth, but, as she put it, "would stick to your ribs!" Health bread was not my idea of a good snack.) As we munched on our favored snack, our mothers would wince, believing that our combination was food fit for convicts. We were undauntedly convinced to think otherwise. Occasionally, we tossed a frozen pizza into the oven to complete our late night feast.
During these affairs we would occupy our time in idle conversation, watch television, or involve ourselves in a singular form of diversion, paging through the telephone books in search of the city's strangest names.
When the party was held at my house, the usual schedule was not complete without my father grabbing our legs and dragging us from the couch and across the carpet. Rarely could we walk our arms fast enough to avoid a slight case of "rug burn."
Instead of bread and pizza we had popcorn and homemade cookies. As my mother was never an advocate of carbonated beverages, soda pop was seldom seen in our refrigerator. (To this day, she will bristle at the mention of "cola.") If we did have pop, it was the less-revered Lady Lee or Jewel brand.
Mary and I got along quite well, as neither of us possessed any fiery attributes. We were both mild mannered and soft-spoken; to my great relief, she shared my lack of enthusiasm for sports.
I was always amazed at her capacity for food; she ate heartily, yet remained a mere wisp of a shadow. Another of her characteristics which I deemed truly awesome was her ability to sleep undisturbed while her mother vacuumed around her bed.
It is difficult to venture those attributes which Mary may have associated with the essence of my character; maybe it was my joke, instead of tears, after an injury, or the humor which would evoke her smile and easy laughter. At any rate, I could have had no finer friend throughout the initial stages of my life, and although we now are far apart, and living in our separate worlds, those memories of our companionship shall persist for all time.
Steve, my other neighborhood buddy, lived next door. We were much closer in age than Mary and I, with our birthdays being only six months apart. I spent quite a bit of time with him, though more so during the summer months; we were in separate grades in school and that seemed to make a slight difference in our friends. In grade school, more than any other higher school of education one is more aware of age, somehow relating that directly to one's social status; in effect, a person of a higher grade should not be caught dead conversing with his younger neighborhood friends, at least not at school.
Once apart from our peers, we were the greatest of friends. We often sought out windfalls in the woods, which made terrific "camps," or simply hiked along the creek bed. Names were bestowed upon various landmarks according to their appearance; one drop-off was christened "dead man's bluff" while a small grove of wild chives was called "the onion field." There was a seemingly endless amount of diversion in the woods and we used it to our best advantage.
It was Steve I chose to accompany me on family excursions to parks and wildlife refuges; he was more game to tromp through the woods than were many of my companions.
One of the attributes which gave Steve rare character was his flawless honesty with respect to one's appearance or annoying habits. He would as quickly inform a person of a rip in his garment as he would another who was oblivious of the mucous running from his nose. If there was something amiss that by most standards should be set aright, he would see that it was done. Through Steve's keen insight and equally sharp ability to verbalize these faults, I was made aware of the fact that I walked "pigeon-toed" and soon corrected the matter through close observation. Personally, I feel grateful to Steve. There is no crime in voicing that which, with time or practice, can be overcome.
Some people who are quick to express the faults of others also lack all tact and sensitivity. This was not so with Steve. In his perceptiveness, he unquestionably found room for a great amount of personal concern and interest. Perhaps the most touching instance in which I witnessed this demonstration of care was when I was yet quite young. We were playing outside on the Tarzan swing in my backyard, when, without warning, a loud clap of thunder issued forth from the gray sky. So completely taken by surprise was I that I began to cry. It would have been so easy for him to mock my fright, but instead he jumped up and headed for his house, yelling, "Wait here!" Several minutes passed before he returned carrying a banana. He presented it to me, saying, "This will cheer you up!" He was not aware that I truly disliked bananas, but I was so touched by his show of affection that I humbly ate the fruit and thanked him for his kindness. That little episode of human kindness shall forever remain dear to me. It also altered somewhat my view of bananas.
Summer vacation brought almost unbelievable happiness, a magnetic appeal akin to freedom, for I was generally allowed to spend time as I wished. I seldom encountered schoolmates, and if there was a rendezvous, it was never brought about by my doing. It was far more convenient to call upon my two neighborhood friends, or to simply amuse myself.
Summer was not complete bliss, however, for yearly it brought a dreaded horror to life…camp! My first encounter following Kindergarten…Day Camp. I was terrified upon discovering that I was to exist amid a mob of virtual barbarians for the better part of each weekday. This lasted for but two weeks, yet it seemed an eternity. Each morning I boarded a school bus brimming with children to then endure a jostling, thirty minute ride to the location of the camp itself. Once there, we were to join our assigned group and the daily activities would commence. There were art projects, games, competition, hikes and swimming lessons. Many activities would have been quite pleasing had I been in the company of friends. However, shyness had no place at camp, and I felt constantly ill at ease.
An additional undesirable factor possessed the name "Betsy." In effect, Betsy was the group bully, resembling, ironically, the "Peanuts" character "Lucy" in both form and personality. On one of her particularly shining moments, she told me and another equally shy girl that she would make us sleep overnight in the boys' tent on the last night. Needless to say, we were scared silly although the threat could never have materialized.
Another camp, owned and operated by the Girl Scouts, was also a source of much summertime duress, although I recall very little about this camp other than the fact that the homeward-bound bus was a welcome sight.
The final camp to which I was sent for a week's time during two consecutive summers, was a King's Daughters Camp. I never relished the idea of rooming with people I did not know, yet here I was obliged to do so. Again, the camp was regimented into various activity schedules to which each camper was to adhere.
I was friendly, but not outgoing and confident, and as time crept by at a snail's pace, I became more and more hounded by loneliness. I wrote my family many postcards lamenting my undesirable situation, but time thus spent only seemed to make the problem worse.