Coming of Age in The Age of Aquarius

I turned thirteen in San Diego, California. It was July 1967. The Summer of Love. My best friend's parents invited me to go with them to a convention her father was attending. We drove from Michigan to California in a small, yellow VW Bug. Her mom was real cool and she let me pick-out a birthday frock. It was decidedly a hippie dress. A gathered top with wide sleeves and a wide flowing short skirt in a multi-colored print like a water-color. I loved it. Her dad hated it and so would my mom. I also had my first peck of a kiss by a boy in an elevator. We had met some other kids my age and he was part of the group. To celebrate my birthday we went to eat at my new favorite restaurant, LOVES's BBQ Rib House. It was a meaningful and exciting July for me. A brand new teenager on the brink of my own "Magical Mystery Tour" as the Beatles continued to write the sound-track to my youth. 

A few short weeks after our return to Michigan the 12th Street Race Riots broke-out in downtown Detroit. My Aunt Mildred still lived down there on Butternut Street. Her daughter, my cousin, Audrey and I were tasked to go down to rescue her from the dangerous situation. It was indeed dangerous and very scary. As we drove down Trumble Ave. to 'Bean-Town" we could see the looting going on and fires being set; people running and yelling; police unsure of what to do other than to turn-on all their squad flashers. We parked in front of her apartment building almost afraid to get out except that we wanted to get Millie out of there and head back to the safety of the suburbs. We ran inside and helped her pack a few things; as looters ran across the back porches of her apartments going wild. Jimi Hendrix put out his "Are You Experienced" album that year and I was sure starting to feel like I was getting some. Perhaps a little more than I wanted in such a short amount of time.

The rest of the summer lazed-on-by. I got my first serious case of urticaria or hives. The doctor wasn't sure if it was because we played in the woods behind the house or due to nerves because of the trauma I'd been though during the first part of the year. He put me on Benadryl which caused me to sleep a lot. It was a pink haze rather than a "Purple Haze." That would come later.

The year wouldn't let-up. Otis Redding should have stayed "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" as he was killed in an airplane crash which further broke my little brother's heart as he loved that song. I didn't have a dock to sit on, but I managed to waste a lot of time as I had just left elementary school and started Junior High School at Haston. There I would learn that I hated Physical Education class and almost understood what a blow-job was. A creepy pedophile that we called "Flat-Top" used to drive around the school and pick-up boys to drive with him and perform this act for money, cigarettes and candy. I wasn't real sure what was going on, but I knew for sure that it was not good and the boys shouldn't have been going with him. I watched closely after my little brother and carefully walked him to the bus. 

I suffered under the tutelage of our Phys. Ed. teacher, Miss G. for the next couple of years. She was determined to get me to become a competitive jock. She used old school methods like throwing medicine balls into the middle of my stomach and knocking the air out of me to holding my head under the water to make me unafraid of drowning. It didn't work. I became terrified and no longer just afraid. To this day I have an irrational fear of water. I was so very happy to be moving onto high-school until I learned that she too was going to transfer and become our high-school PE teacher. I ended-up having her for another four years of "fun" in the sun; in the locker-room; and in the pool. She did teach me the rules and plays of baseball for which I am very grateful. I love my Detroit Tigers. The Beatles turned-out "All You Need is Love" which would become my elusive goal in life. Love. 

Religious Rediculousness

My mother was a died-in-the-wool member of the Church of Christ. Yes, the one where they don't use musical instruments in their worship; teach girls not to dance; wear make-up or otherwise dress suggestively and most importantly that women have no place in worship other than to sit quietly and sing when appropriate. Women are not even allowed to teach Sunday School to male children over the age of 12. Imagine my shock when I spent my life going three times per week: Sunday morning, Sunday evening and Wednesday evening and any other time the doors were open only to realize in my early teens that I was a non-person. It didn't sit well with my personality, to say the least. 

I went though. I had no choice. Mother told me I "had" to go until I was sixteen years old and then I could make my own decision to continue to not. I did not. There were moments that I recall as precious. The Acapella singing was really quite beautiful. I was in choir at school and in the Madrigal Acapella singing group in high-school. I did love the singing. I remember as a small child playing with an old ladies hat pins as we sat behind her in church. I remember looking at the beautifully carved pews with grapevines and leaves on the end posts. I also remember being taunted and teased and looked-down-upon because I was the daughter of a poor, blind widow. Youth are viscous regardless of where you find them. It wasn't just the youth though. The adults saw our family with eyes of pity. One cannot ascribe to feeling like a worthwhile person when pitied to the extent that we were. 

Anyway, all of this is to say that Bruce was slung around the baptismal font like a toy on the end of a stick. He had been converted and baptized Catholic on the battlefield in preparation to marry Barbara in the Catholic Church. I supposed he did have some modicum of hope while he was there. Barbara and her family scheduled a Rosary to be said at the funeral home and as they were all gathering on their knees in front of the casket, mother made Gary and I leave and go downstairs to the lounge. She did not want us to bear witness to something so foreign to her. I guess she was afraid that we too might "catch" Catholicism and go to hell. 

The Church of Christ people think they are the ONLY religion that will give entry into heaven. You've heard the joke: Guy dies and goes to heaven. St. Peter gives him the tour and when they reach a big meeting room he tells the guy to be real quiet as the Church of Christ people are in there and they think they're the only ones in heaven.

Next day she had a full mass said for Bruce at Divine Child Catholic Church. They took the casket over to the church so we stayed home that day. I seriously regret that we did not get to go. Now that I'm over 60 I know that I would have been blessed by that service as I am spiritually exhilarated and soothed by High Church. Of course I didn't know that then and didn't want to be the source of causing my mom more discomfort as she acquiesced to Barb's needs as his finance.

So the expectations and local mourning were over in Dearborn Heights, MI and it was time to take his body to Tennessee for burial. Mother would not consider flying so she rode in the car with her brother, Howard, and his wife - the one that hated us. My oldest brother, Clyde, stayed with Gary and I until the next morning when we three flew in our first airplane ride. It was quite exciting really. Although, in a funeral climate we had to keep ourselves contained. 

We arrived at Aunt Effie's house, mom's sister in Clarksville, Tennessee. Mom was ensconced in the rocker looking medieval in her black mourning clothes and head-down. I know she was hurt. I know she was devastated. I don't necessarily begrudge her the drama. Only that in hind-sight we experienced the sadness and a depth of despair that was not healthy for two young children to live with for years to come. It destroyed our family. Totally destroyed it. 

After another little country Church of Christ funeral, we buried him next to my father with my mother's future grave in between them. There was the flag ceremony; the 21 gun salute; the bugle playing taps...the whole military nine yards. It was ever so sad. I do not recall going back to Michigan, but I know we did fairly quickly as we needed to get on with life. It was the worst of times and it was the worst of times. Somehow we survived.