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 1990
Released into public domain: 2006
Library of Congress Catalog Card #90 93276
ISBN 0-9628196-0-3
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 Early Years 1
Chapter 2 My Brothers 11
Chapter 3 Todd's Illness 16
Chapter 4 Fifth Grade 19
Chapter 5 Norm / Marriage 24
Chapter 6 Norm / Reflections 28
Chapter 7 Todd / Reflections 31
Chapter 8 Sixth Grade 33
Chapter 9 Discovery of Tumor 38
Chapter 10 Preparation and Surgery 49
Chapter 11 Diagnosis and Recovery 53
Chapter 12 Chemotherapy 70
Chapter 13 Year at Home and Diary 87
Chapter 14 Summer 1976 111
Chapter 15 Return to School 114
Chapter 16 Divorce 119
Chapter 17 Ninth Grade 127
Chapter 18 Summer 1977 133
Chapter 19 Tenth Grade 137
Chapter 20 Eleventh Grade 140
Chapter 21 Twelfth Grade 160
Chapter 22 Summer 1980 167
Chapter 23 Black Hawk College 175
Essays: Views on Choice 181
Views on Awareness 183
Chapter 24 Interlude 187
Chapter 25 Return of Cancer 195
Essays: Suffering 212
Quality in Life 213
Bargaining and Prayer 214
Chapter 26 Categories of Acceptance 216
Chapter 27 Frustrations 225
Chapter 28 Christmas 1981 230
Chapter 29 Self Imposed Barriers 232
Chapter 30 Autumn at Augustana 236
Chapter 31 Depression 243
Chapter 32 Basic Day 246
Chapter 33 Treatment / Hoax 251
Chapter 34 Journey to Greece 254
Chapter 35 In Limbo 263
Chapter 36 Reflections 267
Chapter 37 Zenith of Grief 276
Chapter 38 Personal Belief 284
Chapter 39 Reminiscence 286
Chapter 40 God, My View 288
Chapter 41 Continuum 291
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 Diary
June 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
DEATH
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 Death
The 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, 2006
Revised November 29, 2006
Spanish Letter (from a pen-pal from New Zealand)
Hola!
Me llamo Dean
Soy de Nueva Zelanda
Tengo 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 Dean
Soy de Nueva Zelanda
Tengo 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, sincero
y 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 Dean
I'm from New Zealand
I'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 160
Chapter 21 - Twelfth Grade.)
PAGE 1
Chapter 1
Early Years
"Having no definite values, one is nothing, insubstantial
and devoid of character."
CHAPTER ONE
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.
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