Summer 1976
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Summer 1976
Summer was always a time of change, and many transformations touched my
life with the coming of the month of June. School was out of session,
and consequently, my tutor's last day was the 3rd; I now shared more in
common with the other students in that a three month recess from
education had just begun, and the fall semester would find me, like
them, returning to junior high.
Mom, too, closed the door of her Kindergarten classroom for the summer,
although she still persisted in pursuing various projects which related
to her employment during her free time. She was home, however, and
that was the most important thing. It seemed to me that life was
returning to normal and I felt less alienated from society since there
was more activity surrounding my home. Despite other changes I still
looked forward to mail, especially with the advent of my subscription
for pen pals; however, I also found my other mailings to be of great
interest, and appreciated each envelope with my name on it. An
advertisement for the sale of Christmas cards found its way into my
hands one morning, and after reading all of the information, I wondered
if I should try to sell the cards door to door for added Christmas
income. As I mulled over the idea, Mom noticed the pile of literature
scattered upon the kitchen table, and briefing herself slightly,
proclaimed that it would be a wonderful way to "present myself to
people" through my own initiative and heartily applauded the idea.
Several days of thought ensued before I decided to sell the cards; the
profit eventually cinched the matter, overshadowing my fear of knocking
on doors and being rejected by potential customers. It was fun to see
my neighbors, and I felt comfortable standing outside their doors even
if my visit was basically business related. I walked up and down my
block, collecting orders and trying to gain courage through the sales
which I had already enlisted, for I would soon scout further territory
wherein I knew few names and equally few faces.
As I had suspected, my sales declined rapidly once I ventured outside
of the neighborhood, and my bravery and spirit departed "en masse." I
had detested trying to sell Girl Scout cookies, and I strained to find
a reason why I felt that selling cards would prove to be any different.
It was different, however, because it was worse; no one recognized the
company whose cards I was attempting to sell, and furthermore, I had to
collect the money and make the necessary change (which horrified me) at
the time of the order, rather than the delivery of the cards. I soon
had more than enough refusals to warrant my dismissal of any idea of
making further sales.
June 25, 1976... Got dressed and went out on 53rd St. selling (or
trying to sell) my cards. No one bought a thing. A lot of 'em gave
excuses like, "I just got home from the hospital" and "I buy from a
girl down the block and don't want to hurt her feelings" ETC. !!
What do they think they're doing to me?
July 1, 1976... This week has seemed endless. I wake up and Mom says,
"You'd better start selling your cards, hadn't you?" and so I do and I
come back half zonked and then I do some chores around the house and
then write letters. I feel real depressed... I didn't sell any cards
today. . . didn't feel like it. After some persuading I went to (the
mall ) with Mom. Ate supper. Did dishes, piano, wrote letters... the
same old grind! I'm taking a bath and I wish someone would buy me
some bath oil... I think I deserve it after this week!
July 3, 1976... Counted my money for Xmas cards and I came out $17.00
short. After all that work! I cried for at least a half hour. I was
really broke up. I did a lot of change making wrong.
Salesmanship was definitely not my station in life, and not
understanding how to make change supported that belief. If, for each
sale of a $4.95 box of cards, I was given a five dollar bill, my notion
of making change concluded that, since it was under five dollars, the
person should receive one dollar, plus five cents to bring the 95 cents
to a dollar. My only salvation came by way of checks or a patron
telling me the amount of change he was due; otherwise, my blunders
rampaged unnoticed, or at least, unrevealed.
Had I been of stout health, my disappointment would not have settled so
deeply on my heart, but the embarrassment and mental fatigue doubled
with the recollection of the energy I had expended... I felt used and
humiliated "after all that work!..." and the tears flowed unrestrained.
Unasked, Mom and Dad made up the difference in the end, thus rescuing
me from the depths of self-wrought despair. My work had not been in
vain after all.
July 29th was my dad's last day of work as a tool and die maker at John
Deere Industrial Equipment after 17 years of service. The following
day, a Friday, he appeared at the shop for a final farewell.
Retirement for my dad was a rather melancholy affair; it was the end to
an age, and the commencement of a new and different lifestyle. He had
worked since he was 18 years old with the idea that work...
productiveness... paralleled one's self-worth, which, in a society that
is inter-dependent upon each other's conscientiousness, is quite
useful... until a good worker retires and considers himself to be of no
more importance than a bald tire. A full life of integrity on the job
is all that society requires of anyone; retirement viewed in this scope
is justly earned.
Dad's party was an acknowledgement of his worth to us, which grew only
greater with the passing of one year to the next. His labors around
the house amplified his presence, and it seemed that all he did for us
were reflections of his love. Dad most certainly did not waste away in
front of the television or newspaper in his retirement; work was more
than ethical... it was a welcomed pastime.
We departed for Colorado the day following Dad's retirement
celebration, and for awhile, it seemed as if nothing of such
consequence had occurred in the family. Vacations were a summer-time
tradition which, that year, meant a ten day absence from home while we
skirted the southern Rocky Mountains and climbed about ancient Indian
villages, nestled under precipitous overhangs in cliffs. I eagerly
tested my new camera, a purchase of several weeks earlier and harvest
of many months of saving, as each new scene presented itself.
Initially battling with the aperture and speed controls amid haphazard
focusing, I eventually began to understand the mechanics of my machine
and concentrated on the actual making of photographs. Scenic vistas
and close-ups became my favorite subjects, since people often cringed
at the sight of a camera and I did not desire to fight derision with
obstinance; flowers were far more cooperative, especially on a calm day.
A trip from home always made me appreciate the routine which was
temporarily discarded. As we began to find eastbound routes, my
excitement rose almost to the point it had reached upon our departure;
and while I was happy that we had gone west, I delighted in the
knowledge that my own bed was hours away.
Shortly after we arrived home, Mom and I had to leave for Mayo Clinic.
We had planned our vacation according to Dad's retirement date and the
latter portion of time between my treatments; the close proximity of
the dates made our adrenalin race, yet all appointments were easily
kept.
We had reached a turning point, for the series was to be my last set of
injections and miraculously, I did not feel as nauseous as in the past.
After the second day of treatment, we headed home with the costly
drugs. With the final three days of chemotherapy administered at home,
I had a better selection of appealing foods from which to choose my
infrequent snacks, and found popsicles to be a boon to my situation;
each afternoon I returned from the doctor's office and raided the
refrigerator.
My final treatment was administered on the 20th of August, and happened
to be a memorable affair. The drug infiltrated into my arm. It hurt
like crazy. The scarlet-hued drug seeped onto the flesh of my hand as
well. Once the feat had been accomplished and the needle withdrawn, I
did not stop to wash the red drug from my hand, but exited gratefully
from the doctor's office to the summer day outside. The treatments
were over! It was hard to believe! Now "the end" was reality rather
than a fantastic dream beyond my ability to reach! Once home, I tried
to wash the red stain from my hand. Curiously, it eluded the soap and
water; I stared at the spot quizically, wondering when it would
disappear. It never did.
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