Alzheimer-Jerry and me

I’ve about decided that Dad was a house flipper.   I remember lots of houses over lots of years. The house I remember best is the one in Los Angeles in the area that was Culver City at that time but is now Universal City. If I’m wrong about that let me know. Down the street from our house was a lot. LOTS of weeds and LOTS of concrete walkways. Something new and exciting. Something for a lonely young girl to keep her imagination going. The stories I would make up about why the concrete walkways were there. Millions of reasons. Why would someone put this amazing puzzle so close to our house? It was a wonderful place for me to be. Did I even think that this was someone else’s? No, it didn’t even occur to me. Was I worried I would get into trouble. Never. I don’t remember how long it took for someone else to find my spot. I was walking the walkways when this man hollered. He came to where I was and told me that those walkways were foundations for new homes. I was not supposed to be there as I could get hurt---I had to go home—but I didn’t have to like it.

Those twists and turns were a lot like a maze. Twist here and then go a little way—twist again and go the other way. Dead ends. Weeds. Trash. Those concrete walkways had grabbed hold of my imagination and would not let me go.

After a week or two, of course, back I went. The concrete walkways were calling my name.

The day I went back there were four boys picking up pieces of concrete and throwing them at each other. I was watching them just like I watched Phil and his friends. Little did I suspect what was coming. One of them saw me and said, “what are you doing in our fort?” They told me I had to go home; this was THEIR fort.

I stood there thinking I had as much right as they did to be there. I decided I was gonna stay. Then I became the target. Pieces of concrete flew by my head. Some of them hit in front of me. I got scared and ran home crying. Phil went there and put a hurt on those guys. And as far as I can remember, he did more than just talk to them. Dad had taught him to box and he was making good use of his teaching. There we were—Phil, four boys and me—and then THE men showed up. After Phil talked to the men we had to go home. I never saw those boys again. Phil to the rescue once more.

The next day, mom was cleaning out the fish pond. As I have said before--I was a nosey little person.  The ways of the fish and how the water ran through and around the pond, how it got up to the waterfall—it all fascinated me. I figured the best way to find out was to get into the water and follow the flow. WRONG!

In I went. I got about half way around before something started nibbling me. The closer I got to the other side of the waterfall the more it stung. I heard mom call my name. I could tell from the tone of her voice that I was NOT supposed to be in the fish pond. Oh man, I’d done it again! My curiosity had gotten me in trouble AGAIN. I found out that you don’t walk in water that is close to electricity. If the wires get frayed even a little it can shock you. It fascinated me that the fish weren’t nipping me it was the electricity. I also learned that the electricity was needed to make the water go back up the waterfall, so it could come down again. The things you can learn when you ask questions—or ramble around until you find out something new.

Well, I never did that again either; nor was I allowed to help finish cleaning that waterfall.

Some more houses. New kid on the block again. By myself again. No one to skate with or play dolls with. No one to talk to.

It was me-just me. I was having to learn to depend on myself.

Somewhere between the beach and Eagle Rock, Phil and I went to summer camp. Things were not so much fun at home. There was screaming and slapping at night. Lots of nights. It got so bad that I would climb into bed with Phil. He would pull me close and put his arm around me. Dad started taking us to the baseball games when the LA Angels were in town. We’d get home and it would start all over again.

That summer we were sent off to camp. I can only imagine how bad it was at home for dad to send us off like that. I do remember getting letters from dad, but I couldn’t read them because I could only read printing. The lady in the room kept telling me that she would read them to me, but she didn’t have time. And they stayed in my bag for the rest of the time we were there.

Do I remember anything about camp? Yes, I do, but not much. Memories include singing around the firepit at night. Crafts and bows and arrows. Playing in the lake. That’s when I found out fish pee in the water. Uggg!! AND we were swimming in that water!

It was the night of all nights. I suppose that being away from home had me worried. That night Phil was sitting across from me--my world lit up. Phil was there!! I was so happy. My Phil was there to be with me for dinner. And then they brought out the food. Someone put these green things on my plate. Slimy, fuzzy green food looks VERY unappetizing to a child whose life has been turned upside down. As they say it today I had “issues”—I’d say I was extremely afraid because my life was so hurtful. I, to this day do not eat fuzzy food.

I screamed. I cried. I ran out of the room. I’ve always been dramatic and obviously this was one of the best because I remember it after seventy years. Phil came running after me. Grabbed me and all I can remember anyone saying is---that’s the kids with parents who are getting a divorce, right? I had no clue what a divorce was. Phil told me something and I calmed down. We went back into the dining hall. I still wouldn’t eat any of that fuzzy green stuff! NO WAY.

The letters. AHHH the letters, from dad, finally. The letters that the counselor didn’t have time to read to me—or even find someone else to read to me. Finally, someone read my letters the day we were to leave. The major part was about what was going on at home. All good. Last sentence tells me to get on the bus home with Phil. That bus had already left. They put me on the other bus that went to a different part of LA. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Phil wasn’t there when I got off the bus. I had no idea where he was. I cried hot huge tears. Dad FINALLY showed up with Phil.

I cried--- again.

Dad was—of course—mad. But for some reason I knew he wasn’t mad at Phil or me. The car was an old one and going up Mount Wilson was not good on cars anyway. And another reason for him to be mad—he didn’t know where we were for a very long time. It was traumatic for all of us. I was wondering where mom was. This must have happened sometime in 1947. There was no divorce. But, I was anxious about that for a long time.