Sandy wasn’t a friend who’d waste a day bronzing in the sun or swimming. We were always playing some kind of fantasy game or plotting an adventure whether it was leaving different footprints in the sand or talking to the ouija board at midnight on my front lawn. If a spectral car didn’t hurtle out of the night, we’d find another way to terrify ourselves.
Our ouija board told us his name was Rehsi and he was from the planet Asteron. He wasn’t exactly a gifted, fast-tracked ouija board. He was probably held back a few years. I don’t think he ever answered a single question correctly but being clueless didn’t keep him from making dire predictions.
I know some people think ouija boards are scary and demonic but for Sandy and me it was a fun spooky game. Not for an instant did I believe that we were summoning dark forces to serve the devil. Maybe I would’ve been more scared if I’d seen The Exorcist.
STRANGLING EACH OTHER WAS ALWAYS FUN WHEN WE RAN OUT OF OTHER IDEAS.HMMM. SANDY SEEMS MORE SERIOUS ABOUT STRANGLING ME THAN VICE VERSA.
People go to fairs and carnivals for fun, not to wallow in existential despair over the human condition. Given this reality, my own psyche was the dark cloud hanging over the corn dog stand that summer. Everywhere I turned I saw another story about loneliness, suffering, and doomed lives. There was a little boy, about 7, that hung around – son of a “carny wife” (woman who moves in with a carnival man for a month or two). All of the grown-ups kept telling him to get lost – but there were no children his own age for him to go to. He was just so – alone, (Where is he today?)
My friend JoAnn Hill, who lived in Willow Glenn, got a job in another food venue. We hung out together when we had breaks at the same time. She was tall – at least 5’11” – and model-gorgeous with long blonde hair. Walking around with her was an instant inferiority complex.
JOANN HILL
Since JoAnn and I worked there, we got free rides – not always a good thing. The guy who controlled the spidery ride wanted to impress JoAnn so he gave us what felt like hours of extra spinning – I was almost sick to my stomach. Things didn’t improve in the sweltering heat of the Pup Hut. A bad situation got worse when I was tasked to shove sharp sticks into hundreds of naked doggies. It was truly the stuff of nightmares.
And that’s why I’ve never consumed another corn dog.
THE LATE GREAT BRILLIANT WRITER & MUSICIAN, DAVID ACKLES
Chris met his future BFF when he was two; he and Geo Ackles both attended the Church of the Lighted Window’s Montessori School. I noticed that whenever I picked CD up, he was with the same boy who – at that time – bore a striking resemblance to CD. Unfortunately, one of them (I don’t remember which) moved to another pre-school. As these two-year-olds lacked the social skills to exchange phone numbers or arrange play dates, a beautiful friendship almost died before it began.
But fate intervened! My in-laws stopped on their way to Temecula and took CD and me out for lunch at Bob’s Big Boy.
By miraculous coincidence, David Ackles was there with his son George. Our two-year-olds were delirious with joy. They leapt across the restaurant to greet each other like long lost brothers. David and I exchanged phone numbers and promised to get them together.
I assumed we’d facilitate play dates but otherwise pass like parental ships in the night. I was astonished to learn David was a fellow WGA member as well as a talented singer/songwriter who recorded for Electra (check out Road to Cairo – my favorite of his songs – if you haven’t heard it).
DAVID ACKLES SINGING HIS SONG,”ROAD TO CAIRO,” IN 1967
Not only that, he was witty, charismatic and just plain delightful – and although it almost seems impossible – it gets BETTER! His wife, Janice, was just as quick, hilarious and fun as David.
Before long, we were dressing up and role-playing mystery games with Joyce and John Salter, Terry McDonnell, Matt Rowell, Anne Kurrasch, Jake Jacobson and others. I wish I’d had the foresight to tape or film a few of those sessions. We laughed until it hurt.
The world lost a great artist and we lost a great friend when David died of lung cancer on March 2, 1999 but his music lives on – as does the friendship between Chris and George.
PLAYING A MYSTERY GAME – Top row: Joyce Salter, John Salter, Anne Kurrasch, Terry McDonnell, David Ackles; bottom row: me, Janice Ackles
Writing this in 2016, I know I was far from the only person to grow up feeling “different” – that old line about how everyone else got an instruction manual about life but I didn’t. If anything, I’ve come to believe that practically everyone feels that way to some degree. And in fairness, I can’t say my parents ever pressured me to be a certain way – quite the contrary. They were adamant about making my own decisions, telling me not to base my choices on a desire to please them or a need to rebel.
Given this, where did the feeling I wasn’t as good as the girl they wanted come from? I still think my sister Janet’s birth had something to do with it – they brought home another baby because I failed to be “interesting” enough. But I’ve bitched about Janet enough. (See Kathy vs. the Alien Baby for more.)
Naturally, I tried to conceal my less than admirable character traits. Sometimes I successfully hid them from myself. It’s still a struggle for me to recognize anger, for example. I was well aware of other negative tendencies – jealousy, sloth, vanity and greed for example – but did my best to keep them under wraps.
Sooner or later they all slipped out, though – because you can’t hide your secret self forever.
Me with Chris (I only called him CD in my diaries) in 1980
John and I were the first to get married and have children in our group of friends – consequently, Chris grew up surrounded by adults. It’s not surprising that he identified early with grown-ups; the last thing he wanted to be was just another child. When he was around other children, as in the school situation described above, he wanted to assume an adult role. Helping me enforce order on the other children running down the mountain was a perfect outlet.
Once, when he was still under ten, a friend attempted to seat him at the children’s table with his brother and sister and younger cousins.
he said.
He was, to me, like I suspect all children are to their mothers, the most adorable and intelligent little boy / young adult in the world.
This was a transitional time in our lives. John had finished his last year of law school but wouldn’t know when or if he’d be licensed to practice until after the bar results. When we married, I was working for Len Hill at NBC. I quit to take a job at USC that gave both John and me a break on tuition. I quit that job for more time to write and immediately got pregnant.
New Mom
Christopher was seven months old at the time of this entry. John and I shared a car, which he drove to USC and work, so I was marooned in the Hillside Strangler’s killing fields (bodies were piling up in circumference around us).
70’s Fashion
I had no idea whether or not I’d succeed as a writer. My identity was in flux. When I look back at photos taken then, I hardly recognize myself. I’m dressed like I thought a new mother or future Jr. Leaguer should dress. (On the other hand, 70s fashion didn’t do me any favors.)
New Mom and Dad and Son
The part of my psyche that never changed – my constant – remains in my worry about the impression I made on Gailya. From the time I started writing in diaries (age 12), whenever I spent any time with a friend, I second-guessed my performance in my diary – “I’m sure I bored her” was my most common review. Maybe everybody critiques their social interactions and inventories their mistakes. Even if true, I suspect most people grow out of it.
Am I any better now, 40 years later? Maybe a little. Not enough.
Judging by the October 1955 photo above, even at four I wasn’t a “thank god I’m a country girl” type. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what my life would be like if I’d grown up in Missouri instead of Silicon Valley.
Fishing with some of our relatives in Iowa.
Most of my cousins – almost all of my extended family – lived in the Midwest in 1968. Every other year, our family loaded up the station wagon and drove to Estherville and Graettinger in the northeastern corner of Iowa. There are aspects of Iowa that are buried deep in my subconscious, images that are inscribed on my brain – brick or white houses, humidity and mosquitoes, dinners with fresh buttered sweet corn and strange puffy homemade bread. The smell of coffee wafted through the day – coffee and musty old books. The basements, which all contained a washer, dryer and toilet were damp and a little bit scary even though that’s where we always played. It was cooler down there even though sometimes it was still so hot all we could do was breathe and sweat. I hate to sweat.
With adult cousins on my father’s side
My grandfather, commonly referred to as R.S. by all grandchildren, was a real go-getter, a non-stop talker. Even after retirement, he didn’t quit; he took volunteer work in a funeral parlor, probably to remind himself on a daily basis of how much more vital he was than the average man. In a box in his basement, he stored the obituaries of all his friends. The basement also held a pool table and assorted recreation equipment but my cousins and I enjoyed the obits most. I suppose our fear of death – and its imminence for all the aged people of Estherville – made it an object of high hilarity.
With adult cousins on my mother’s side – at the tiny (very tiny) Spencer airport
Let’s just say, I don’t have piles of “Employee of the Month” awards hoarded in a drawer – for starters I was rarely employed for a full month. Outside of academia, I was successfully challenged by the concept of a work ethic. I tried to get the hang of it, kind of, but I am what I am, I can’t deny it. I’ve got a real affinity for sloth. My mother complained I was lazy and inept about helping her with housework. (An effective combination. It was easier to do the dishes herself than enlist me.) Exasperated, she warned me to get rich because I’d need a maid. She intended it as a threat but I heard a swell idea.
During my high school and college years, I worked at various part-time jobs. Bulletin-folder for my father. Neighborhood babysitter. Corn dog cashier at the Santa Clara County Fair, salesclerk at San Jose State bookstore and UCLA bookstore – perfect, except when I had to wait on customers. Paper slicer for two days. UCLA Med Center OB/Gyn ward clerk. Typist at the naval base on Coronado Island.
When I graduated, I figured my days of dead end jobs were behind me. I was eager to launch myself into a fun career like Mary Tyler Moore did on her show. Something in the entertainment business with a warm family atmosphere and witty supporting characters like Mr. Grant and Murray.
At my first employment agency interview, I took a typing test and dazzled the room. (I was not Outstanding Typist of the Year at Wilcox High for nothing.)
I’ll never forget what my recruiter said next.
“Honey, if you learn shorthand, you can rule the world.”
Hmm, a lack of shorthand didn’t hurt Mary Richards. Why is it a problem for me? In a moment of clarity, the illusion of living Mary Richard’s life dissolves. I face a future as a secretary in a coma-inducing office devoid of wise-cracking curmudgeons.
I know what I have to do. There’s just one place I function slightly better than average instead of below the mean and I can stay there forever if necessary. Grad School, here I come!
On days when nothing much happened to me – and there were many – I recorded stories about my family, about my roommate’s family, people I didn’t even know, if they intrigued me. Looking back, these got-to-fill-up-the-page entries are frequently the most interesting because – since I’m not in the story – I’ve forgotten most of the details.
Why not just leave the page blank? Please. Do you really think someone who kept a daily diary from 1964 until the present could tolerate a blank page? Maybe it’s a tad obsessive-compulsive but for me the effort has been more than worth it. Why?
I never would’ve remembered my father’s anecdotes about the old folks home if I hadn’t written them down. When I reread this diary entry last year, it was particularly poignant because my father was near the end of his life, about to be admitted to the Lutheran old folks home where he once preached. How did it happen so fast? Would anyone remember, if it wasn’t written down? Why does it matter?
For one thing, how else would I know what it’s like to preach to elderly patients with dementia? More importantly, revisiting his stories brought his spirit back to life for a minute. I could hear his voice, his gentle laugh. That old lady had it right. He was so beautiful.
Have you ever noticed how in virtually every fairy tale since the beginning of time, the oldest sister(s) are ugly harpies and the youngest is so clever, kind and beautiful – so gosh darn special – that she always wins Prince Charming’s heart? Sometimes older siblings have no plot function or personality at all – they exist only to make the hero a youngest child.
This blatant favoritism for the youngest sibling didn’t die with old-fashioned fairy-tales like Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast. It’s alive and well in contemporary fiction – Ron Weasley is the youngest Weasley brother and Ginny (the youngest) becomes Harry’s wife in Harry Potter. Ender is the youngest of three in Ender’s game. Alyosha, the youngest, is the most morally pure of the Brothers Karamazov.
The purpose of fairytales and myths is to teach children about life. What lesson is an oldest child supposed to take from this bias? No wonder I look so ticked off in childhood photos of the three of us. The subliminal message in myth and lit was I didn’t count in this story. I was a stage prop, meant to do something venal and stupid and exit to make way for the chosen one, the good one – my youngest sister Joyce.
UH-OH. LOOKS LIKE JANET JUST FIGURED OUT SHE’S GOT A SHIT PART TO PLAY TOO, SINCE SHE’S NO LONGER THE BLESSED YOUNGEST. HURTS, DOESN’T IT?
If you’re interested, there’s a list and explanation of this trope at
And if you’re in the mood for some sisterly snark, follow these links to either or both of these photo galleries – My Two Years and Two Days of Bliss (link) and Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby. Pictures don’t lie!
