My Story in Lists|Places I've Been

One of the places that I've been to that stirred me the most was Normandy, France. To understand the importance requires me to back up in time to my childhood. My grandmother was the oldest of seven children and she was close to her sisters and they loved nothing more than getting together and eating out talking in a mixture of English and Spanish at a rapid pace. We were in an era where children were seen and not heard so we would eat quietly, listening to the chatter and trying to understand everything that was being said.

Around the age of six, I began to understand through their conversations that my grandmother had a younger brother who fought in the war and tragically never came back. Grandma and her sisters would talk about how some friend had gone to France and thought she saw Richard, their brother. It was clear that they believed he had not died, but instead had become wounded and as a result had amnesia. It was apparent by their words and by the way their conversation would become hushed and subdued that there was a sadness there that time had not erased. He was the youngest of the children and I could tell that he was very much loved by his older sisters. Even at my young age, I found the whole story mysteriously fascinating.

So I was surprised just four years ago as I was talking to my dad about my brother's impending honeymoon to Paris when dad made a comment that Vic should go to Normandy and visit the American National Cemetery where his Uncle Richard was buried. How was that possible, I always thought he was missing in action, I replied, sure that my dad had it wrong. No, dad told me, his Uncle Richard had been killed in action during the invasion of Normandy. While Vic and his bride, Sharonda, made it to Paris, they never took the side trip to Normandy and I was left with some doubt as to whether my dad knew what he talking about.

France had not been a country in which we traveled to when we returned from Iran. Even though dad took French in high school, he had heard that the French were exceedingly rude, especially to Americans and as a result never had a desire to go. Being the obedient daughter, I adopted his mindset and never had a desire to go to France either. Until I saw the honeymoon pictures that Vic and Sharonda took. I wanted to step right into their photographs, never to return so when Brie told me that she wanted to go for her 16th birthday, I was in complete agreement. After I was diagnosed with cancer, she told me she wanted to go sooner rather than later, again, I agreed. If anyone was going to take Brie to Paris, it was going to be me. I also knew without a doubt that I was going to make the side trip to Normandy.

Coincidentally, sometime after we started talking about making the trip, my cousin Eddie sent me a link to the location of our great Uncle's burial site at the American National Cemetery. I looked up the information and saw that he was killed two days after the invasion. Even though I never knew him, I felt a terrible sadness. His life was cut so short that even though he had married before he shipped out, he never had any children.

Seven days after we arrived in Paris, we headed back to the airport to pick up a rental car and begin our trip to Normandy. I was more nervous than I wanted to admit to Brie, my best friend, Liz and Brie's best friend Megan. I knew once we left the city, I would be okay driving, but I did not want to find myself anywhere on the streets within the city limits. The French are crazy drivers and my eye sight at the time was poor from cataracts. I don't know what I was expecting because I didn't even have directions to Bayeaux the French city at which we would be staying.

Armed with a map, I made Liz the navigator with strict instructions....get us out into the countryside without the need to turn around until we pass the city. My heart was pounding. Somehow we managed to get on the right track, but it took a while to understand the map and the numbering system of the highways. The compact car I had rented didn't have enough room for more than one bag but luckily the rental agency gave us a free upgrade (that is a story within itself). Luckily France roads are filled with roundabouts so we would just circle around and around them, looking for arrows containing names of the cities we knew were in route and after several hours we found ourselves in Bayeaux.

We had made our way to the city, now we had to find the B&B I had reserved. I mistakenly thought Bayeaux would be a small little town where all we would have to do was ask some local where our hotel was and they would point the way for us. It was a small town, but not that small. It was a beautiful town and I fell in love with it immediately. We eventually found our B&B and the girls collapsed in their room for a nap, while Liz and I took off on foot for the town center. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. So much history, it was like stepping back into the 1940's. We walked the streets for hours until it was time to get the girls so we could go to dinner.

The next morning we got up early to head to the American National Cemetery. We had picked up some more maps at the town's visitor center the afternoon before and I was feeling pretty confident. We arrived there without any trouble. I had read that if you were visiting a family member's site that you should check in at the visitor center so we started there. The visitor guides were so kind and treated me with much more respect than I felt I deserved. I explained that it was my great Uncle and that my dad wanted us to come. Unbeknownst to me, Dad had asked Brie to make an etching of his grave marker. She had a mission of her own on this trip.

We were taken in a little cart to my Uncle's site. The guide had brought a bucket of sand which she used to fill in the engraved name. This they did so the name would stand out for pictures and for others to know that someone came to visit this site. She also brought an American and French flag which she planted at his cross for us to take pictures and told me we could take those and some sand back home with us if we would like. 

What moved me the most was the peacefulness that surrounded the area. There was the slight wind blowing so the trees were rustling and the songs of birds filled the air. On top of that was the fragrance of flowers and the sea.  It was so hard to imagine that this place was once the scene of one of the most ferocious modern day battles and that so many men gave their life so long ago. 

The only thing I could think was perhaps if they knew that years later this place would be so lovely, so peaceful that maybe they would be glad. Perhaps if they knew that because of their efforts, the tyrannical reign of Hitler came to an end. It was not for naught. I was proud of not just my uncle but of all the men who were brave enough to sacrifice their lives, regardless of whether they came back or not.

I went to bed that night dreaming of my Uncle, a man I never knew, but wished then more than ever that I had. I wished I would have brought my grandmother here when she was still alive. I wished I could have come with my dad. I hoped that it would have made a difference to him that although it had been more than 60 years since he had given his life, he had not been forgotten. 

My Story in Lists|Memories I have as a Child

This isn't so much of a specific memory of a specific occasion, but instead this is a memory of an object, my dad's Argus camera. If you aren't familiar with an Argus, it's an American camera that was a box shape and took 620 film.

Instead of holding the camera to your eye, you would hold it near your chest and look down into the view finder. Dad's camera was in cased in a leather holder designed to protect it which also allowed you to strap the camera around one's neck. I always loved it when dad would allow me to "carry" the camera for him, walking around carefully with the camera close to my stomach. If the camera was devoid of film I would pretend over and over again that I was taking pictures, snapping pictures and rewinding the camera.

Back then things hadn't changed as far as the joy that children feel when getting their pictures taken. I wonder why children aren't just uninhibited about getting their pictures taken, but they love it. We were no different. Back then there was something so exciting about getting our picture taken. Perhaps it was because it only happened for special occasions.

You didn't have the luxury of looking at the back of the LCD screen on the camera to see if you liked the shot or uploading to a computer deleting bad shots left and right. You paid for every shot good and bad. You kept every shot good and bad.

Mom lovingly glued the photos into albums she bought and we would look at these over and over again. For me, I associate the camera with those days, those times.

And unlike many possessions of we have these days, dad had and used his camera for years. I knew from the way he took care of it that it was special to him and for that reason, it was special to me. I was afraid that it was gone, but I recently found it tucked away in our guest closet along with his first film 35MM, a Pentax K1000 and his Super 8 movie camera.

I know my love of photography came first from him. From those days of pouring over the photos that he took. I hope one day these cameras will go to someone who loves them as much as he did, as much as I do.

My Story in Lists|Places I've Been

I've been pretty blessed. Because of my parents, because of my jobs, but mostly because of God, I've been able to travel a lot. When TripAdvisor's put out the list of the top 25 places to visit, I could tick off 11 on the list. And so, in no particular order, here's some of the places I've been.

Athens, Greece

The summer of my junior year we were planning to come back home for R&R from Iran. Things were getting pretty tense there. There were stories of women who were not wearing shadirs getting acid thrown in their face, there was a sudden presence of military at major roundabouts, while visiting Tehran a group of men followed me and some friends, throwing rocks at us. Even as a teenager, I knew something was wrong, something was brewing. Unbeknownst to me, dad was wakened from his sleep one night to the sound of machine gun fire and shortly after his driver told him that it was time for dad to leave Iran.

Instead of heading back home for a visit, we headed back home for good with a stop in Europe. The plan was to go to Greece, Italy, Spain and Germany. Our first stop was Greece.

Although I was heartbroken to leave my friends and the country, there was a sense of freedom I felt as soon as we were in Athens that had been missing in Iran. The job had been wearing on my dad. When overseas, he worked 6-days a week, 10-hour days at a minimum. While we enjoyed a type of freedom we would have had in the states, there were restrictions that were always there. We had to be careful about what we wore, what we said, what we did. And suddenly it was gone. Perhaps for that reason, Greece was one of our favorite countries that we visited.

The first couple of days we stayed at a hotel on the outskirts of Athens, enjoying the beach just unwinding. Dad had commandeered a travel book called Europe on $5 a Day. Yes, there was an actual book with that title and, yes, it was a best-seller for quite some time.

The first hotel, The Hotel Rondo, at which we stayed was a little nondescript hotel. What I remembered most was that for the first time ever, we had three hotel rooms which meant Eliz and I didn't have to share a bed, a very happy event for her since she always accused me of kicking her in my sleep. Greg also got locked in the bathroom which made Eliz and I laugh hysterically. It was rather funny, but then, again, I wasn't the one who got locked in.

We spent time at the beach which was hot, but still enjoyable. I remember the sand being much coarser than the sand than California. It was just wonderful to be able to go out in shorts again when it was hot outside.

We took a day cruise to see some of the surrounding islands where the water was blue as blue could be and the towns were picture book beautiful.

After a few days of relaxing and acclimating to our new found freedom, we moved to a hotel, called the Adonis, inside the city so we could do some sightseeing.

The first night in the city, dad was determined to eat at a restaurant recommended in his trusty book, Europe on $5 a day so we roamed the streets of Athens on foot for what seemed like hours, stomachs growling, feet hurting. Once dad has his mind set on something, it's pretty well set in stone. We finally gave up complaining and starting singing to the Ant's Go Marching a song with our own lyrics that went something like this:

The Medina's go marching one by one, hurrah, hurray, the Medina's go marching one by one, hurrah, hurray, the Medina's go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb and they all go marching down into the street to get food to eat. 

We finally did end up eating, but I have no idea if it was the restaurant dad was looking for. I remember the restaurant was empty which was a bad sign to us and that dad tried some olive concoction. The food was okay, but nothing impressive to me. One of our best meals there was the night mom and dad went to the market, bought fresh baked bread, cheese and fruit and we ate like kings. 

We spent time exploring the Acropolis, which I thought was magnificent. I truly could not believe I was there. 

I also could not believe that tourists could walk around the ruins as we did. 

 One afternoon dad gave us all free time and Eliz and I roamed the streets of Athens together, arguing (of course) about where we were. I (of course) was wrong, but I wouldn't admit it. She (of course) was right and wanted to be sure that I knew it. If I could go back in time, I would embrace more the time we had together. I wouldn't care if I were right or wrong. I would just be happy spending time with my brothers and sister, mom and dad as we marched into the street to get food to eat.

My Story in Lists| People I Love

There is hardly a memory I have, good or bad, big or small, in which she is not there. She knows most everything about me, good or bad, big or small, and loves me in spite of it all.

My very first childhood memory is of her. I am standing in our room, watching as she and my cousin, Eddie, are jumping on the bed. I know that they aren't supposed to be doing that and in my early toddler brain, the right and wrong is like black and white. I'm trying to understand why they are doing this when they know it's wrong and at the same time, I'm partly in awe that they would be so blatantly naughty. When the bed breaks, my sister Elizabeth and Eddie are scolded by my dad and my aunt and get sent to time out. I'm relieved that I didn't join in.

For our first twelve years, we shared a room. At night, we talked, sometimes argued as I was afraid of the dark so I didn't want the door shut all the way so the light from the hallway can come in. She is the brave one, wanting the door shut tight so the dark can send her into dreamland. 

I was always in awe of her bravery, even though it often led to fights between us. She paved the way, the one who knew things before I did. She stood up to mom and dad in ways I never could and could be frustratingly stubborn.

When we were little and would get into the kind of trouble that meant a spanking, we would stand in front of dad as he handed down his verdict. Then he would inevitably ask "who wants to go first"? I would stand there tight lipped, my tears running like Niagra Falls, quiet as a mouse, hoping beyond hope that mercy would be granted. Eliz would stand there, stoic, until at last she finally would volunteer to go first. I was the crybaby, she was the rock.

Being so close in age, we would annoy each other to no end and there came a time when she would tire of having a little sister around so she would instruct me to pretend that I didn't know her and that I wasn't her sister, so of course, I would pester her even more and let everyone know that she was my sister. It also meant that we often had the same friends which was both good and bad.

In high school, I became jealous. Jealous of her beauty, jealous of her confidence, jealous of her smarts. We were both friends and adversaries. I knew that underneath it all she loved me because she had the strength to take me out anytime she wanted, yet she never did.

As we got older, my admiration for her grew and I stopped trying to compete with her. When she got married, I was so happy and so sad. I knew that meant that our house was no longer her home and I was a little lost at first. It helped that she always opened her door to me and I would often go to her apartment and later home as a place of refuge. It was then that our bond really tightened and it has been that way ever since.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, she was right there by my side, my strength, my pillar...some things never change. She is the one I still look up to, the one I want to approve of my choices, my life, my decisions...some things never change. She is the one I call when I'm happy, when I'm mad, when I just feel like talking...some things never change. I hope they never do.

My Story in Lists|Memories as a Child

Even though I was only a toddler when we moved to Brazil, I remember pockets of our life there.

It is here that we first met the Yoder's. I don't remember their daughter's name, but I did remember Darrell, the eldest son and I believe, Carl, was the name of the youngest. I don't know if it was on this day in particular, but I do remember being in just a t-shirt and training pants on one of their visits and feeling embarrassed by it. I also remember wishing I could say something to my mom, but just suffering in silence. It made me feel like a baby.

I also remember vague parts of a trip we made to the beach. It was here that I learned that you can't take food into the ocean and expect it to taste good. I don't know how it was that I was able to go into the water with a peanut butter sandwich in my hand because at this time, any parent worth their salt strictly adhered to the 20 minute rule.

For those not in the know, the 20 minute rule was an agonizing rule thought up by someone who obviously did not like children which said that you must not go into the water until 20 minutes after you eat. Go into the water any earlier than 20 minutes and you would get cramps and drown. I suppose I should be thankful that mom and dad abided by the rule which was an indication of their love for us at the time.

Being a lover of the water and the beach, the 20 minute rule was, for me, horribly torturous so it may have been that I tried to circumvent the rule by sneaking a peanut butter sandwich into the water with me. One giant wave later, and I quickly learned that one cannot take food into the ocean and not expect that it would become nothing more than fish food.

My Story in Lists| Favorite Toys I had as a Child Part II

It was Christmas morning. I remember waking up with such excitement, the kind that only a child who went to sleep listening for Santa could have. We must have been very very good that year because wrapped in big boxes (the best kind!) was a Suzy Bake Oven and Sink.

A thousand times better than an Easy Bake Oven, the Suzy Bake Oven was to me a real deal. It looked like an adult oven, except that it was just the perfect height for a child and was a beautiful color of aquamarine. I could not believe my eyes. Santa had never been so generous to us before. Sure I had to share it with my sister, but I didn't care. From the moment I had set foot in a kindergarten room where there was a toy stove & oven, I wanted one of my very own. But with this one I didn't have to pretend I was making cakes and cookies, with this one I would actually be doing it.

I could have played for the rest of the day with the oven, but that would have to wait because we had grandparents to go visit where we were showered with love and presents.

Something happened a day or so after Christmas. I can't remember what I did, but dad got angry at me and asked me what gift I liked the most. I was so afraid that he was going to take whatever I said away from me as punishment so I lied and told him the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls my grandmother had given me. Even as I said the words, I knew there was no way he could believe me. I loved my grandmother, but the dolls couldn't compare. I could see in his eyes he didn't believe me and he asked me again. I insisted, holding my breath, waiting for the consequence. Instead he pursed his lips and let it go. I felt so horrible, I took the special care of those dolls to show her how much I liked them. Funny enough I still have those dolls and they are even more raggedy than ever.

Unlike my beautiful Blaze, I have no pictures of my Suzy Bake Oven, but I did get one off the internet. To my six-year old eyes, I swore the oven was real, not just some light bulb doing the trick.

The sink was pretty cool, too, with the ability to have running water really come out of the facet. Eliz and I baked many delicious cakes and cookies in the little oven. I never grew tired of it. It was one of the toys I mourned leaving behind when we moved to Puerto Rico, taking consolation in the fact that it was going into storage in the little shack behind my grandfather's house and would be there when we returned. Unfortunately for me, the shack was exactly that, a shack, and most of our toys were ruined from rain by the time we returned two years later, my Suzy back oven, included.

My Story in Lists| Favorite Toys I had as a Child

Times are so different now. Back when I was a child, toys were something we mainly were given only at Christmas or birthdays. Still we had a lot as compared to most of the world and I never felt wanting.

The first toy that I have a special memory of was our toy horse Blaze. It was a beautiful black and white stallion that we would pretend was real. Even at my young age, I knew that we were so lucky to have such an extra special horse. More regal than a typical rocking horse, Blaze would move back and forth in a galloping motion so we could imagine we were really riding in the wind.

Eliz and I had many a fight over Blaze. She would wait patiently for us, always staying neutral (though I swore she liked me best), always giving the best rides, never tiring of us climbing upon her as we traveled to new lands. She remains one of the few toys I wished I still had.

My Story in Lists|Cars I've Had Part V

After years of car payments and nothing to show for them after the payments were over and done with, it was so great to own my car outright. But several years after my last payment was made, I began to get that itch. It would happen whenever I passed a VW Bug Convertible. My thoughts became words and one October day in 2008, just for fun, I took Brie with me to a VW dealership just so we could test drive some cars.

I wasn't planning to come home with a new car. I had already priced them out and knew the payments would be more than I was willing to commit to. What I wasn't counting on was seeing a pre-loved certified model that was too hard to resist. I test drove the car, talked price, went home, ran some numbers, called the ins company, ran some more and hightailed it back to the dealership.

We drove home with the top down in red VW convertible, laughing all the way home. I felt like pinching myself. Ever since I was in college I wanted a bug convertible. Now I had one. And I still had my RAV-4. Two cars. It was crazy.

As we drove home, I told Brie that I didn't want my convertible to be like a swimming pool that people want and when they finally get one they never use it. I was going to put the top down as much as possible. And I do. Spring and fall days are the best. Even warm winter days are pretty good, too. Almost four years later and I still love driving around in it, still take too many pictures of it.

No, it's not perfect, it is a VW after all so it can't take the abuse I gave to my Toyotas, but still it makes me happy. There is nothing like driving home with the top down after a long day at work. There's nothing like actually hearing someone call a slug bug as we drive by (yes, we have literally heard people do this on more than one occasion).

My Story in Lists| Cars I've Had Part IV

Part of the deal when I got my powder blue Corolla was that I was to make the final payment. Dad had leased the car and he was making the monthly payment, but at the end of year three, I would need to have several thousand dollars saved up. At that time of my life, I was horrible...horrible...at saving money. At the end of the lease term, I was no closer to the final payment then I was at the beginning.

The leasing agent had began calling me several months before the lease was up and I was ignoring the calls because I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't think I had the credit I needed to buy a car, but somehow, someway, I did. So right after Christmas, I headed up North to visit dad in Vancouver with a car brochure in hand and I ordered me up another Corolla. I felt like a big girl. I was already in my 30's so it was about time.

This time my car was green (green!?!) and I naively got it sight unseen. Didn't even take it for a test drive. I was just so relieved at having a car, let alone another new car, that I just signed on the dotted line. For the next three years I made my payments faithfully. God was so faithful to me, providing me with a job that paid the bills and with a job that included increases so that I wasn't living so much month-to-month.

While I liked the car, it really wasn't the car I would have chosen had I known I had options. Somewhere in the middle of my lease, I fell in love with another Toyota model, known as a RAV-4. By this time, SUVs were highly popular. I liked them as much as the rest of the U.S. population, but wasn't interested in the price tag or the cost of gas. A RAV-4 offered me the look of a SUV, with the price and gas mileage closer to my Corolla.

When the lease was up, I jumped at the chance to trade in the Corolla for a RAV-4, white, if you please. Matt and I were so excited. Matt, because the back seats folded back so he could nap in the back seat if he were ever vanqueshed to the back. I loved that I was sitting up higher than most standard cars, had a little bit of a cargo area and had a car I felt like I chose instead of taking what I thought I should take.

The only thing I didn't like was that, once again, I was leasing a car which meant by the end of the term I would have to come up with a big payment or lease again. I felt trapped and really wanted to get away from having monthly payments for a while. I was happy to learn at the end of my lease with the RAV-4 that I could extend my payments for another year and pay off the car. I opted to do that and after seven years of payments, I finally owned a car outright.

My Story in Lists|Cars I've Had Part III

After Matthew was born, dad decided that his grandson needed to be in a safer car than a soda pop can with four tires and a steering wheel. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, we strolled down to the end of the street and walked up the access road where people in the neighborhood parked the used cars they wanted to sell to take a look. There in the sunlight was a sweet looking bright red Subaru DL with everything a girl making less than the average Joe could want.

Four doors, A/C (my first car with this luxury), power window, it was a dream come true at the time. It was a 5-speed, but that was not a problem since I had long mastered a manual transmission. Before I knew it, I was driving the car back home. Like my other two cars, it was a good little car. Unfortunately, the previous owners must have painted it with nail polish right before they sold it because before the summer was over, my car looked like it had some sort of disease. The clear coat over the red cracked so it looked like there were vericose veins all over my car. There were more than a few times that I found a business card from a body shop on my windshield.

That, alone, wasn't so bad because once I got inside, I could at least pretend it looked as pretty as the day I got her. The real problem was that the brake pads would wear down in less than six months. Seriously, I was replacing those things constantly. I had my dad, my brother-in-law, my then boyfriend at the time all taking turns replacing my brakes. Even then, I still went through my rotors at least four times because I waited too long to get them repaired. My boyfriend was convinced it was the way I drove. I kept telling him that I never had that problem with my other two cars, but he wouldn't buy it. It was probably a good thing that we didn't get married after all.

About a year after I finally got rid of the car, I saw a Consumer Report article which rated the Subaru and it got good to excellent ratings on everything...but the brakes! Can you say, vindicated??

One day right before Christmas, I got home from work and my dad had one of the biggest surprises for me that I ever had. He wanted to take me to buy me a new car for Christmas. He only asked that I not get red car, to which I wholeheartedly agreed. To this day, I never really knew what possessed him to do get me a car. I could tell my mom wasn't really enthused by the idea. I was making better choices, but I still had some growing up to do. I've always given my Uncle Bob credit for the deal. He had a way of sweet talking my dad into some crazy ideas. Or maybe dad felt bad because of what he perceived to be his part in my breakup with Steve.

I was so afraid it was just some cruel joke, but that same night we headed over to the Toyota dealership and within a few hours, my Subaru was left, squealing brakes and all (I was, once again, in need of brakes and probably new rotors) in the lot as I drove a brand spanking new light blue Toyota Corolla back to the house, screaming at the top of my lungs, all the way. In a million years, at that time of my life, I never thought I would actually own a car that had a genuine new car smell.

My Story in Lists|Cars I've Had Part II

After slinking home on the Greyhound, I was in need of another car. In fairness to me, I had checked the oil before the drive up to San Luis Obispo, but the damage had long been done and that trip was just too much for my little Capri.

Luckily for me, Eliz had been making much better choices and as a gift for her pending graduation from college, mom and dad were planning on buying her a brand spanking new car. With a grown up job in the horizon, she would make the monthly payments, but they would make the initial down payment. This meant I would inherit the reddish orange, Datsun 510 that three others in our family had already owned.

My Aunt Vickie was the originally owner of the car. I remember driving in it with her when I was little and it was still shiny and new. It was my Aunt's pride and joy as it was the first new car she ever bought. Sometime later, my Uncle Bob bought the car because buying used cars was his hobby. When mom and dad were ready to buy a car for Eliz, they bought the Datsun from Uncle Bob. It was a good, reliable car with great gas mileage. Not as sporty looking as my Capri and by this time, definitely looking worn (the sun visors had long broken off and the paint was faded), but beggars (me) can't be choosers.

I didn't treat the Datsun much better than the Capri. One spring day, I played hooky from work and drove up to SLO to catch up with some friends when just outside of Nipomo, my car suddenly made a strange little noise. The next thing I knew I was pulling the car over to the side of the road. I didn't know what to do. We didn't have cellphones at the time. I knew I was in a pile of trouble so I did the only thing I could do, I started walking towards the exit which was just ahead. I had taken no more than 10 steps when a Greyhound bus came down the highway and pulled over to the emergency lane. The kind bus driver asked if I could use a ride. As it turned out, the bus was in route to SLO so the driver told me he would take me there for free. I could not believe my luck. Now I know it was the prayers that my grandmother had prayed for me.

I was able to get my friends to come to the bus stop to pick me up and then called my cousin Mark who made a four hour ride up the 101 in the late afternoon to try to help me out. Unfortunately, the car needed more than anything we could do at that time of night so we left the car by the side of the road and headed back home. Dad was furious with me when I told them what happened and the next day mom, dad and I drove up to Nipomo to see about getting my car back. It was a silent, uncomfortable ride punctuated by periods of time in which dad was (rightly) chewing me out. For so many years I had been towing the line and suddenly I was making one horrible decision after another.

We arrived to the spot in the road where my car broke down to find...nothing. My car had been impounded which added to dad's displeasure. We were able to get the car out of impound costing a small bounty and find a mechanic who was willing to fix the car. Why dad helped me the way he did, I don't know. Mom probably made him. But he did and I kept the car until Matthew was born and dad decided that his grandson needed to be in something safer than a soda can with wheels. 

My Story in Lists|Cars I've Had

In our family, we received a car upon graduation of high school with acceptance to college. Mom and dad never said the college part was a requirement, but since it was a given that we were going to get our degree, I assumed that it was part of the deal.

My first car would be what Matthew would refer to as a ghetto car, only better. It was red. It was sporty. It was a stick shift. It was a Ford Capri. It looked similar to a Mustang. My friends called it a Crapi but that was all my fault. In my youth I abused my cars horribly. My Capri was no exception.

We found the car by chance. My uncle who lives up the street from us knew we were on the hunt for a car and someone on his block had a car for sale. Mom took care of the transaction as dad was still in Texas with the boys which was a pretty big deal for her. For me, the big deal was that it was a stick shift and I had never driven one before. Since it was going to be my mode of transportation, it was imperative that I learn.

Luckily for me, mom knew how to drive a stick shift. She learned shortly after she married my dad on an old VW Bug they bought. Also luckily for me, mom is a thousand times more patient than I am. I didn't do well with all the jerking during take off and the clutch on the car was pretty touchy so it wasn't an easy car to learn with. It often felt like a bucking bronco. But learn I did.

There were scary moments as I learned how to move from neutral to first and then second, like the time Eliz, my cousin Mark and his cousin went with me to Disneyland. I still wasn't consistent with the clutch and my take offs made it appear as though the car had violent seizures. Looking back, I suppose it was brave of me to drive, or stupid...whichever.

As we left Disneyland, the exit was one with the prongs sticking out of the driveway to prevent vehicles from attempting to enter. We were so scared that the traffic would stop such I would end up right in front of the prongs and as I would start off in first gear I would jerk forward and then backwards, puncturing my tires leaving us in a horrible predicament. Fortunately, that didn't happen and we lived to tell the tale.

Once I got the hang of the manual transmission, there was no stopping me. I really liked my car, but that didn't stop me from being hard on it. Still, I had some good times with that car.

There was the time that I was driving on highway 71 with my best friend Leslie. It was a foggy night and like always I was going faster than I should have when suddenly this white looking apparition appeared to come up from the road. I slammed on the brakes and whatever it was seemed to come up through the bottom of my car in a white haze.

Leslie and I were screaming as my brain tried to make some sense out of what was happening because as much as I thought a ghost was coming up from the floor boards, I knew it couldn't be true. I suddenly realized that the fire extinguisher must have discharged and that's what was causing the white haze to travel about the vehicle. Our screams turned into hysterical laughter and for months the powdery substance stuck to everything and everyone who sat in the passenger seat.

Worse than that was the fact that I rarely never put engine oil in my car. My negligence cost me dearly. One day as Leslie and I were driving from school to downtown Los Angeles, a loud clunking sound begun to come from the engine. At first I thought someone had put a bag of rocks or boulders in the hood of my car. My first inclination was to turn the radio up and hope for the best, but the sound persisted and since we happened to be coming up to the off-ramp to my house, we agreed it would be best to get off the freeway. It was a good thing because as we coasted through the intersection my car just died.

We got out to push the car through the light and some nice guy came and helped. Funny enough as we were pushing the car through the intersection, we saw a friend of ours whiz by. He drove by without even slowing down. When we asked him about it later, he laughed and told us that it looked like we had things under control.

For the life of me, I can't remember how I got the car home, but somehow I did. A few days later my grandfather and Uncle Joe stopped by the house to take a look at the car. My uncle gently asked me when it was that I last checked the oil. Checked the oil??? But the oil light hadn't come on. Turns out there was not a drop of engine oil in my car. They filled it up, told me that they wouldn't tell my dad (who was in Indonesia at the time) and it started up, but it wasn't the same after that. I was able to drive it for over another year until it broke down for good. This time as I drove up the 101 with another friend on our way to SLO (San Luis Obispo). Not a fun time at all.

My Story in Lists|Things I'm Afraid of Part II

As far back as I can remember, I've been afraid of heights and falling. The problem is, that as a little girl, I would create a self-fulfilling prophecy where I would actually fall.

When I was four or five, we went to the park with most of my extended family. I don't know where this park was located, but it had a small zoo and hiking area incorporated on the grounds. My sister, Eliz, was going for a walk with some of my other family members, but I wasn't allowed to tag along so I comforted myself by going to the playground.

It had one of those rock ship slides where you climb up a ladder from one level to another. Just two steps up the ladder I became afraid of falling so inexplicably, I let go of the ladder and fell straight back, landing with a thud on the sun baked sand. Even though it wasn't a long drop, I was only two or three steps up, I could feel the wind knock out of me and I lay on the sand crying. For some odd reason, I did the only thing I could think of, burying the prize from the Cracker Jack box that I earlier opened into the sand.

Then in first grade, I did it again. It was on the first day of school, during our first recess. I climbed up to the monkey bars. I had climbed them many times before but for some reason this time, I moved my arms across two bars and hung there, afraid of falling. Once, again, I just let go, falling like a rag doll to the ground. The aide came to my rescue, telling me not to move while they got the principal. After some discussion, it was decided that I could get up, but they would send me home for the day. I was brokenhearted because this meant I would not be able to eat lunch in the cafeteria out of my Barbie lunchbox that mom had bought me.

I was a weird, weird child. I can't explain why I purposefully let go each time thus ensuring that the thing I was afraid of would happen, but I think that's why I can't stand to be at the edge of a steep fall. How can I be sure that I won't just suddenly let go?

My Story in Lists|Things I'm Afraid of

Last week I was up North visiting my sister. Like normal, since I'm not limited to one bag and a carry-on, I tend to over pack. This trip was no exception. Laptop, iPad, iPad keyboard and Listography, My Book of Lists were all in tow as I had planned to spend my down time writing. Who would know that there would be no down time?

My Listography book caught Christie's eye. And why wouldn't it? It's bright and cheery, interesting looking. Just looking at it makes me happy and encourages me to write.

She asked about it and I explained what it was for. Showing her some examples, I turned to the Page which read...things I'm afraid of. I had just one thing listed, lizards. I am terrified of lizards. They make me shudder, literally. I don't like that I see them on warm and sunny days almost all the time now. I love that Belle is around because she can be my protector from those creepy, slithery things.

I blame part of my fear on what happened in Puerto Rico. Even as a 2nd/3rd grader, I never really cared for them, but I didn't shudder at the sight or thought of lizards. Until one day when Victor found the smallest lizard I ever saw. It was so slight that the skin was almost translucent. Vic was about six years old at the time and he had it in the palm of his hand, taunting me with it, lifting it up towards my face as I insisted that he leave me alone.

Finally, in desperation, I shoved my brother's hand away from my face and in doing so, the lizard went flying through the air and my brother losing his balance took a step backwards, squashing that poor little lizard to death. He cried, Greg and Eliz got mad at me and I was indignant and grossed out by the whole thing. As an adult, I feel badly about it, but from that moment on, my fear of lizards grew exponentially.

I explained to Christie that I was afraid of other things, but at the time I wrote on the page of fears, only one thing came to mind. During the next day as we explored the streets of San Francisco, many of my other fears came to meet me, face-to-face.

The fear of driving across long bridges. 

I hate, hate, hate driving across them. I'm okay with short bridges, the kind that you can clearly see the other side as you start across the water.

Kind of like the Rainbow Bridge pictured above, but the Golden Gate or the Bay Bridge? I get queasy. It doesn't help to know that part of the Bay Bridge collapsed during the SFO earthquake.

I'm afraid of heights, looking down from a high place. I can't get near the edge, even when I know there is a barrier or enclosure. I'm afraid that it won't hold or that for some unknown reason I will hurl myself off the edge. On 9/11, I was horrified by the jumpers on the Trade Centers. I couldn't imagine the pain and suffering they must have felt to jump to their death. They were living my nightmare and those images will haunt me forever. 

My Story in Lists| Where I lived Part V

After a year and a half in Delaware, the four of us children boarded a plane one November evening and flew back West while mom and dad drove the cars back across the country. Once they joined us, they rented a house in Hacienda Heights where I would start and finish my Jr High years. It was not an easy move for me. It took some time before I was able to make friends at school and I spent at least a good month friendless at lunch time.

I finally settled in and found a good friend with a soul for books and writing just like me. We would spend hours after school in the library hunting for books, dreaming of becoming writers. Our weekends, once again, were filled with extended family. Somewhere towards the end of my 8th grade, we became aware of our next move. This time to a country that I had never heard of before called Iran. We were told that the city we were going to live in was called Esfahan and it was a resort area with a river running through the middle of the city.

Once again, we packed our things up and after celebrating my grandfather's birthday, in July of 1976, we were on a plane to a foreign land.

I knew it was going to be different, but I wasn't prepared for it. The moment we got off the plane, I was frightened. The people were loud, the colors of their clothing dark, the women in shadors, the men with piercing eyes, the writing was in symbols, the language unintelligible. It didn't help that we stayed in Tehran for a few days after we arrived in Iran at a corporate apartment and I got lost taking a walk in the complex. I didn't know from which building I started and panic arose within me as I wandered through the buildings trying to find my bearings. From the apartments all I could hear where people speaking strange language. Just about the time I was about to lose it, I spotted dad walking towards me and I ran to him crying.

After we made it to our flat in Esfahan, I refused to go anywhere for almost two weeks. I didn't realize it, but I was in culture shock.

Luckily we moved there in July and school didn't start for almost two months later. The first time I went to the bazaar, I was terrified of the long dark corridors, the smells were overpowering and hustle, bustle like I had never seen before. I tried to think ways I could get my parents to send me home. I knew I didn't belong there and I didn't know how I was going to make it through the two years we were told we were going to be there.

As time passed, I came to love this land and the most of the things that initially scared me. There was a beauty to the exotic differences between what I knew at home and what Iran offered.

It was strange because on one hand we were restricted in ways we had never been before, couldn't wear certain clothes or say certain things and on the other hand we had freedoms we didn't have before, Eliz and I hitched hiked like crazy with our friends, getting around the city and would go to nightclubs with our friends, sometimes on school nights (not that mom and dad knew, but we didn't take drugs or drink we just went to dance and have a good time)

Like Puerto Rico, everyone there was, like us, separated from family and friends so we became each other's family leaning and depending on each other in ways that we may not have normally done in the states. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. I came to love most every moment.

There were things we missed. Simple things, like Welch's grape jelly, hot dogs, bubble yum. If someone would go back stateside, they would come back with shopping lists of goodies for everyone. There were things we didn't miss...tv, malls. We did miss family, but since Uncle Joe was working for Fluor, too, at this time, he was in Esfahan with his family at the same time so we were lucky enough to have part of our family there too.

As we drew close to the end of our second year there, things began to change. There were rumors of women who weren't wearing their chadors having acid thrown in their face. There was a military presence throughout the city and during a trip to Tehran with the American school, we had a group of guys chase us, throwing rocks at us. It was apparent there was civil unrest and dad decided that it was time to leave. In May of 1978, we were scheduled to go home on R&R. Dad decided not to renew the contract and head home for good.

And just like I cried when I arrived in Iran, I cried, only harder when I left. I think I knew it was likely that I would never be back. I would never again smell the smells at the Bazaars, I would not see the wonderful sights, stand at the edge of the street, hollering at the cars that slowed down so they could determine if they wanted to give me a ride to my destination. I would likely not see any of my friends ever again.