Following My Father: Menlo Park

My parents and I moved to Menlo Park after we left San Francisco in the middle of my sophomore year. I felt extremely glad to leave my dreadful high school in the city, where I spent the first semester.

At first, the move to Menlo Park was a relief. I loved the house on Hedge Road, my dachshund Chippie could live with us there (I don't know where he was when we went to Anchorage and San Francisco), and my headaches went away.

I loved the weather in Menlo Park, too. The ocean fog is blocked by the Santa Cruz Mountains, allowing the sun to shine. In the evening, on many days, the fog rolls beautifully over the mountains, covering the top in a white, fluffy blanket.

Freight trains passed by our backyard day and night. As people do, we soon got used to them, and had no problem sleeping through their rattles and bumps.

Dad and Mom enjoyed our house, too. When Dad came home from work, the first thing he did was get out the hose and wash the house down. He said it cooled the place down. We had no air conditioning, as most people did not. The weather was usually mild and pleasant enough, but it could get hot in the summer.

I observed Dad perform his ritual with the hose. It was evident that the activity relieved the stress of the day. I was always glad to see Dad enjoying himself.

A few months after we moved in, Dad ordered a kit for making a large kayak. He worked on it in the narrow side yard. That thing was long! The wood was a gorgeous reddish-brown color, and Dad varnished it to a high gloss.

Sadly, it was another of Dad's projects he never finished. I guess he sold it.

He worked on an old red jalopy when we lived in St. Helena. That had the same fate.

But none of that time and effort was wasted. Those projects represented dreams that for the time he worked on them gave him hope and relaxation.

When it came to Menlo-Atherton High School, my experience in Menlo Park became less pleasant. There were few students I wished to befriend. Many of the kids lived in neighboring Atherton, a wealthy area. They tended toward snobbery, and often looked down on the rest of us.

Black kids from East Palo Alto also attended Menlo-Atherton. As it was in San Francisco, they were riled up for black rights and often threatened us white students.

Then there were the jocks. Maybe I would have identified with that crowd had we stayed on Alger Drive in Palo Alto, where a group of us sixth grade girls pretended we were cheerleaders. I was popular and bouncy that year.

One girl from South Africa became my friend. As we ate lunch in a grassy area, she sat near me. She introduced herself.

I liked Celia's accent, her intelligence, and her kindness. Her innocence, though, made for a huge difference between us. As the year went on and I made friends with mainly boys who smoked marijuana and did other drugs, Celia and I rarely did anything together.

Celia said an interesting thing: in South Africa they learn a lot about a little; here we learn a little a lot. Thought provoking.

Before Celia and I more or less went our separate ways, I went to her house across town on the other side of El Camino. Menlo Park consists of many kinds of neighborhoods. Celia's was an enclave of large, upscale homes.

The house had a large swimming pool, where we swam while playing a transistor radio.

I liked Celia's mother, a meek, kind, gentle woman. Her dad, on the other hand, struck me as a rather cruel man. One day he came home when I was there. I did not like the way he talked to his wife and daughters.

Celia and I stayed in touch for several years. She invited me to her wedding, which was held in a church hall in Menlo Park. We were both in college, where she studied criminal justice, and I attended City College of San Francisco.

Celia's groom worked in law enforcement, so the two of them had that interest in common.

I rode my bike the two miles to school. Most of the way was uphill, and by the time I got to school and parked my bike on a bike rack, I was out of breath.

I was fond of wearing Dad's gold suede jacket. He brought it back years before from Argentina. One day as I rode along Bay Road, some boys drove by and shouted, "Your hair is the same color as your jacket!"

Sometimes I heard wolf whistles as cars drove by. As flattering as they were, I found them kind of creepy.

Riding bikes was uncool among teenagers in those days. My clothing was uncool, as well, at least it was regarded as such by the snobs. I made most of my clothes. One day a girl asked me, "Did you make your skirt?" She said it in a disparaging way while looking me up and down. I didn't even know her.

Granted, I bought the fabric at K-Mart, and it's design was unusual. But, I thought it was pretty.

In Alaska, and in San Francisco, I lost my motivation to study much. My depression from all the upheaval from our frequent moves still plagued me.

My gym teacher was a young woman who saw how depressed I was and made an effort to support me emotionally. I remember standing with her talking in the tennis court after class ended. I appreciated her interest in me.

In her class I improved my tennis so that I no longer hit balls all over the place, the way I did as a kid when I played with Winnie in San Francisco. As a way of coping and dealing with feelings of loneliness, I often rode to backboards in Burgess Park and batted away at the ball.

Funny how you rarely see backboards like that anymore. They are great for practicing. The one at Burgess Park consisted of tall cement walls arranged to make four separate backboards.

I came to dislike Menlo-Atherton High so much that I started cutting a lot. This, of course, got me in trouble with the school. I rarely had a note from Mom. The counselor threatened to call in truant officers if I continued to cut.

When I cut, I spent the days sunbathing on our redwood deck in the backyard and taking Chippie for walks. It was a means of escape for me.

Often, I read while lying on my bed. Mom found a bed a woman wanted to sell. It was her daughter's double bed, a really nice one with a wooden frame and a bookshelf with wicker-covered doors on the compartments. Mom got me a pretty bedspread.

Louvers covered my windows, making for a lovely room. I loved how the light came through. In the evenings I burned large scented and votive candles.

Mom worked at Stanford Hospital on the evening shift. This was typical, as nurses new to a hospital started out on that shift. This left Dad and me on our own for supper.

Dad made his usual dinners of London Broil and onions, with canned potatoes and a canned vegetable. He heated the cans in a pot of boiling water to save pots.

After we ate, we watched TV together in the living room. Comedy Hour, that hilarious comedy team, who did a lot of political commentary and satire.

The other comedy show that made us laugh was Rowan and Martin's Laugh In.

They were really a whacky bunch!

Dad frequently fell asleep in front of the TV. The combination of getting up at five and a glass of wine knocked him out earlier than my bedtime. I woke him up and guided him to bed.

Mom and I liked to do projects together. We had an extra bedroom. Dad set up a table made from sawhorses and plywood, where we poured resin into molds in which we had put objects, such as dried flowers. We kept those trivets for many years.

We found and old dresser and mirror at at garage sale. It was large, and of a colonial style. I stripped off the varnish and sanded it down -- not an easy job, I can tell you. I used a teal antiquing kit. It turned out beautifully. I used that dresser for many, many years -- until I was in my mid-thirties when my boyfriend somehow convinced me to sell it at a garage sale. I regretted that ever since.

I frequently played my albums and danced and sang to them. I loved B.B.King, the Mamas and Papas, and Simon & Garfinkel, among others. On the radio were so many good songs, as there were every year. Many genres existed: rock; hard rock; folk, R & B, and soul. The only one of those I did not like was hard rock.

Songs I loved in the time I lived in Menlo Park, 1967 1n 1968 included, "Make It Easy on Yourself," by the Walker Brothers, "(Sitting on) the Dock of the Bay" by Otis Redding, "This Guy's in Love With You" by Herb Alpert," and "La La La La (Means I Love You)" by the Delfonics.

I often rode my bike to Winnie's house in Palo Alto. She and John owned a nice place next to my hated Jordan Junior High School.

Winnie was doing her best to cope with her marriage, but John's rigidity, coldness, and desire to control her every move made it difficult.

Winnie attended Notre Dame in Belmont, where she was working on her bachelor's in mathematics. She felt very appreciative of John for supporting her through college.

When she graduated, she went on to earn a teaching credential. Unfortunately, she had a severe, undiagnosed hearing loss.

In her math class at Sequoia High School in Redwood City, she was unable to keep the discipline among her rowdy students, who took advantage of her hearing loss. So sad.

Winnie never did use her math degree professionally. It's too bad she didn't have an opportunity to go for her master's. She ended up working as a nurse's aide, and later as a librarian in an engineering library in San Francisco.

Winnie maintained, and maintains, an active interest in math and philosophy. She has what she calls her math studio, and periodically sends the family packets of insights.

Winnie has an incredible breadth of knowledge. She adds quotes from philosophers, mathematicians, physicists, and other scientists. It is truly incredible.

My family always acknowledged my creative talents. Winnie asked me to make her something to put on her kitchen wall. I bought a big piece of poster board on which I painted a fanciful peacock. I didn't think it was very good, but Winnie loved it, and displayed it proudly.

My friend Miles often rode the train from San Francisco to see me in Menlo Park. Or, sometimes I met him in the city.

One day we went to Sausalito, across the Golden Gate Bridge. We walked around the mall filled with fun shops. I loved to look at the jewelry and knickknacks, and the colorful kites in the kite shop.

We left the mall and wandered to a little beach. There, Miles pulled out a joint. Never having smoked marijuana before, I was hesitant. Miles convinced me that I would really enjoy the experience, so I consented.

Oh, boy, did I smoke too much! I quickly started tripping. I felt self-conscious, afraid I would do something stupid. We returned to the mall, primarily to get something to eat. While there, I worried that people could detect my state. Maybe we would get arrested.

All the way home to Menlo Park on the train, I felt panicky. Fortunately, Miles accompanied me. I thought that was gentlemanly, and appreciated it. I started to get paranoid and to have unpleasant hallucinations.

On the way home we walked on a street lined with eucalyptus trees. Its isolation and silence added to me discomfort. Glad to make it home, I hurried to my room to lie down. My parents never said anything. I never smoked marijuana again.

Sometimes John picked me up. His family had moved to the east by town of Livermore. There was not a whole lot to do there. One day John and I got on bikes and rode for miles through rolling farmland. Our ride ended abruptly when John's tire went flat. We had no pump or patch kit, so we walked our bikes all the way back to his house.

Behind Livermore were the Lawrence Livermore Labs. The labs worked on nuclear weapons. The problem with that was that nuclear weapons could blow up at any time, at least I felt that way.

One afternoon when his parents were away, John looked through the liquor cabinet, and brought out a large bottle of his parents' whisky. No one recognized it at the time that John's mom was developing what would become a severe case of alcoholism.

Never having drunk liquor before, I didn't realize that it would take a while for the effects to kick in. I drank glass after glass, holding my glass out for John to pour more whiskey into.

When the effects did kick in, I became extremely drunk. I laughed hysterically at the slightest thing as John gave me a puzzled, yet amused, look.

All of a sudden, we became aware that John's parents were home. Oh, man! I went into a panic. John hurried me into his parents' bedroom, of all places. I lay face down on the bed for what would be hours until I sobered up.

Fortunately, his parents never walked in! They must have asked John where I was. I don't know what he told them. They never mentioned the incident.

That was one of the few times I ever got even close to being that drunk again. After that the idea of drinking whiskey felt repulsive to me. I wonder why!

John left school because he wanted to work instead. He and his best friend rented a tiny house in Point Richmond, an area of Richmond that sticks out into the San Francisco Bay. Richmond is a city on the north end of the east bay, adjacent to Berkeley.

Point Richmond was at that time, a small enclave of artists, hippies, and others. The "downtown" lay in front of Point Pinole Regional Shoreline with a large outcropping of rock, effectively a small mountain; a path leads around to the bay.

I visited John in Point Richmond. We explored the downtown and walked along the path to the bay. At that time there was a railroad track on the other side of the outcropping. To access the bay, we walked along the tracks. It felt pretty scary to worry about a train going by at that point!

We walked back to his house, went into his bedroom, and had wild sex!

____________________

To my surprise, and to the astonishment of the girls who felt they were the only ones who could be involved with jocks, one of the football players at school started flirting with me. His name was Robin.

Robin was shorter than me, and of a stocky build. He had a fun-loving personality and laughed a lot. His humor was not always to my taste, however.

He invited me to join him for lunch. He took me to a wooded area across from the school, where he met his long-haired, raggedy-dressed friend. They rolled joints, and offered me hits, which I did not take.

I was still doing that thing where I had little compunction about getting involved with another boy while involved with someone else. This became a pattern of mine that lasted many years.

I rationalized my behavior by figuring that what my boyfriend didn't know wouldn't hurt him. It's hard for me to believe now that I felt that way. I was a moral person otherwise.

Over time, John figured out I was involved with someone else. He took it in stride, and disappeared from my life.

Robin and his family lived on a small court near the train tracks and El Camino. Their house was low to the ground, the kind my father said flooded easily. Robin's mom was a talented seamstress. The living room floor was covered by a large coiled rug she made. She knitted, as well, and made me a beautiful teal cable knit turtleneck sweater, knowing that teal was my favorite color.

When we went to Robin's house, I was surprised to find that his parents allowed us to go into his bedroom together. We sat or lay on the bed to watch TV or make out. We even had sex when his parents were home!

Robin's dad worked in some capacity at the San Francisco Airport. I liked him very much.

Robin's dad helped him buy an old Morris Mini, a cute thing. The two of them spent a lot of time making it operational and fixing it when it broke down. It was fun to drive around in that car.

Robin's family took me skiing at Northstar near Lake Tahoe. I never skied before. I put on the big boots. Someone helped me latch them onto the skis, and I clomped out to the run.

I tried the bunny slope. Basically, all I did was fall and have trouble getting up! None of the family stayed to teach me, heading off to the runs instead. (I thought that was rude.) Soon, I headed back to the lodge. Unfortunately, there was a bump of snow next to the entrance. I slipped, one of my skis twisted, my knee twisted.

My knee swelled up. The long, cramped, car ride was grueling. I limped around painfully for the next six weeks. I never tried downhill skiing again!

Robin and I went to the Guild Theater to see Romeo and Juliet. Was Olivia Hussey beautiful!

Once, Robin and I rode in the back of a friend's car. A bunch of us crammed in. I always regretted getting in there because the girl who drove was high and drove erratically. I definitely did not like her.

The girl lived in Atherton with her wealthy parents who indulged her whims and tolerated her wild behavior. To me, she was an unpleasant, tactless, untrustworthy person.

On one excursion, we ended up in the Panhandle, at the Haight-Ashbury end of Golden Gate Park. It was evidently a cool place to go. It was the site of the Summer of Love in 1967.

The Summer of Love was a phenomenon. It was attended by close to 100,000 of mostly young people, who came from as far away and New York City.

The event was a celebration and statement of characteristic of the hippie, or "flower children" movement -- music, drugs, free love, and protest of the Vietnam war.

When we got to the Panhandle, the group, with the exception of me, smoked marijuana and acted obnoxiously. I felt so sorry I came, and did not look forward to the ride home.

Menlo-Atherton's football team played well that year. One of the last things I did with Robin's family was go to a game against a rival team in Redwood City. On the bleachers of that large stadium, Robin's parents and sister yelled and cheered and rose up whenever someone made a touchdown.

My experience was less enthusiastic. I was not a sports fan. But, I envied Robin the support and enthusiasm he received from his parents.

One night a group of Robin's friends and I drove to the city to see a B.B. King concert at the Fillmore. It was my first concert like that (and the last). Man, was it loud!

People crammed into the auditorium and stood squashed together. Walking through there was unpleasant. People were rude, and it was hard to get them to make room. Some of them smoked dope.

B.B.King was fantastic! He was one of my favorite artists.

After the concert we lost track of Robin's friends. We ended up being the last people to leave.

The Fillmore is not the best neighborhood. It's located along Geary Boulevard next to a bridge.

With no one around, we soon learned we were sitting ducks. A man came out of nowhere, pulled out a knife, and demanded our wallets.

Contrary to popular wisdom, I refused. That man was not about to get my wallet! I yelled at him to get the hell out of there.

Robin, however, became a sniveling mass of jelly, and handed his wallet over.

By fortunate happenstance, a cab approached as we stood there. Our assailant disappeared. We hailed the driver, and hopped into the back.

I rather resented my having to pay for the cab ride. Despite feeling disgusted at Robin's cowardly behavior, I stayed involved with him.

My relationship with Robin was short-lived. Our break up was painful for me. Never having been rejected by a boy before, I was crushed; devastated, really. My depression worsened. My time in Menlo Park was miserable.

One good thing was that I got my driver's license. A scary thing happened in driver's ed. When I was behind the wheel, a dog ran out from nowhere. I slammed on what I thought was the brake. Not so, it was the accelerator!

The teacher used his brake to stop the car. We barely missed that poor dog. I felt so sorry for him to have to be scared like that.

Robin introduced me to the Village Host Pizza Parlor on El Camino. It was a hangout for many high school kids. I made friends with a boy who worked behind the counter named Roy.

Roy was a hard worker, very smart, but not handsome. He would have liked to be my boyfriend, but I was not interested.

Roy introduced me to a friend, who also worked at the "Host." When I met Vince, I was startled by his face. I wondered if he was in a fight.

Vince had polio when he was little. He spent three years in an iron lung at the Shriner's Hospital in San Francisco. His recovery was quite miraculous. The only lasting effect of his polio was paralysis on the left side of his face.

I liked Vince right away. He had a certain sex appeal and was very nice. I could tell he liked me, too. One day he saw me driving my parents' Chevy Greenbrier van along Santa Cruz Avenue, and rode his motorcycle up next to me. Startled, I looked over ,and saw it was Vince. He gestured me to pull over.

Vince and I had many adventures in the three years we were involved. Three years older than me, he dropped out of school so he could work instead. He lived with his divorced, alcoholic mother in a tiny cottage across town from me.

In front of the house was a huge redwood tree that shaded the house and yard. The house was very dark and gloomy, except the kitchen in the back.

Vince had an extremely hard childhood between the polio, alienation from his father, and his alcoholic mother. He described the many times he had to lift her off the floor when she passed out. She could be cruel and abusive, as well, when in the throes of an alcoholic rage.

I never got to know her. Vince came home one day to find her dead on the living room floor.

After that, Vince latched onto me like a lifeline. He asked me to attend his mother's rosary. The rosary was quite an experience for me. I knew little about Catholicism.

It seemed like the "Hail Mary, full of grace" and the click of rosary beads went on forever in the tiny room. Not being Catholic, I felt awkward in there, and wasn't sure what to do with myself.

My parents liked Vince, and allowed me to take off on his motorcycle and stay out late. Despite his sex appeal and adventuresome nature, Vince tended to be shy and quiet.

Sometimes when Vince brought me home I was in the throes of a bout of tachycardia. I had tachycardia all my life until in my forties I had an ablation. The surgeon zapped the spot causing my malady with a laser.

The type of tachycardia I had was non-lethal, although bothersome. To stop my rapid heartbeats, I bent over and held my breath. This method worked fine, but as I got older, it became less effective. It became more and more difficult to stop the episode.

When a bout happened, Vince often carried me into the house because I felt faint. Chivalrous of him.

I was not crazy about his smoking grass, which he consented not to do around me. I was especially not crazy about his friend Dave.

Dave rode crazily around town in his hotrod. I felt he was a spoiled brat. He was often rude to me. We grew to not like each other much.

Vince's former girlfriend was an absolutely beautiful girl with long, lovely hair that swung as she moved. Once in a while we ran into her. She was friendly to us.

Carol worked as a waitress at a local coffee shop. Years later, I learned she became a helicopter pilot in Hawaii!

Most of Vince's friends were semi-hippie types, who drank and smoked a lot. I had little, if anything, in common with them. One of his friends was a tall, good-looking guy. He lived in a family with four boys. Years later, I learned that they were constantly abused at home.

Vince and I once went to a picnic/party in a large area made for that purpose in the foothills. The kind of music they played I was not into; acid rock, played loudly. The young men seemed rough, many of them dressed in jean or leather jackets. I did not have a good time.

One of the girls there lived in my neighborhood. I recognized her from Menlo Atherton. One day we walked home from school together. By the time we got to her house, I knew I had nothing in common with her. She acted flippant and sarcastic about many things.

Later, I learned she was an alcoholic, even at that young age. Years and years later, Vince took me to another one of that crowd's parties. She was there, clearly still drinking heavily in her late-thirties. I felt very sorry for her. I had experienced my sister's alcoholism, and knew how hard it was for her to stop drinking. Winnie had to hit the bottomest of bottoms; she nearly died.

In the spring, Dad had a stroke. The day it happened, Mom loaded him into our Greenbriar to take him to Kaiser Hospital. I started to climb in the backseat, but Mom refused to let me go.

After they drove off, I stood in the driveway and sobbed.

Dad was in the hospital a week. When he returned home, he was partially paralyzed on his left side. He dragged his foot and had little use of his arm. Fortunately, because the stroke was in the right side of his brain, he did not develop aphasia, and had no trouble talking.

He gradually recovered fully, and returned to work. He had no trouble walking or using his arm.

As Dad recovered, I found Chippie, my dachshund, seizing on the dining room floor. The seizing caused him to skitter on the floor. Gradually, I was able to calm him down. He couldn't walk, though. His back legs dragged.

The vet said that the problem lay in his spine. She said that dachshunds are prone to degeneration of the spine, and there was nothing she could do.

Between the trauma of Dad's stroke and Chippie's occasional seizures and paralysis, the depression I already experienced worsened.

I managed to make it through junior year. Only, I cut so much that I failed English and civics. Ironically, English was my favorite class.

This time I was pleased when Mom said, "We're moving, start packing." For one thing, we were not leaving in just two weeks. For another, I knew I would not have to go back to Menlo-Atherton High. The only thing that was hard about leaving was saying goodbye to Vince.

Vince and Roy helped us load up the U-Haul truck. Sadly, the top of my teal dresser got a long, deep scratch in it.

Dad planned to moved back to the city, but came along to help us move.

We were finally moving to Cambria, town of our dreams!

When we traveled in the dark along Highway 101, the truck broke down a few miles out of King City. Vince and Roy managed to limp along to a U-Haul that was, luckily, located right off the freeway.

They unloaded the truck and loaded up another one, and off we went.

So, I was glad to say my adventure in Menlo Park was finally over.