Lovers by the Lake Part two

Chapter Two

Amy climbed into the small rowboat while Paul held it steady. The lake was not very big, but the shore dropped off sharply. The morning sun reflected off the water, creating surreal patterns of shimmering light on the side of the little boat.

“Hold on tight now while I get in,” Paul said as he pushed the boat into the water until it floated freely. Then he struggled to hop in.

Amy held on tightly as the little boat rocked back and forth while Paul struggled to slip over the railing. She offered him her hand to steady himself until he got seated in the center seat and set the oars.

“I think I will start off with my first year in high school,” Amy offered.

Paul pulled on the oars, sending the boat away from the shore. Between strokes he gasped for breath and said, “OK, that sounds like a good place to start.”

“Good. Then let me see. I did not live in a big city—though I am sure it was bigger than the city you were raised in,” Amy started:

I lived in a small suburb, tucked away in a peaceful valley. A small town, lost in the California central valley, picturesque with pleasant vistas of rolling hills. It was really a suburb of a suburb of San Francisco. Just one of the many small suburbs surrounding the bay, but it was my home; it was where I lived the first sixteen years of my life.

My mother always said, “At least we live far enough away from the modern-day Sodom and Gomorra to be spared God’s wrath.”

It always made me laugh when mother went off on one of her religious rants, but I was never sure if she really meant it as a joke. I would respond, “Oh, Mother, we are not in biblical times. This is 1961, and I don’t think God will destroy Oakland and San Francisco.”

“Well, if those two cities ever get destroyed, it will be Saint Andreas’s Fault,” Dad would chime in and laugh at his pun.

“Now, that is funny. So your family was even more religious than mine,” Paul interjected.

“Yes, Mom was really strict; I guess you’re right about that,” Amy answered before she continued.

Mother came from a very strict, rigorously religious background of a Kansas farm family. That was the basis of my view of the world, and it was built upon the teachings of the Southern Baptist Church I attended every Sunday. It was where I learned true family values like “A woman’s place is in the home.”

Like most women her age, Mom worked in a factory during World War Two. All the able-bodied men were overseas, fighting. The only men around were too old or unfit to fight. After the war, the troops returned home, and they all wanted to get married. Mother was eager to get married, and Dad wanted a traditional family like the one he grew up in. Mom was a full-time housewife and mother. To them, that was the American dream, and that was what they strove for.

Mother got up early every day to make breakfast and pack my lunch. When I returned home after school, she greeted me with milk and cookies. This gave me a feeling of security. I knew she would always be there. I knew my family would be there for me, and I would be spared the disaster of divorce.

I often heard conversations at the dinner table like:

“Did you hear about Mrs. Thompson? She got a job working at the department store. They must be having a hard time paying all their bills,” Mother would say to Dad over the evening meal.

“Oh! That’s a bad sign. I know George from work. He never talks much about family. You better watch what happens next. This could be the first sign leading up to divorce,” Dad would respond.

My parents talked badly about women working outside the home. A working woman was almost as bad as being divorced. My parents insisted working mothers were the primary cause of the growing numbers in juvenile delinquency and the skyrocketing divorce rate.

“Not really sure if my parents ever talked about topics like that. Most of the time it was just ‘Pass the butter,’ or ‘Got some more gravy?’” Paul blurted.

“My parents seemed to be very concerned about the decay of society. Maybe it was just a sign of the times. I remember there were a lot of changes going on. If you watched TV, it was easy to see,” Amy asserted.

I often tried to point these changes out to my parents.

“On TV you see lots of married women with jobs. They seem really excited about working. I see them all the time on the TV game shows,” I would say, but my parents never gave ground on this point.

My parents seemed oblivious to the changing attitude toward women. They did not watch daytime TV programs. They were unaware of the open disdain shown to female contestants who responded “housewife” to the question “What do you do for a living?” The laughter from the audience seemed to confirm the sinking status of a stay-at-home mother.

Even at such a tender age, I saw these things, and I did not understand why people laughed at women like my mother. It was clear this was, like a lot of other questions, to be pondered at a later time.

“Strange you should mention how your mother stayed at home; so did mine. I never thought much about it at the time, but you know, I think it meant a lot to me, knowing someone was always at home,” Paul interjected as he baited his line.

“Yes, it was good to know someone was waiting for me. I know a lot of my girlfriends loved to come home with me after school. At the time I thought they just came for the cookies and milk, but now I think they liked the feeling of safety,” Amy mused.

My world seemed to be based on Doris Day movies and TV programs like Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, and all the other fine role models for young women. I never stopped to wonder if the movies and TV programs were based on real life or if my life was based on them. For a young girl, such thoughts were beyond my scope, and at best just momentary flashes.

Mother really was not exactly like the TV moms. There was never a martini waiting for dad after a long day’s work, because my parents did not drink. Mom didn’t wear fancy dresses. A nice floral-print house dress was more her style. She could not afford to have her hair done up, and she never, ever made grand entrances like Loretta Young on TV. For that matter, Dad never wore a suit and tie like the men on the TV Shows. Oh, Mom did have dinner ready when Dad came home, but those differences did cause me to think about just how typical the people depicted in the TV programs were. Again I filed those questions for later consideration.

Even though Mother was always at home, there were times when she seemed somehow distant. At times she seemed adrift in a world all her own. She would be sitting in her favorite chair, watching TV with a pleasant smile on her face. Sometimes she did not even respond when spoken to. Her desire to be alone was one reason why I was encouraged to get out of the house and go to the library with friends as much as possible.

California summers are hot. The lack of air conditioning made staying cooped up in the house unrealistic. Outside there might be a breeze, and there were a few places with AC. One of them was the public library. The cool air and the new books were compelling reasons for me and my girlfriends to gather at the library.

We would rush to the new book display first thing and pounce on the hot new books. Some of the books alarmed me. I was offended by the brashness of the sexual content.

“Oh, Amy, you are such a prude,” my best friend Pam teased. Then all the other girls giggled behind their hands as they eagerly shared the hot passages with each other.

“All this sleazy sex exploitation is not right! I am sure real heroes and heroines don’t act that way,” I asserted, only to conjure up more laughter.

At the time I was really torn. Could this early exposure to unabashed sexual debauchery have a detrimental effect on my friends? In my family, sex was a taboo topic. The way my friends acted made it harder for me to understand where the boundaries were. This discrepancy turned into more questions to wait until I was older to find the answer.

“Wow, Amy, you really do sound like a prude,” Paul interrupted.

“Yes looking back I can see why my friends always laughed at me,” Amy agreed. She then returned to her tale.

If I was not in the library, I would be in my room reading the cheap, paperback romance novels sold at the supermarket. In every story I saw myself as the heroin, with true, undying love my only inspiration. True love always triumphed in the end, and the hero and heroine lived happily ever after.

Love and romance were devoid of sex in my beloved novels. Nothing more than a parting kiss, or a tender embrace was ever exchanged between lovers.

Mother told horror stories, about all the terrible diseases, and the shame associated with unwanted pregnancy. Her oft too vivid accounts, combined with the articles in the news media, cast a dark shadow over any type of social activity involving the opposite sex. Sexually transmitted diseases were factors never mentioned in my beloved romances. Pregnancy was only the result of true love, or the result of an attack by some villain to thicken the plot.

After all, this was a time when the only birth-control pill was an aspirin held tightly between a young girls knees. What decent person could go into a drug store, and openly purchase a pack of “THOSE THINGS”—back then I could not even bring myself to say the word, condom, out loud—to prevent unwanted pregnancy. Those items were never mentioned in the romances.

“Wow! Amy, your family was way stricter than mine,” Paul exclaimed.

“Oh, God, Paul, I still remember the horrible mother-daughter talk,” Amy continued her tale.

It was very clear from the way Mother approached the subject, sex was taboo and should not be brought up or discussed. I still remember mother’s sex training.

“A woman’s menstrual cycle is God’s punishment to all women because Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit,” Mother explained.

Mother’s sex education attempt was disturbing. It was nothing like what I read in my beloved romance novels, where love conquers all. The discrepancy both concerned and confused me. It was just one more problem I was forced to bury deep within my mind. I did not want to have anything disturb my dreamlike life.

In church I learned sex should only come after marriage. In the romance novels, sex was only given as a token of true love, to the hero before he embarked on a mission of no return. The TV shows and romance novels taught me all I needed to know about life and love. I was determined to wait until my knight in shining armor came to rescue me from the boring life I lived.

“Wow! Amy, you really were not the type of girl I was looking for when I was in high school,” Paul blurted out.

“Probably not, Paul. I was just one confused, naïve child lost between two different worlds,” agreed Amy, nodding her head with a sigh.

Yes, as a child, I lived in a Norman Miller painting, and I was happy. My Sweet Sixteen party was already planned. I was just a teenage girl living in the heart of California, and like all my friends, we just wanted to have fun. On really hot days, I would meet some of my friends and seek shelter from the heat.

We spent time at the swimming pool or just hanging around, watching the boys play basketball. All summer long we would spend hours giggling and laughing about all the guys in school. We talked about our big plans for the future: where we would live, whom we wanted to marry, how many children we would have. It was just one way to enjoy the hot summer days.

The California summers are long, and my friends were eager to find ways to make the summer more fun. We took turns having pajama parties. We would all bring stacks of forty-fives, and we would listen to the newest top ten hits. The Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Roy Orbison, Frankie Valley, and Chubby Checker were just a few of our favorites. We stayed up all night giggling and practicing the newest dance steps we learned on American Bandstand. All in all, we just enjoyed being young girls in California, dreaming the American dream. We were totally unaware that we would be known as baby boomers.

All the fun things made it easy to forget the unpleasant past. The ugly, dark days were long ago. The fearful days of “duck and cover drills” in school were just an unpleasant memory. Gone were the days when Walter Cronkite, in his strange monotone voice droned out the statistics of the latest nuclear bomb test. The bunker my father built in the backyard was a nearly forgotten testimony to the fears of that bygone era.

“Your family had a bomb shelter? I heard about them, but I never knew anyone who really had one,” Paul interrupted.

“Well, now you know someone who really had a bomb shelter in their yard,” asserted Amy as she reached for a bottle of water. She took a sip before she resumed her story.

With the passage of time, the bad days were all but forgotten. I do remember laughing at the “funny fat man” who took his shoe off in the United Nations and used it to hammer on his desk. The war in Korea was over. The shock of Sputnik was still reverberating in the news. The current hot news event was the space race. Now the news stories talked about who was leading in the quest for space domination. It seemed like every day, there were new reports on the latest developments. President Kennedy even announced plans to send men to the moon by the end of the decade. I did not understand much about the events, but I knew in my heart that this was the “new frontier.”

I remember August 1961, the last weeks of summer vacation; it was central California, and the air smelled of dry grass. School would soon start, and I would be starting tenth grade, my first year in high school. I went with Mother to the shopping mall to get my fall wardrobe. I came home with bags full of pleated skirts, turtleneck sweaters, cotton blouses of every color, new shoes with “heels,” and my very first bras with just a little padding.

The new clothes made me look and feel so grown up. I could not believe the image reflected in the full-length mirror. The image of a much taller, slimmer young woman with flowing, shoulder-length, dark auburn hair stood looking back at me. The long summer exposure to the sun had tanned my skin to a rich, dark copper tone, concealing the spray of freckles normally dominating my cheeks.

After trying on each new item, I was pleased with what I saw. I could not resist standing in front of the mirror, admiring the image. After long deliberation and careful examination of the image I saw in the mirror, I concluded with satisfaction that it really must be me. At the same time, I was very much aware that I did not come close to looking like the true female model, “Barbie.” But then, I could not think of any girl or woman who achieved Barbie’s ideal figure. I decided it was just another point to ponder, and I pushed it to the back of my mind along with all the other questions.

Now I started to wonder if my sudden metamorphosis was the reason Sam, the boy next door, was coming over to visit more frequently. He was very nice, and kind of cute. He even offered to help me around school. He told me he really knew his way around. After all, he was going to be a junior. I thanked him and was happy to have someone help me out during the first few weeks in a strange environment.

Sam’s older brother, Jeff, was drafted into the army just after he graduated from high school, and he was due to come home on leave soon. They lived next door forever, or at least as long as I could remember.

It was kind of strange; I had known Jeff and Sam for so long, but until that summer, I was never really interested in what they were doing. Now, sitting in my room, admiring the new clothes, I thought back on all the crazy times we had spent together. The baseball games in the street, the one-on-one basketball in the driveway, the wrestling matches on the lawn, and splashing under the sprinkler on hot summer days all took on new meaning.

One event stands out; it was a Sunday morning. I had just gotten back from church, and I sat on the big living-room couch, watching TV, with a glass of milk in one hand and a plate of Oreo cookies balanced on my crossed legs.

“August thirteenth,” droned the commentator. “East Germany has started the construction of a wall to divide Germany into two countries.”

The wall was not finished in one day, but on the day the first brick was put into place, all ties between us and them, here and there, East and West, were broken. The wall stood, resolute and silent. It was a madman’s monument, separating us from them, good from evil, democracy from communism. I watched the TV news in naïve shock as the tanks from the East and from the West screeched to a stop. Only inches or millimeters (depending upon which side you were on) separated the flash suppresser on the West’s M-60 tanks from the T-72 muzzles of the East. The Iron Curtain just turned to stone.

I knew this was the end of life as I had always known it. The horrible dark days returned. The image of a young East German guard jumping over the wall at the last minute to the West, to freedom, was burned into my mind.

This image added to my youthful confusion. I saw him as a hero, like the ones in the romance novels, but he was one of them. He was a communist. He could not be a hero, not in my clean, clearly divided, black-and-white world. This became yet another question I filed for the future. I remember hearing a conversation between Mother and Dad:

“Oh dear, do you think we might be going to war?” Mother whispered in Dad’s ear.

“I’m not sure; it’s better to be safe than sorry,” he replied and nodded knowingly. “That’s why we built the shelter in the first place,” he added in a voice filled with icy foreboding.

“We just have to clean it out and restock the supplies. Maybe you and Amy can make that a mother-daughter project,” he suggested.

On Monday morning, right after breakfast, Mother took me to the basement. I helped her gather all the cleaning supplies and followed her to the big, gray blast door separating the basement from the bomb shelter.

I could not really remember the last time I was inside the shelter. I know I was very young when it was built. It took our combined efforts to open the heavy blast door. The stench of stale, putrid air gushed out of the dark void behind the metal door. The shelter was built in 1953, at the height of the frenzied nuclear doom era, but last opened in 1956.

An oil lamp hung by the entrance. Mother lit it and led the way down a short flight of stairs. A second blast door protected the main bunker. I helped Mother pull the partly open steel door wide open. The flickering light of the oil lamp gave the room a surreal appearance. The first object inside was a shower on one side with a toilet opposite; next was a small changing room with shelves holding stacks of strange white garments. In the next room were two sets of three-high bunk beds flanking the walls. Just past the beds was a kitchen, consisting of a small sink and refrigerator on one side and a stove and cabinets opposite. Along the back wall, taking up most of the space, was shelving to hold canned goods and bottled water.

“Oh, God! This place is creepy,” I said to Mom. The smell was just overpowering. I choked, holding my hand over my mouth. I thought I was going to vomit.

My young eyes drank in the gloomy details while Mother turned on some ventilators to clear the air. Everything had a thick blanket of dust, and the air reeked of a pungent, moldy odor.

“Let’s do a quick dust removal now and let the ventilators have some time to clear the air while we go shopping for supplies,” Mother suggested.

Upon our return, I was surprised to see Jeff, in his army uniform, talking to my father. They must be talking about life in the military, I figured. Dad fought in World War Two and was always eager to share his war stories. Jeff was taller than Dad. His shoulders were broad and strong. The GI haircut almost made him look bald. Except for his hairstyle, he looked just like the heroes depicted in the romances. I saw him standing there, and somehow I imagined I saw him in a suit of shining armor.

“So you did have boyfriends. I thought you were, like, locked up in some girls-only place,” Paul joked.

Amy drank deeply from the water bottle before she replied, “OK, wise guy. Yes, I did date and stuff like that in school, but Jeff and Sam were just kids next door.”

I’d known Jeff all my life, but now I saw him in an entirely new light. I decided both Sam and Jeff had to be invited to my Sweet Sixteen party. I felt the blood rush to my face when Jeff came over.

“Can I help you carry these bags?” he asked.

A warm glow seemed to spread through my entire body. I turned my face to the ground to prevent him from seeing my reddened cheeks. I shyly lifted my eyes up to glimpse his handsome face.

“Thank you, but I don’t want you to get your uniform dirty,” I replied in a whisper.

I quickly picked up a bag and clutched it close as if I were hugging someone. As if I were hugging him.

It took several trips before all the bags were safely deposited in the dark bunker. Jeff was visibly impressed.

“Amy, your parents are doing the right thing. It’s really a good idea to make sure you are prepared just in case,” Jeff observed.

“Oh Jeff, I am so happy you helped me with the bags. This project really scares me. I know why this bunker was built. I see the news on TV, and it worries me. I know you are in the army, and you might be called upon to go to war,” I blurted out between gasping, sobbing breaths.

“I’m only home for two weeks. Then I have to report to my new duty station in Germany, where I’ll be assigned to the Berlin Brigade. I will be in one of the tank crews, like the ones you saw on TV,” he said, beaming with pride.

“Oh, Jeff, that is exactly what I was talking about,” I sobbed.

I could see Jeff was beaming with pride. I knew he would be there to protect “truth, justice, and the American way of life.” I tried to tell him how I felt, but words failed me. I could feel his pride, see his determination, and share his patriotism. It was hard for me to confront my emotions. I knew it was important to protect freedom, and I thought Jeff was so heroic to be one of the protectors.

It was just the thought of war that troubled me. The thought of killing was what I really hated. I never thought much about war until I wrote a book report about the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima for a school project. While doing research, I read several books about the events of August sixth, 1945. Each account gave graphic details of what happened to the city and its residents. The all-too-vivid images of what happened to Hiroshima were permanently burned into my mind’s eye. I remember reading about a shadow of a man burned on a wall in Hiroshima. That created an image in my mind, leaving an indelible stain. I often wondered if I was the only one concerned about the horrors of war or who thought about all the destruction and senseless killing.

I did not want to tell Jeff about what was going on in my mind. After all, he was a soldier, and it was his job to kill or be killed. I told him how proud I was knowing someone, someone I actually knew, would be there to protect the world from the “red tide” of communism.

“Oh, Jeff, you just have to come to my Sweet Sixteen party. I know everyone there will be happy to see you. Please make sure to bring Sam along, too,” I told him in an effort to change the subject.

“Sounds like you really had a crush on this Jeff. I thought you were so shy,” Paul accused with a chuckle.

“Oh, I’m not sure what was between me and Jeff. It must have been some childish crush. To tell the truth, I never even kissed him,” Amy replied. She moved to stretch before she resumed her story.

I was delighted he accepted the invitation. I could talk about nothing else all afternoon while helping mother clean out the bunker and put the fresh supplies on the shelves. Mother was glad to talk about the upcoming party. It helped take her mind off the events in the news and the reason we were in the bunker stocking the shelves.

I spent all my waking hours making plans for the party. I was glad we lived in California, because you never had to worry about the weather. At long last, the day of the big even arrived. I spent the entire day decorating the living room and patio. Tables and chairs were placed around the edge of the patio, and oil lamps were scattered in the garden to add atmosphere.

Father was in charge of the grill. He stood resolute, specula in hand, guarding the grill. Charcoal smeared on his sweaty face made him look like a fugitive from Dante’s inferno. Mother was in charge of the drinks and snacks. Large punch bowels were filled with nonalcoholic fruit punch. Chips and dips were on all the tables. All my friends brought stacks of forty-fives for entertainment and dancing. The party was a great success. Everyone was dancing, and having a good time, everyone…everyone except me.

Now I regretted begging Jeff to wear his uniform. It was my party, but Jeff was getting all the attention. I stood watching, as all my girlfriends stuffed slips of paper with their address into his pockets. It was my party, but so far he only danced with me once. It was Jeff’s last day of leave. He would fly to New York in the morning to board a ship to Germany.

My party was not turning out the way I planned. I envisioned a romantic starlit night, with Jeff holding me in his strong arms as I gazed up at his handsome face. We would share a kiss lasting forever, and he would go off to fight the demon communism. But it was not turning out that way at all.

“Why was he paying so much attention to all the other girls?” Paul inquired.

“Well, like I said, we just lived next door to each other. We never dated or anything like that,” Amy explained.

I felt left out. It must have been because we knew each other all our lives. He must have thought of me more as a sister, but I didn’t want to be his little sister anymore.

I guess I still viewed the world through the selfish eyes of a young girl. I only saw the moment, only saw my side. It never occurred to me that Jeff had a life of his own. I did not consider the possibility he might have other friends. At the same time, I didn’t really know what it would take to make him change his opinion of me.

In total frustration, I turned to Sam and asked him to dance. Dancing the limbo took my mind off Jeff. In fact, I lost track of where he was for over an hour until I saw him hand in hand with my best girlfriend, Pam.

“Oh, Amy, this is such a great party,” Pam said as she danced past.

Pam was wearing Jeff’s uniform hat sideways, and I saw several lipstick smears on Jeff’s face and neck. As the two danced past, I noticed bright red welts on Pam’s neck, and her blouse was not buttoned correctly. I saw all these things, but nothing really registered. I was too upset to pay much attention to anything at the moment.

Tears burned my eyes and blurred my vision. I was not sure about what they were doing, but I was jealous. This was not the way it happened in my romance novels.

“Gee, Amy, it sounds like you really had some deep feelings for Jeff. From what you say, it must have been much more than you were aware of,” Paul interjected.

Amy cleared her throat and paused to think about what Paul said. “Paul, I think you’re right about how I really didn’t know what my feelings were at the time. I mean, there were so many questions floating around in my mind. I was never sure about dating and all. It must have been the confusing signals I got from my mom. I do remember I was really upset.” Amy sighed and then continued her story.

“I never want to see him again,” I whimpered to myself.

Immediately I felt guilty. I remembered he was a solder going off to fight for freedom. Germany in the sixties was not as dangerous as Korea. Yet, solders were dying there. He was going to do what a dwindling number of young men were willing to do. He was going to use his frail body as a shield to protect America and all the things most Americans seemed to take for granted. As a soldier in Europe, he might be called upon to fight against the USSR. Suddenly it occurred to me that this might be the last time I ever see him!

Much to my surprise, Jeff did write from Berlin. At first I wrote every day, but in time I slowed to just three times a week. I was always thrilled to see the light-blue onionskin envelopes with the APO postmark in the mailbox. I tried to keep him informed about what was going on. At Christmas, I sent him a box of homemade cookies and candy.

I told him about how some of the people he knew moved and about some of the new people who moved into places he would remember. I mentioned how one of my best girlfriends, Pam, moved back East to live with her aunt in New York, so she could attend a special boarding school. At the time I did not know the implications of that statement.

Long-distance relationships are hard to maintain, and the frequency of letters slowed to once a week. The everyday business of school, parties, and gossip with girlfriends occupied all of my time. The thrill of slumber parties, where we all practiced the latest dance steps, dominated my social calendar. I was eager to learn all the new dance steps, in the event one of the boys at school might ask me out to a “sock hops.”

The Berlin wall was now old business and no longer captured the news headlines. The letter writing was not as frequent and no longer conveyed much substance. I was not sure what I should write. For one thing, my life did not have much drama. Mother encouraged me to go out, but I was held to strict curfews. The few dances I was actually invited to all turned out to be just boring.

“Time flies when you are having fun,” Mother always asserted when I complained about my drab life. I was not having fun at school, so time did not fly for me. It seemed like I was always on the go with my crowd of friends, but all the rushing around did not seem to accomplish much. Jeff was far away and did not take up much of my daily thoughts. I still enjoyed getting his letters, but there was just too much distance.

“Wow, from all you are telling me, it seems you really had some serious feelings for Jeff,” observed Paul.

“You know, looking back on it now, I must have had some adolescent crush on him. Yes, I must have kept Jeff in a special part of my heart at the time, but he was just too far away. But let me continue telling you my life’s story,” Amy replied.

I still loved to read. Reading helped me pass the time. My taste in books shifted. I loved stories filled with romantic characters, but now I spent more time reading books with a heavy social awareness theme.

I read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. It was difficult for me to understand segregation. Where I lived, I never experienced it, but I really didn’t need to read a book to convince me it was wrong. Reading about segregation and watching the evening news reports showing the riots in the South were very upsetting. They all provided me with more evidence of its evils.

I soon learned that it did not have to be a “Whites Only” sign in a window. Segregation could be as subtle as school zoning preventing integration. I heard the term “de facto segregation,” but I was never quite sure what that implied. Segregation was an evil, and it took many forms. In time I realized even in my perfect world, there were people denied equality because of their color. At the time I never thought gender would be included on that list.

I also read books like Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. I became concerned about how the ecology was affected by all the poisons being used. I tried to convince my friends to be more aware of the dangers. It did not take long to realize I was talking to the wall. Ecology and the environment were just too big and too hard for my friends to understand.

Judging by what I saw on the evening news, it was even harder for politicians to understand how the ecology was affected by all the poisons used. They would talk about the all-too-persistent dangers, but they never took action. In my youthful enthusiasm, I did not understand about conflicts of interest and hidden agendas. I was not yet aware of the power of big money and how long-term dangers were often trumped by short term profits.

“Wow, you were a political activist! You really were not the type of girl I would have been interested in back when I was in high school,” Paul observed.

“Thinking back on my school years, I admit I must have looked like a Goody-Two-Shoes. That could be why I was not asked out on dates,” Amy conceded before she continued recounting her tale.

War was a problem bothering me more than any other subject. The book report about the bombing of Hiroshima became the foundation to my opposition to war. At school there were small groups of students openly questioning why America was in Germany and Korea. After all, America had ICBMs capable of delivering nuclear warheads anywhere in the world. The dogma of mutual assured destruction (also known as MAD) would prevent war.

The thought of MAD scared me very much; the vision of a shadow burned on a wall in Hiroshima always flashed through my mind. I went to Movies like Dr. Strangelove, Seven Days in May, On the Beach, and a few others that graphically detailed the madness of MAD. The images scared me and increased my resolve to fight against the madness. But I was just a young schoolgirl; what could I do to diminish the threat?

I signed up for a class in journalism in my junior year.

The instructor said, “Good journalists see events before they happen.”

“I just don’t understand how anyone can see the future,” I challenged.

He explained how you have to watch the important people and see what they are doing. He told us we should concentrate on key people. The fact that all the key political figures had been called back to Washington meant there was something big about to happen.

Those words of wisdom echoed in my mind on the twenty-second of October, 1962, as I watched TV coverage of Russian ships off the cost of Cuba. Once again I helped Mother prepare the bunker. The dogma of MAD brought terrible visions of huge mushroom clouds to my mind. In the next letter to Jeff, I told him about the nervous nights I spent. I even started to sleep in the bunker. After all, you can’t be too careful.

I noticed more friends were reading about nuclear war and the effects of radiation. Some went to the San Francisco navy base to protest the docking of the nuclear submarine Nautilus.

The aftermath of Hiroshima, combined with all the knowledge gained through research on the harmful effects of radiation, gave rise to a new symbol: the inverted symbol of a man (an ancient symbol for death) imposed in a circle (symbol of unborn life); combined, the two symbols meant, “The unborn child is dead.”

In light of both known and suspected effects of radiation on humans, it proved to be a very fitting symbol, a symbol so powerful it took on a bigger meaning. It became known as the peace symbol.

Yes, all these things were happening, and I was sort of a bystander. School took most of my attention. With Jeff gone, I talked to his brother Sam a lot.

Sam joined the air force right after graduation. He tried to get a scholarship, but his grade point average was below average. With the escalating developments in Vietnam, Sam feared if he waited around too long, the draft would catch him. He told me often he didn’t want to fight a war he did not believe in.

Now I was sending letters to both Sam and Jeff. When I wrote to them, I tried to keep this kind of antiwar information from them. I knew it must be hard for them being so far from home. It would not make them feel any better to know that more and more people back home were opposed to the military. Many of my friends were opposed to sending American advisors to Vietnam.

I didn’t have much time to write to them anymore. School was demanding most of my time. Sam wrote to me from basic training. He was going to be lucky enough to be assigned to Germany. He might even get a chance to see his brother again before Jeff shipped out to his next assignment.

Sometimes, when I was alone in my room, I would have romantic fantasies of being in Germany, walking down ancient streets and touring the castles depicted in movies. It would be just like the romance stories I loved so much.

The letters were now only once-a-month efforts to tell what was going on around the neighborhood. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and I was going to send Sam and Jeff a package with a few forty-fives of the latest pop music. I just assumed Sam kept Jeff informed of what was going on back home before he left, so I never told Jeff I was dating, and I never asked him if he was dating. Topics of this nature were not good, because they might cause depression.

I heard rumors from some girlfriends that Pam had had a baby a few months earlier. I thought this was strange, because I never heard anything about Pam getting married. How could she have a baby and go to school? I never mentioned this in any of my letters to Jeff. The thought was just too strange to be real, so I disregarded it as just a silly rumor.

“Wow, Paul, you caught a bunch of fish, so we do get to eat tonight! Enough of me for now. It’s your turn,” Amy said.