From Diaries to Journals to Blogs

 

I kept a daily diary for 34 years, from 1967-2000. I was 15 when I started writing about my life, wanting to express my emotions and keep track of what was going on during that time. I wrote on binder paper, keeping the loose leafs in Pee Chee folders, by year. Unlike my sister Laurie, who was very concerned about her privacy, I didn't think too much of having it lying around for anyone to view. 

At first, those pages were filled with subjects that could be considered typical for that age - zits, school, family angst and adventures with friends when cutting school. I never delved into the darker side of my home life, the abuses and dysfunction. I did note some of the concerts I went to, the dances, and boys I went out with. There were blanks in the pages during the days I ran away from home in June 1968 with the boyfriend who would become my husband 3 years later. Our adventure wasn't recorded until we returned home. I wrote about that in the blog post: "All Gone to Look for America." 

The next year, 1969, my sister Laurie was killed in a car accident. I wrote about that, and tried to deal with the shock, grief and turmoil my family was going through. That was also the year I finally told my mother what my father had been doing to Laurie and me all those years. I had come home from a date with my then-boyfriend Steve (Perry and I had broken up at that time) and my mother was waiting up for me. She told me that I had better not have had sex with that boy, that I needed to be a virgin for marriage (it's a Catholic thing - my mom was a devout Catholic at the time, and expected us to be). I blew up, and told her that I hadn't been a virgin since I was 8 years old. She asked "Who did this to you?" and I just said "Dad." She yelled for my father to come downstairs, and when she did, she asked him if he had violated her daughters. At first he denied it, saying that I was a liar, as always. He made sure to let everyone know that I was a liar from the time I had been raped, as a protection for himself in case I ever found the nerve to tell anyone the truth. She yelled some more, and finally he caved and admitted it, though somehow blamed me for being provocative...odd, I was an immature child, didn't even develop untilI was 14. He left the house, and my mom wanted me to keep quiet about it from then on.  It was all too much for her, and in retrospect, I feel for her, having lost her daughter and then finding out that her husband had been raping/sexually abusing her daughters for years. Her drinking got worse, and when my father returned a few days later, it was as if nothing had happened - except that he wanted me out of the house. 

We stayed out of each other's way for the most part, and my mom went back to work. One day, when Mom and I were out grocery shopping, my father raped my little sister Sue. I knew as soon as I saw her face when we got home, but when I asked, she couldn't speak. I only had that verified years later, when Sue could talk about it.

I was still in school, trying to get through my studies to graduate, trying to deal with the responsibilities of taking care of the house and kids. One night my mother found out that my father was seeing another woman, and wanted me to go with her to where he and that woman were staying. She was livid, saying she was going to "tear that woman's tits off" - well, mom was in her cups, but somehow she was able to drive to a seedy motel, where she thought they would be. They were not there, and I was relieved that part of the drama was over, but was puzzled that my mom never had an inkling that my father had been going out with other women throughout their marriage. Not sure why, but I thought she knew. One of the women came out to our house- I was 13 or 14 at the time - and she gave me a blue portable stereo that I was able to play my Beatles records on. I remember getting a huge shock from it once when I had gotten out of the shower in my bare, wet feet on the linoleum, when turning on the record player. But I loved that stereo, and appreciated the gift. I was just puzzled that my mother still loved my father after learning all that she had about him. Her rule was basically to not talk about what my father had done...at least, until he quit hiding the fact that he was stepping put with other women. That is when he moved out for good, living at his shop in S.F. I wrote about all of this in my diary, at least bits and pieces of it. I also wrote about my boyfriend Steve and how we watched man walk on the moon on his little black and white tv set, concerts we went to, and "2001- A Space Odyssey", a favorite of Steve's, so we saw it in the theaters a few times while we were together, and an improv group I was a part of, and a lot more. It was a crazy year. The next year, I graduated high school, planning to go to college...which never happened. 

Fast forward to 1971. I was back with Perry, and I became pregnant. We married, and our daughter Kelly was born on Christmas Day, 1971. I continued writing in my diaries, year after year, filling the pages with the highlights, challenges, and also our quotidian activities through those years. Through Kelly's childhood, our 7 moves, health issues, school, work, etc., etc., decades of binder paper filled. After Kelly graduated and left for college, Perry and I drifted apart. So many of our sorrows were too painful to write about. He was often sick and in hospital, I was caregiving him, and we had some tough times through that decade. Volumes filled a part of my bedroom closet, and ultimately when I moved out with Mike, I made the decision to start anew by tossing 34 years of diaries into the recycle bin. 

For a few years after that, I wrote nothing about my life - I just lived it...at least until I joined MySpace, then Facebook, which became online journals, accounts of some of my activities. These blogs are part of that, along with all of the photos that I shot through these years with Mike. Last year, I bought a binder where I record some of the notable events of our lives. This is mostly so that if I wonder, for instance,  when Mike's Mom had fallen and broken her leg, or when my daughter was in hospital, or when somebody died, memorials, vacations, or any other significant events. That one is ongoing. And this blog?  Just another journal, to record that I am here, in this life, for a while.   

Memories of Tom

It has been over three weeks since my brother Tom left us. As happens with profound loss, the initial shock and pain dominates for awhile. Grief comes in waves after that. Everything will seem o.k. for a while, and then an image or memory will come up, and I start sobbing again. I realize that everyone grieves differently, and even then, each death carries its own significance. For those who were accustomed to seeing the departed on a daily, or regular basis, that empty space is a chasm of continual loss. At least, that's how it was for me when my sister Laurie died at 16. 

Visits with Tom have been fewer since Tom and his wife Georgia moved to Paradise. We kept in touch, of course, along with the annual "Markfests" which were stressful for Tom and myself. I can't say why, for sure. We have had this tradition for our autistic brother Mark and for our other siblings, for decades. We never hung around too long after lunch and the obligatory candy run (Mark had to load up on chocolate at CVS pharmacy before heading back home). The visits were chaotic, at least in that meaningful conversation was difficult - it was loud, with scattered attention. But it was often the only time we got together each year. Tom was a big part of those Markfests, acting more like Mark's "big brother".  Another thing! Tom was our "backup conservator" for Mark. When Sue, Tom and I filled out the paperwork and were registered as Mark's conservators (a long legal process), I took the reigns as main conservator, since I was the eldest. I did that for 7 years, then asked for Sue's help. Sue and I now share equal responsibility, but if anything happened to us, Tom was our planned backup. 

The last time I saw Tom: Markfest, January 27, 2026

My mind often wanders to our childhood. Tom was the first of us to be born when we lived in Pacifica. Like me, Tom was born in San Francisco, as were Arlo and Mark; Laurie was born in Lynwood, CA. Tom wound ultimately become the middle child - four older, four younger. 

I love all of my siblings, but Tom and I had an often contentious relationship, based upon his bullying of the youngest 4 kids, all of whom I was responsible for taking care of (along with my sister Laurie). But Tom and I got along very well at other times, and our love was never questioned. 

Random memories: 

Tom was the first baby I took care of. Mom had to work full-time, and our parents needed Laurie and me to step up. Tom got stuck - with safety pins - often. It was a challenge to fold those diapers and adjust the pins on an active baby. The diapers had to be tight. If they fell off, there were a few times my father pushed my nose into the baby shit on the floor. I'm sure those babies/toddlers lost some circulation in the process. We also had to make the formula for the bottles. So, yeah, Tom was the first. 

Me holding Tom, when he was 13 days old

Tom's diaper was on tight, reinforced by his holster

In May of 1964 when Tom was 8, our brother Arlo, Tom, and myself appeared on the "Mayor Art" show", which I wrote about in a blog entitled "Kiddie Shows."

I related about a thrown chicken incident in my blog: "Begetting Violence"

I did a blog about Tom's love of aircraft, from childhood on, in my blog: "For the Love of Flight." 

One year, Laurie, Arlo, Tom & I got 3-speed Huffy bicycles for Christmas. They were all pretty much the same model - I think Laurie and I had the girl's version of the bikes, but otherwise all the same type and size.  I came home from school one day to find that my bike had a flat front tire. I was confused and upset about that, wondering what could have caused it. One of the "little kids" later told me that Tom had switched his flat tire with mine. Of course he did.

Between 1968-1971 Tom and Arlo used to hang out in my "hippie hangout" room. I have some old home movies of that time, and of Tom and the kids playing in the yard. 

In 1972, when Tom was 15, he and our mom drove up to rescue Perry and me when our car broke down in the snow in Lodi. Tom opened the hood of the car, wanting to dismantle it right there. Mom nixed that idea, and just drove us home. Tom knew all of the car parts, and was on his way to becoming a mechanic. 

Once we became adults, we got along much better. Tom even helped fix a few of our run-down cars. 

I remember when Tom introduced us to Georgia, who seemed very YOUNG. It was the first and only time I ever saw my brother in love. We lived on Hess road in RWC at the time. 

We saw Tom often when I was married to Perry, especially when we lived in Redwood City, and Tom and Georgia lived in La Honda. They would also visit us when we lived in Milpitas, mostly because our mom lived there.  At the time, our grandparents, mom, George, Sue and family also lived there.  They visited with babies Talina and Linda a lot, and later their kids hung out with Sue's kids. 

Our daughter Kelly stayed with Tom and Georgia several times during summertime.  We attended a party for Linda's second birthday and other visits- at least once to Memorial Park. 

I remembered that Tom was the one who told my first husband Perry and me about the film: "Harold & Maude", that we just had to see it. Once we did, we agreed that it was our favorite film of all time. It still is mine.

Tom's nickname for Perry was "Erpy."

Tom and I corresponded via snail mail - when we were both in our 30's, when he discovered that I had been telling the truth about our father, something he and my brothers didn't want to acknowledge up to that point. It was a sore spot for me, and I went through a lot to finally be believed. It was most important that my brothers realize the truth...they all had daughters.  Tom stepped up and was the only one that I know of to write to our father and mom. I know that it wasn't easy for him.  I was proud of him, and kept those letters, which mean a lot to me. 

When Arlo died in 2002, we all gathered for a huge Celebration of Life at the Mateel Center. That's LtoR: Eddie (Sue's son), Kelly (my daughter) Sue, me, Brenda (Sue's daughter, and Tom. 

Years later, Tom visited Mike and me a few times, once with Georgia in Half Moon Bay, where we had lunch at the Flying Fish Grill. 

Other times were a stop-off from the HMB airport, once with his son David.  

We also visited Tom & Georgia at our sister Sue's house for Thanksgiving in 2007, and once when we were on one of our road trips in 2012, where we got to hang out with Tom & Georgia at Table Mountain Aviation, Tom's business. 

There were also numerous memorials, a few weddings, and our Alaskan cruise, where we met up with Tom & Georgia between ports-of-call. Also, Tom, Sue and I were the only ones up around 4 a.m. for coffee in the ship's lounge.

When I turned 60, Tom wished me a happy birthday, then whispered in my ear: "Now you're circling the drain."  Gee, thanks, Bro! 

During one Markfest several years ago, Tom told me that I was his "hero". 

According to Ancestry DNA, Tom and I shared 53% of our DNA. 

I will miss Tom's text messages at 4 A.M., mostly for birthday or discussions about "Markfest".  Each birthday, he would wish me a "Happy Birthday." Exactly one week later round 4 a.m. I would wish him a "Happy Birthday". Tom's wife Georgia's birthday is the day after Tom's, and our brother Mark's is on the 2nd. My daughter Kelly's is on the 25th, and my mom's was on the 9th. That's a lot of December birthdays!

Each time we all got together, we always hugged, and remembered to tell each other "I love you". We all knew that there might be the possibility that it could be the last time we see each other. I think for me that started when when our sister Laurie died in a car accident at 16. Then, our brother Arlo, when he was 48, of cancer. Now, Tom.  I miss them all.  The only way I could reign in my grief this time was to ask myself what Tom would do if the situation were reversed - if I had died first (which I had expected to do). He would have been sad for a short while, but then he would have continued to live his best life....as he should have....and as I would have wanted him to do. 

For the Love of Flight

 My brother Tom died on February 28, 2026. He was flying a friend's plane to the Oroville Airport, where Tom would inspect the aircraft. Two miles from the airport, Tom's radio went silent. Shortly after that, he crashed. No one else was hurt. It is probable that Tom had a medical emergency, and lost consciousness.  His wife Georgia explained: "Details show that he likely went unconscious before the crash. He was communicating with a friend by radio. After he announced he was 2 miles from final, it went silent. His friend didn't hear anything from Tom. The plane went straight down and impact caused instant death. I am comforted by that thought. It's even possible he suffered a massive stroke or heart attack and was dead before impact. Tom was an excellent pilot, he practiced emergency landings often. If he was in trouble and conscious, he would have said something to his friend."

For Tom, interest in aircraft and flight began early. 

Tom's gift, second birthday- something that flies!  

Our father hung model airplanes in our garage. The model I remember the most was the Gee Bee. Those models could fly - sort of. They were control-line models made from kits, not radio-controlled models, even though they had internal combustion engines. Dad would take us out to Orange Park or San Bruno Park to fly these planes. We would stand in the middle of a grassy field and hold onto the handle of the plane, spinning around in circles to make the model "fly", while the engine whirred the propeller. Much later, radio-controlled models were used.

Some of Tom's collection, decades later

Spinning around is also what I did with Tom and the youngest 4 siblings. I gave them airplane rides in our back yard, holding onto an arm and a leg, or both arms (NOTE: I have since learned that this is not recommended, as it can pull arms out of sockets).  My siblings would line up for these rides. After a few up-and-down-and-around spins and sound effects that I made - something like: "Yeoomm..blblublu-yeoowm blblublu.." I would toss the "airplane" onto a pile of grass.  Tom was always the first, getting these rides before he became too heavy for me (I joked with him several years ago that he needed to give me one, now). Sometimes I missed the pile of grass, but my sibs didn't seem to mind.

When my father bought the Aeronca L-3, we were all expected to pitch in to maintain it. This included stripping the wings and doing a re-apply of the fabric covering. We spent many weekends at the Half Moon Bay airport, and we were also expected to fly with our father - we had no choice.

The Aeronca L-3 at the Half Moon Bay airport 

After numerous flights (frights?) with my father piloting the Aeronca as well as a memorable ride with one of his pilot friends in a Cessna, I decided that flying was not for me - but Tom loved it- he was hooked! He liked being "up in the air".  In fact, Tom, Ben and Laurie all learned to fly the Aeronca. Laurie even obtained her student pilot's license when she turned 16 and flew solo shortly after that. Tom and Ben eventually got their pilot's licenses.

Tom not only enjoyed piloting aircraft, he enjoyed working on them, ultimately starting his own business, Table Mountain Aviation in Oroville, CA. Tom was that guy whose car bumper strip said: "I'd rather be flying".  He did confess to me that he was not comfortable flying in commercial airlines. Maybe he knew too much? Since then, he has traveled to Europe and other trips, so he may have gotten used to it.  But small aircraft were another story. He was at home in the cockpit. Here is a video that Mike shot in 2014 when Tom took him for a ride:

When Mike and I lived next to the HMB airport, Tom would occasionally visit - after all, we were right there. I enjoyed living next to the airport, watching the planes take off and land. 

Tom and his son David at the Half Moon Bay airport, 2014

Tom, me and David, in front of the old 3-Zero Cafe at the HMB airport.

We were even lucky enough to watch Eddie Andreini do his stunts overhead from our house(!), many times, when he practiced for an event. He often tipped his wing at us as we photographed his stunts. Tom admired Eddie Andreini, and was impressed that we knew him.

A photo I took of Eddie Andreini and Mike at our gallery in 2006. 

It's so cliche' to say that someone "...died doing what they loved",  but in Tom's case, that was true. I am convinced that his heart gave out prior to the crash. In essence, Tom left us while he was still in the air.  With the exception of being with his wife and family, that was his happy place. 

Begetting Violence

When you're a child, you don't know any better.  We lived in a violent household, but thought that was normal. My father beat his children, and raped his daughters regularly.  The rapes and other sexual abuses began when I was 8. I never understood why I was being hurt and humiliated this way. When I was 10 years of age, I was hospitalized to repair the severe damages from one of the rapes.  Various forms of torture were also included. The rapes went on until I was 17 when I told him to never touch me again. With the exception of his trying to choke me to death when I was 17 (my mom intervened) he never did. 

 
When your father beats you on a regular basis, you hate and fear it, but know that it is a part of life. It was also a large part of our continued underlying anxiety, growing up. Being punched, kicked, thrown against walls, having hair pulled, and subjected to spankings defined a painful part of our existence.  There was never a question of IF we would be beaten, but WHEN.  Spankings were terrifying, always with our pants down or clothes off, and with sticks or, on a few occasions, with electrical cords

The majority of the time, we didn't do anything wrong, so we couldn't really "prevent" being punished, or predict when our day would turn sour and terrifying.  The beatings were an excuse for our father to let off steam, so we became his little punching bags. 

Appropriate, I guess, considering that my father was once a Golden Gloves boxer.  We used to watch him box, back in the early-mid 1950s, on our little B&W t.v. set. Later on, we were made to watch the Monday and Friday Night Fights.  His Golden Gloves, meanwhile, retired to the big storage closet in the hallway.

                                           We also learned to box.  

We were made to put on the gloves, and spar, learning to jab with a left-hook, how to get that uppercut in when your opponent was off-guard, the cross punch, etc.  I guess this was to help us learn to protect ourselves - that could be a good thing. But what we really needed protection from was our FATHER.

In any event, we learned violence from the time we entered the world.  When the neighborhood kids would beat up on our siblings, Laurie & I would beat up the bullies.  Arlo later told me that I was doing him "no favors" when I would beat up the kids who beat him up.  It just earned him more derision, that he "...had to have his sisters defend him".  Our brother Tom became a bully and also kicked holes in the walls, learning from dear old dad how to vent his frustration and rage.

I used to get sucked into fights in grade school.  There was one notable fight in the school yard, where my opponent was at least a foot taller than me. As I was flailing away with my punches, he mostly just slapped me, and held me back.  I was too stupid to realize that he probably could have decked me with one punch, but since I was a girl, that might not look good for him.  As it was, a teacher broke up our fight, pretty much telling him that it was wrong to be fighting with a girl, and wasn't he ashamed of himself?  Since I was the one who said: "Call you down!" in a fit of rage, I felt slightly guilty that he was the one who was made to sit in the principle's office, and I was made to look like the victim. 

Rage.  I had a temper, with rage fueled by violence done to myself and my siblings.
 
Hitting and punching were accepted forms of communication in our house.  Since I was the eldest of 9, I was the enforcer when one of the youngsters complained about another sibling (usually Tom) who was beating up on them. I had to then kick the offenders' butt: "Stop hitting Sue! If you do that again, I'll hit YOU!"    This usually worked on a short-term basis each time, until my brothers grew taller and stronger.  Big sister had to resort to other methods of "discipline".  Once, I was so upset with my brother Tom's bullying, that I threw a chicken at him that I was stuffing for dinner. 

Stuffing all over the floor - no harm done, but I had to revise my methods of keeping the "peace". Tom just laughed and ran off.

"Peace" was the operative word beginning at age 14, when I spent a lot of time with my hippie friends.  The rules were changing, we didn't want to live as our parents did, etc.  Living in peace was a goal to achieve, though something not that simple for one who was raised in violence.  But I was willing to learn about PEACE & LOVE! 

I wasn't the only one who had trouble maintaining that philosophy.  During a peace rally in SF in 1967, as we were holding up our "Make Love, Not War" signs, one of the marchers turned to another, and started hitting him with him with his peace sign. They'd had some sort of philosophical disagreement.   True story.  The irony was not lost on the rest of us. I heard one woman cry out: "Let's split this scene, Melissa - bad vibes!!!"  

I had a child when I was young, who, for the most part, was treated well (in my view), but there were a few times when in frustration, I hit her, and even used my fists on one occasion. She was a teen, and arrived home hours late. No excuses, but I had been terrified. I fell back on what I had been taught, and castigated myself later - over and over - for my actions. 

The majority of the time, however, I turned my rage and frustration inward, resulting in panic attacks, phobias, and hypersensitivity. I was a lot of fun to be around!

I guess I shouldn't feel too bad - John Lennon himself was a violent man, before he preached "Love, Not War".  He wrote songs about threatening to kill his girlfriend, if she "looked at another man".  But then, he met Yoko.

 It's tough finding that middle ground, in real life.  Few of us are Gandhi or Mother Teresa.....but we can learn...can't we?
 

Grief

Grief is just an open wound that truly never heals

But life goes on, and live we must - no matter how one feels.

Remembrance is a foe and friend - our joy is also pain

And hope the stars align someday, for us to meet again.

                                                           Deborah Hagler Wong  

From Dance Contest Winner to Dated Freestyler

I used to win prizes in dance contests in school, and at the American Legion Hall, Rockaway Beach, Pacifica, CA.  I knew all of the latest styles - the Jerk, Mashed Potato, Twist, Swim, Pony, the Shake, Watusi, the Hully-Gully, and the Funky Chicken...for starters.  I had energy and commitment, while looking like an escapee from an insane asylum, in my performances.  

There was also a group participation dance called: "The Madison", which involved numerous people dancing in step with each other, in a long line. That was fun, as there was a team of us dancing in a cool, way, not like the "Bunny Hop" of our parent's era.

In the 1960s, dancing partners were optional, which was a good thing for our pre-high school crowd, because the boys rarely participated.  They either sat in chairs that lined the wall, hung around the iced barrel of soft drinks, or played Ping-Pong, while the rest of us tore up the floor. 

The rest of us - girls, that is -  and one or two brave males - usually the best dancers in the school -  rocked the scene with movement.  In our school, the boys were Bill Keach and Alford Patrick.  Here is a picture of me with Alford (he's the dude in the center of the shot), and yes, we were dancing together -  but you can't tell that from the photo.  Truly, we were all really in our own worlds, grooving to the tunes. I'm the girl on the right, with my head turned around.  Who needed to look at our dancing partners, anyway?

Slow dances were an exception for some of the boys, who either liked a girl, or liked to feel up a girl, or both.  We didn't follow any specific rules. However, I was accused by several male partners that I was "leading", which was a no-no.  I'm still unclear on that concept.

Some of the dance contests were based upon style.  There were others which had nothing to do with dancing technique.  For instance, there was the "freeze" contest, where, when the music played, you froze instantly when the music was stopped.  A pre-pubescent teenage boy who wouldn't be on the dance floor in a million years enjoyed holding the phonograph arm, pulling it up to stop the music at various times, as we dancers became his puppets.

Prizes ranged from school supplies to games or candy, etc.  Once, I won a box of Raisinettes - my favorite candy - and I was THRILLED with the prize......

.................until I remembered that I had given up candy for Lent, so gave the box to a friend. 

Dancing for me was always informal - I could never get into square dancing or "Dancing with the Stars" kind of stuff.  It was just a way to express myself when hearing music.  Outdoor or indoor, every dance move I do screams my age.

At my step-daughter's wedding (see below), the moves are familiar.  That is my husband behind me...we didn't have to look at each other.  Same M.O. as in my teens.  I have not progressed in style, just years.

These days, more often than not, I am carrying a camera while dancing. Here I am with another lively soul, at a 4th-of-July event a few years ago(American Legion again - this one in HMB).

Of course, it helps to dance with someone who enjoys the art of the free-form dance, like Tom here. The ladies love this guy, and why not? He DANCES!

I guess the point is that, even though I lack style, referring back to ancient moves, I'm having fun re-living my youth and also my oldth, shaking more than I ever could have when young. Well........there's a lot more to shake these days!

Christmas Surprise

My baby was not expected to be born until January 11, so it was quite a surprise when my water broke during Christmas Day gift-opening at my in-laws' home. Six hours after the floodgates opened, my daughter Kelly was born, at 6:49 PM.  During my labor, Kelly's father, Perry, was being treated to a complete turkey dinner in the hospital's cafeteria.  Back in 1971, fathers rarely joined in with the birth process, and in fact, Perry was ushered out of the labor room while I was rushed to the delivery room. There were no other babies being born at Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City that night.  Slow night, slow period for births, in general.

The process went so fast, that it even took the nurses by surprise. My doctor arrived just in the nick of time, interrupted during a holiday gathering, dressed up with Christmas tie, to help escort Kelly into the world. The best gift ever!

Through the years, there were the usual comments about how babies born on December 25 get short-changed in the gift and attention department.  Either that, or the gifts were piled on, two-fold.

When Kelly was 7, she wanted her birthday to be celebrated in June.  Honoring her wishes, we did so, but by Christmas, she changed her mind, so we celebrated again.

There are several December birthdays in my family. My mother, 2 brothers, sister-in-law, and I were all born in the 12th month, so have been used to having our birthdays overshadowed by the biggest holiday of the year. 
But each December 25, before I wish my daughter a "Merry Christmas", I wish her a "Happy Birthday" -  Kelly's birthday, and the best day of my life.

Wet Paint

Keeping with the spirit of the times (mid-60s-early 70s), I wanted my surroundings to be more colorful.  My sister had just died in a car accident - she was 16, I was 17 - and we had shared the bedroom. The walls were a mess, though I needed to cover more than just the walls.  I had an assortment of paints, acrylic and oils, and decided to just cover the walls with designs. 

 

Unfortunately, I ran out of linseed oil, and so used salad oil, instead (necessity being the Mother, and all that), to thin my oil paints.  Those parts of the walls that I used the salad-oiled paint on never did dry, so when my friends visited and rested back on the walls, they always came away with a design.

Being the cool hippies that we were, my buds and I were always looking for tokes.  But none of us had much money, so there were times when we couldn't purchase the stuff.  During one of these times, my friend Chaz and I wondered if catnip might do the trick, so rolled some catnip joints, and puffed away.  It didn't taste too bad, but an hour later, we both got the runs (big time!), so we decided that it wasn't worth it.  My cat Clancy loved the smoke, though. 

My friend Chaz and I had some wild adventures back in the day.  It was the mid-late 1960s.  Even when we were in grade school, we'd cut out, and hitch-hike to San Francisco.  We often hung out at 710 Ashbury, a couple of times we even sat with with Ron McKernan ("Pigpen" of the Dead).  Chaz was one of my gay friends - though that was never spoken about. Instead, I was his "date",  as I was for my other gay bestie, Bill Keach. Someone called me a "fag hag", and my last name was Hagler...so I was a 'fag-Hagler'.  Back then, I thought I could change Chaz' mind, so one day when we were up on the roof of some building in S.F. - about 12 stories up - I kissed Chaz. He was totally grossed-out, and told me "Debbie - if you do that again, I am going to jump off this roof!"  I left him alone after that, and learned a lesson there. This was in 1966. 

 Chaz and I could also be seen panhandling on Haight Street. Years later, I got a glimpse of us on a KPIX (local t.v.. news special) about the 60s, me in my peacoat and navy pants, yakking away, Chaz's wild hair flying around in the breeze.  We marched a few marches against the war, one down Stanyan Street that I remember the most, on account of its irony.

We carried our home-made "Make Love Not War" signs, a peaceful march up to the point when two guys in the front of the line had an ideological difference of opinion.  It grew ugly when they started to violently swing at each other with their "Make Love Not War" signs.  One girl behind me cried out: "Oh, bad vibes, Melissa! Let's split, this is too heavy a scene!", and I couldn't help laughing.   Political consciousness takes time to evolve. 

Dog Gone Sad

I probably should preface this by saying that if you don't want to be sad, don't read this blog, and leave it at that. 

A friend had recently asked me what my most exciting Christmas gift as a child was.

That would have been in 1958. My sister, brother and I saw a large box by the tree. We went to the box, and saw a puppy. We were THRILLED. We had never had a pet before. We took him out of the box, and just played with the puppy - who we named "Chauncy" - all day. Had to go to mass, and were impatient to get back home to play with Chauncy. 3 months later, Chauncy was sick - apparently, he had distemper. My parents had bought him at a pet store in SF. He had to be put down, of course.  We were DEVASTATED!

Our next puppy was 6 years later - half chihuahua, half cocker spaniel, one of our neighbor's dog's pups. My father named her "Lisbeth Tailears." after Elizabeth Taylor. We had Lisbeth for 3 years. We ADORED her! 

 

My sister Susan holding Lisbeth Tailears.

But we stupid kids were walking her around Pacific Manor one day, and decided to take her off-leash (there were no leash laws then). We were blabbing away, crossing the overpass - the circular one in Pacific Manor. We suddenly noticed that Lisbeth wasn't with us. We looked around, and saw that she was crossing the freeway, below us. She was afraid of heights, I guess. We looked down, saw her look up, and then saw her being hit by a car! We rushed down to where she lay. She was killed instantly. The driver stopped and apologized - he felt horrible. We reassured him it wasn't his fault, that our dog wasn't supposed to be on the road. My brother Arlo and I were just sobbing, almost hysterical. My sister Laurie picked up Lisbeth's body, and I ran to a pay phone to call our mom. Laurie told Arlo and me to stop crying - that Lisbeth was "just a dog". I remembered Laurie's comment 5 years after that - 1969 - when she was killed in a car accident. More grief. 

We had other dogs - Laurie's dog Lucy was hit by a car and killed a month after Laurie died. Lucy was LAURIE'S dog, no other, and she grieved, that dog just mourned for my sister (as we all did). 

Around 1970, my brother had a dog named Nina that had puppies. We were excited about the pups. A couple of days after the pups were born, we looked everywhere for the, and couldn't find them. Our mom told us that they had all died. We were freaked out - a litter of 6 pups all died? Years later, my mom confessed (while drunk) that she had drowned them all in the tub. I guess she was feeling overwhelmed. I can't have pets - I'm bad luck for pets - they all die on me. 

The second most exciting Christmas gift was the Beatles Rubber Soul album.