Our Brother Mark

My brother Mark was born with autism, but that wasn't the diagnosis until years after his 1955 birth.  He was like any other baby.

Later, when diagnosed, some of the "symptoms" of autism were there: hypersensitivity to light and loud noises, too much stimulation, etc.  But other typical indications didn't jibe.  Mark was always very affectionate, and enjoyed hugs.  He was always responsive to us, and sociable, and has always had a phenomenal memory.

Mark is very aware of each and every person in his family, and later his caregivers and friends.  Here he is (white shirt), hugging our mom, with a few of his siblings (being themselves), for my Polaroid shot: 

In fact, there are times when Mark can be TOO affectionate, as it involves strangers (mostly ample-bodied ladies), and Mark has been taught not to go up and hug people without their consent. This is an ongoing challenge.  :)    
Mark lived with us until he was 6 years old.  Neighborhood kids noticed right away that Mark was "different".  The word: retard" was used to describe Mark, used as an insult: "Your brother is a REtard!"  Not that Mark cared what they thought, but we sure minded. That word got some of those kids beat up. 

At a certain point, my parents realized that they couldn't handle Mark at home.   As it was, he almost killed himself, twice.

Mark's first hospital visit was when he was 3, after trying to swallow from a can of Drano that he had found under the kitchen sink. My mom rushed him to the hospital, where, luckily, it never passed his lips, which were permanently burned by the caustic Drano.

Mark's next trip to the hospital was more serious. He was 6 years old, frustrated and angry.  He smashed his arm through a window, cutting up the length of it, requiring stitches.  After that incident, he was moved to Napa State Hospital.  I'll never forget the first time my mother and I went to visit Mark at Napa State.  We found out that Mark had bitten off the top of his index finger, apparently because he couldn't feel it. Mom was freaked out.  The hospital's medical staff experimented with medications and therapies, to keep some of the behaviors under control.

Even though he lived at Napa State full-time, Mark did come home for week-long visits during Easter and  Christmas vacations.

Mark was the best escape artist of us all.  How he did it, I still don't know, because we tried our best to keep a watch on him.   Mark took off a lot, often winding up around Skyline Blvd., the police finding him, and bringing him back home. 

It was difficult keeping an eye on Mark all the time.  My sister and I were charged with his care (being the two eldest), but we ourselves were only a few years older than him.  Mark was also physically strong, so it took two of us to hold him down.  That wasn't always possible.  My father ruled with an iron hand, and tried to keep us all in line by having us keep our arms folded, when not in use.  That worked o.k., until our family expanded to nine children. 

Mark enjoyed turning off our neighbor's power at the outside switch-boxes on their homes; he was a genius at figuring out how to get into those locked switch-boxes!  You can imagine that this didn't make us very popular with the neighbors. 

The neighbors across the street, the Millers, and a lady down the street named Vera were particularly vocal, critical that such a large family could even exist (I constantly heard the neighbors criticize my mom for having so many kids).  The Millers had a beautifully-kept home, so probably were worried that their property values would go down, being situated so close to the Hagler "Animal House" across the street.  

Mark was regularly compelled to visit our neighbor's homes and use their water hoses, spraying those around.   

On one momentous day, the Millers were having a party, all of their guests dressed up.  Somehow, Mark left the house without our realizing it. We heard a shriek from across the street, and saw Mark holding a hose, turned on full blast, right at the Miller's picture window. The Millers and their guests were peeking out that picture window, horrified.  That was one of the occasions when Mrs. Miller would march over to our house, and have a yelling match with my mom.  I remember them out in the middle of Inverness Drive, screaming at each other, embarrassing my sister Laurie and I. 

Some of the neighbors looked out, to see what was going on.  

I still don't know why Mrs. Miller would object to Mark's washing her windows.  

Mark also liked to throw things over the fence.  A lot of stuff wound up in our neighbor's yard.  We used this to our advantage, when my father told us to go find a stick in the yard, for him to beat us with.  We'd look around, then give each stick to Mark. Over the fence it went! 

Of course, that didn't help in the long run, since our father always found something to beat us with.

Our yard had naturally-growing sweet peas and strawberries, which we scavenged for, as there was never enough food. But Mark was a meat-eater.  He ate snails, and threw away the shells.  If it grosses you out to read that, just imagine watching this happen. "Mark! leave that poor snail alone!"  I'm wondering if Mark just took after our French ancestors.  

After a disastrous experiment in community placement after his years at Napa State Hospital (part of then-Governor Ronald Reagan's releasing of mental patients to save the state money), Mark broke into houses, and almost killed a little girl (he hit her over the head with a 2x4 piece of wood).   The girl's parents threatened to sue the state, if Mark wasn't locked up again, so he was brought back to live at Napa State Hospital. 

During that time, he participated in Special Olympics, and won ribbons for running. He was great at running (and escaping; during one event, he gave my sister Sue and I the slip, when he went to use the restroom, and we had to chase him down).  Here he is before he took off:

In 1986, Mark was moved to live at the Sonoma Developmental Center, where he has lived for decades. For years, our brother Arlo visited Mark there, sometimes with our mom.   The family joined in on many occasions, as well. 

 Mark never lost the urge to try to run off.  Just before Mom died, she asked that we continue to visit Mark, and to look after him.  We promised that we would.  I became Mark's Conservator, with two sibling "back up" conservators,  Susan and Tom.    

Mark's concept of death is partly based upon the absence our father, who stopped seeing him, after awhile.  When Mark would ask us: "Where's your friend Dad?" we would tell him that his father  couldn't be there, that he was "...in Washington".    When the inevitable passings occurred, and Mark asked, we'd say that they couldn't be there, and Mark would conclude that they were also "...in Washington." 

When we visit Mark, we all take him out to the Black Bear Diner, in Sonoma. This is part of the annual tradition.
 Mark loves chocolate milkshakes - in fact, he always orders two...and finishes them!  

Then we go on a "candy run" at CVS Pharmacy, before we attend the annual meetings with his caregivers. Mark is very particular about the candy he buys. We must surround him at all times, because he does like to escape.  We also have our gifts for him, since his birthday (and Christmas) coincides with the meetings.

                  

On my 60th birthday: LtoR: Georgia, Tom, Jenel, me, Ben, Sue, Mark, Kelly, George & Joe.

Once we return to SDC, the candy is stored away, and rationed out through the year, to Mark and his friends.  He always attends the meetings, and provides input about his care. He has progressed a great deal with the care that he has gotten at SDC.  He has learned to write his name - a huge accomplishment.  

In 2017, the Sonoma Developmental Center closed, so the residents had to be moved to group homes and Regional Centers. We were lucky when Dr. Dale Liete offered a place for Mark in one of his group homes, with 3 of Mark's favorite roommates.   He is very happy there, with many activities, and his own room.  

The house he lives in looks like a "standard house", though has many modifications in it, to make sure that Mark and his roomies are secure.  We stay in regular touch.  Mark is now 62, a senior citizen - and that home is his retirement home.  This is a very happy ending - actually beginning - for our brother Mark!   

Knit to be Tied

There was a time when I knitted and crocheted.  It was a relaxing, creative way to spend some of my time.  I made many gifts for others this way.  Often, my cats would grab the ball of yarn, and run with it.  At other times, they'd sit beside me, while I granny-squared, or knit one, pearled two. 

The first thing I learned was how to knit scarves.  Then, it was booties and hats. Here is a set that I made for my brother's first child:

The colors could go with either sex. Back then, we didn't know until the baby was born, which it would be.  

But I guess not everyone appreciates the "yarnly" gifts.   

For many years, each Christmas, I would bake dozens of chocolate chip cookies for my family, gifted in coffee cans that I would save throughout the year.  My siblings especially looked forward to these edibles.

One year, I decided to do something different, and crocheted granny-square afghans, one for each sibling (I had 7 at the time).  This took all year, and many trips to TG&Y for yarn.  

I even made a special one for my brother Joe, who was a big San Francisco Giants baseball fan. 

I presented the afghans, and most of the recipients seemed to be pleased, but I could see them looking around, questioningly.  My brother Tom asked: "But where are the COOKIES?"  

At least my sister was kind enough to take a photo of the one that I made for her.

The last time I crocheted something was in 2011, for a charity called "Blankets of Hope".  Here is the one I donated, after 3 months of crocheting:

 Knitting figured in my artwork once, as well, in one of my "Bizzart" drawings:

After that, I put away the crochet hooks and knitting needles...and took up sewing.

 

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.  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.  For now, though, I'm just talking about the violence.
 
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.  

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.

There were other, more serious abuses through the years, but I don't want to go off-topic.  Meanwhile, my father's children all 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".  

 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 youngers complained about another sibling 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". 

"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?
 

Catholic Stanhope Crosses From a Jewish Friend

It was 1959.  My sister Laurie and I were going to celebrate our first Holy Communion.  We had the veils and dresses (itchy), and had enough Catechism points to qualify for our First Holy Communion at the Church of the Good Shepherd, In Pacifica, CA.   My mother even had professional portraits of us in our communion dresses; she also brought along our baby brother Joe, to have his portrait taken. Professional portraits were serious and rare back in those days, just for special occasions. Joe was thrown in for good measure, as my mom had to bring him along, anyway.

For Catholics, celebrating ones' First Holy Communion is one of the required rites-of-passage to being a good, practicing Catholic, along with baptism and confirmation).  Holy Communion is a Christian rite that is considered a sacrament in most churches, originating with Christ at the Last Supper.

We felt pretty important, for that short period of time.  What was even more special were the gifts from Armand Greenfield, our neighbor.  Armand was single man, who lived in the house catty-corner to us, on Inverness Drive.  

Armand was also Jewish. The significance of this would not be appreciated until I was an adult.  Before we went to church on that Communion Sunday, Armand gave Laurie and I each a Stanhope viewer Cross necklace, as a celebratory gift.  I was honored and touched that he (or anyone) would do this.

For those who do not know what a Stanhope viewer is, here's a short description:  
"Stanhopes or Stanho-scopes are optical devices that enable the viewing of microphotographs without using a microscope They were invented by René Dagron in 1857. Dagron bypassed the need for an expensive microscope to view the microscopic photographs by attaching the microphotograph at the end of a modified Stanhope lens. He called the devices bijoux photo-microscopiques or microscopic photo-jewelry."

The one that I was given was covered in colorful rhinestones, with the "Hail Mary" prayer  inside; Laurie's was a beautiful gold with white rhinestone cross with the Lord's Prayer, which you could read inside the peephole in the middle. 

I was extremely touched that, at 7 years of age, anyone would think of us this way.  We were not used to having that kind of attention, especially from a grown man who didn't want anything from us; he just wanted to give a gift, with no expectations or conditions.  We treasured our crosses; I wore mine to my First Holy Communion, feeling very elegant, indeed. 

Thinking back, I wonder what happened to those crosses, and to Armand Greenfield. So much has occurred in the 58 years since I celebrated my First Holy Communion.  But the memory of that gift is as sharp as the cut on those rhinestones, and the significance appreciated far more now than it was in 1959.

50 Theta Avenue, Daly City, Ca.

Last week, my husband Michael & I were driving around in Daly City. I was photographing one of the Daly City signs, and its logo: "Gateway to the Peninsula", for an assignment for a local radio station's website. I suddenly had the urge to visit my grandparent's old home, the one where they lived during much of my childhood.  

So, we went to 50 Theta Avenue - where my grandparents used to live. It is a block from where the old Matthew's TV & Stereo City, "6400 Mission Street, Top of the Hill, Daly City" store was located, the one where "Mr. Steven Matthew David" did the t.v. and radio announcements.  

 As soon as I saw my grandparent's old home, the memories flooded back. This is the shot that I took of 50 Theta Avenue, as it looks today:

My grandparents lived on the first floor. My Aunt Marie (my Grandma Bowen's sister) and her husband - known only to me as "Uncle Bro" - owned the building, and lived on the top floor. Their children, my second cousins Judy & David, lived there, too.  David's room had a collection of those lighted beer signs....that's all that I recall about his room. Cousin Judy had long braids, and was very pretty.  Laurie & I were in awe of her. 

Downstairs, I remember my grandparent's home better.  Their kitchen area was small, but cozy. Their bedroom was adjacent to the kitchen, in a common area, with no doors. 

Here are my grandparents when they lived at 50 Theta Avenue:

When my sister Laurie & I were visiting my grandparents, we helped Grandma hang the laundry on the lines in their backyard (see that door in the above photo? That door led to their pantry & laundry area, where the washing machine was located - then another door led to their back yard). We would pull on the clothesline, to bring in the dry laundry, and we then placed the clothes pins in a canvas sack attached to the line. The clothes always smelled so clean & fresh, just like outdoors.  Is this done anymore?

Most of what I recall about my grandparent's bedroom is wooden furniture - a tall bureau with objects that I couldn't reach; a few photos on the wall, a cross, a picture of Jesus with a flaming heart, various family photos, and of course, my grandmother's dresser, which had a round mirror, half-circle shell-shaped handles, and was covered mostly with containers of her favorite fragrance - "Evening in Paris." The majority of these bottles, jars and boxes were gifts to her from us.  Grandma was easy to purchase gifts for..... Evening in Paris.

Grandpa used Old Spice,which was left in the bathroom, or possibly rested on top of their  highboy dresser.  Not sure, because I was too short at the time to see that high up. My aunt Annie - Steve's wife - sent me this picture of that same dresser today - matches my memories perfectly!

My Uncle Steve lived with his parents, my Grandma & Grandpa Bowen, all of the years that they lived there.  My grandma, Lillian (Gladys Wayne) Bowen, cleaned their home into a well-ordered neatness every day. She had nervous energy to spare. Just as you entered Steve's room, to the right, was a glass cabinet, containing his awards and trophies for various accomplishments. A football was placed in one corner on top of the glass cabinet, sharing space with more trophies.  The walls were lined with sports pennants, school and San Francisco teams. The bed was neatly made,covered in one of those 1950s-era cotton cowboy-and-horses-design, tan bedspreads.    On Steve's bed rested an old, brown, well-used teddy bear, placed neatly in the pillow crease of the bedspread. Steve's Communion photo rested on a dresser. 

That same brown wooden dresser also had a pair of bronze baby shoes on it, along with a neatly-stacked assortment of comic books, and a baseball mitt. There were two shelves placed at each opposing corner of the walls, with other objects of Steve's school and recreational activities.  

But even as a child, I could sense that Steve didn't arrange this room himself. He was involved in so many activities, that he was rarely at home. He was almost a myth to us by then, even though he was only 2-1/2 years older than me. Steve was always involved in heroic achievements.  He had aspired at one time to be a fireman (he later became a volunteer firefighter in Garberville, CA.).

Laurie & I were visiting for a week during Spring Break one year (known back then as "Easter Week"), when a fire broke out across the street.  Grandma cried: "Oh, I'm glad that Steve isn't home right now! He would be breaking into that home, trying to rescue our neighbor!"  The "neighbor" was disabled, and was saved by the firemen when they got there. Steve would have run right into her home, without a thought, had he been there. His character was such that he wanted to save the world, if he could.  When he volunteered - at 16 - to fight in the Vietnam war, we weren't surprised. Laurie & I wrote to him every month, and received letters from him, when he could respond (I wish I had those letters today). Here is a photo of Steve, who sat long enough to have the picture taken with his parents, when they lived at 50 Theta Ave:

Spring breaks were also when we would accompany Grandpa to the Malt Shop on Mission Street, and he would buy us burgers with tall milkshakes made fresh with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup, mixed in stainless containers, then poured carefully into our glasses

After sipping through tall straws, we would fill ourselves to the brim, and then walk off our meal along Mission Street, to check out the businesses there. 

Back at 50 Theta Avenue, we'd play outside- we  left our chalked hopscotch markings on the sparkly sidewalks.  The fragrance of garlic and tomato seasonings beckoned us into the house, where Grandma would pile spaghetti dinner and garlic bread on our plates.  Heaven!

Visiting my maternal grandparents was one of the best parts of my childhood. During Christmas time, on the coffee table was the hard Christmas candy, in a gold-rimmed ceramic, pink, liver-shaped dish (though we were kept from diving into it too soon, by our father). That dish lasted throughout their lives - I recall seeing it last after my grandmother died, in their Milpitas apartment.What you see in my Photoshopped image below is where the picture window used to be. The picture window used to jut out a bit, and there was a place where my grandparents had their Christmas tree each year. Grandma liked to vary the types of trees they had. For several years, there was the the aluminum tree with equally reflective ornaments, accented by the rotating color-wheel - remember those? In other years, there was a white flocked tree, then a pink flocked tree, with pink and silver ornaments. The trees were always surrounded by presents (some of which were ours). I don't have photos of these memories - digital technology, which provides endless images today, was decades into the future.  I'm conjuring in Photoshop what I recall -basically, that is where the picture window was:

The merriment of the season was celebrated on both levels of the duplex, as we were allowed to go upstairs to our Aunt Marie & Uncle Bro's home.  Often, my grandmother's siblings and their spouses would join them - with names like Uncle Fat, Big Boy, Syl, Buck, and Tiny, nicknames or truncated names were used more often than not, in the Wayne & Bowen families. My mom was "Sis" or "Sissy",  Grandma was "Lil", and Grandpa was "Kels".   There, the adults smoked cigarettes and drank egg nogs or Tom & Jerry's, in appropriate glassware for the occasion, talking loudly through the evening, obviously enjoying each other's company.

 I recall once that that Aunt Marie's tree was a live tree, with varied ornaments, and I would press my nose into its needles to experience the fragrance of Christmas. The glass ornaments were fun to look into, my distorted image peering back at me, some frosted with glitter. Other painted wooden ornaments carried the names of my cousins, creating a wonderfully homey effect. I would feel most secure, surrounded by happy adults, during these occasions. These were some of my best childhood memories, surrounded by cigarette smoke and laughter.  As the evening wore on, Aunt Marie, by now in her cups, would promise us lovely gifts from Santa, or (in later years) a car for each of us in the color and make of our choosing.    

These are the memories that I want to leave with all others in my family, so that they could know this part of their heritage. Just one part, my part.  I know that they have their own.......including my cousin Judy, who also lived at 50 Theta Avenue, upstairs from my grandparents. Here is her response to my blog:

"Debi, how beautiful.  By the way, Tiny was Uncle Fat's wife and she was always very thin.  The large lady was Aunt Edna who was your Grandma's sister.  I will always remember visiting Aunt Edna and Uncle Syl.  Their bed had two long lumps where they both slept all the time.  Formed by their weight. They were such happy and wonderful people. Your Grandma, Lilly, as I called her, was my favorite.  She and my Mom always went places together.  Did you know that your Mom got me a job with her doing keypunch.  We worked together at nite and during our lunch we would go to a bar around the corner and have a drink. Just one and back to work.  Sissy was like a big sister to me.  She helped me find my first doctor that she also used.  I also remember the house you grew up in.  We called them the Barn Houses as the way they were built.  I did mention to you, your Mom hit the Pacifica Newspaper when she lost the brakes to her car and safely drove down a steep curved street with you all in it.  It was quite a story.  I'll have to get back to you when I have more time to see if I have pictures and maybe more stories.  Hope your feeling better. Thank you so much for those lovely memories.  50 Theta is a big part of my life also.  Hugs to you."