The picture from my first day of Kindergarten shows me seemingly a foot taller than little tow-headed Robert Gunn in his smart brown shirt and plaid pants. Twelve years later, he and I re-enacted the photo on the night of my high school graduation, but this time Robert had to squat to make the height difference the same as when we were 5 years old. These days, 12 years passes in nearly an instant, but in 1987, 12 years had seemed like decades and I wasn't even sure I knew Robert, his older brother Michael, older sister Gina, or his mom Nancy anymore.
Robert and I started school together because his mom was my babysitter. The arrangement was made between Nancy and my mom when my parents were divorced just a few months before I started school. Their meeting went something like this: My dad worked with a woman named Charlene, who was married to Bob. Bob drove a bread truck for Sunbeam Bakery, and was good friends with another driver, Carey. Nancy was Carey's wife, and for three years their home was more or less my home, too.
Nancy was a bottle blonde, feisty Italian woman who once made me leave the dinner table without food because I balked at eating creamed corn. The incident was recalled with much jocularity on graduation night, and maybe a dash of awe. It was my one and only act of defiance in three long years. To this day, I have never consumed creamed corn. Frankly, I don't know anyone, other than the Gunn family, who has.
The house on Triana Street, or it's driveway, was always filled with neighborhood kids. It was the launching point for our excursions into the canyon, or where teams were chosen for games of street hockey. Occasionally, a group would take a breather and sprawl out on the living room carpet to watch Popeye. As for me, in this mass of kids, I would faithfully remove myself every day and take a nap. As far as I remember, I was the only one who did. The quiet moments of drifting off to sleep on Nancy and Carey's waterbed were just what I needed. I enjoyed the time with my surrogate family, but in retrospect, I'm not sure I ever fit in. There was something a little more rabble-rousing about Robert, Gina, and Michael than suited my personality. I don't remember ever reading a book in their house. And it was always hockey we played, never the more pastoral baseball.
The summer prior to third grade, my mom and I moved back to the neighborhood where I was born, too far away to make going to school in Nancy's neighborhood practical, and so I became my own keeper. It took me a few months to find new friends, but once settled in, everything about my life felt right. I had complete control over how I spent my afternoons - sometimes in the quiet of my room reading or putting together a jigsaw puzzle, sometimes on my bike in the park with one or two friends.
The dry scrub of a canyon was replaced with a park of lush grass and leafy eucalyptus trees. The girl who lived up one block and was a year older became my best friend. She, like Robert, had older siblings, but the Clark family played board games and taught me how to swim. Lisa and I spent hours of just the two of us, which fit my desire for less commotion.
As I sort through these memories, I see how a quiet life is a built-in need, it's hardwired in my personality. And the two families with whom I split my childhood, gave me the foundation for understanding what can constitute a quiet but big life.
Both the Gunns and the Clarks had long dinner tables with the ability to get longer by adding leaves. They were the center of both family meals and family entertainment. With the Gunns, I recall an after-dinner game that involved an empty gallon-sized glass jug of Gallo wine being slid across the table in some sort of shuffleboard-like endeavor. Smoldering cigarettes hung from the corners of the adults' mouths who stood at either end of the table and us kids circled the sides watching. With the Clarks, I recall many post-meal games of Boggle between kids and grown-ups. After several rounds, we'd take a break and eat the best homemade chocolate cupcakes with white frosting I've ever had.
Now I know - a big life is finding the place that, and the people who, feel just right.
Robert and I started school together because his mom was my babysitter. The arrangement was made between Nancy and my mom when my parents were divorced just a few months before I started school. Their meeting went something like this: My dad worked with a woman named Charlene, who was married to Bob. Bob drove a bread truck for Sunbeam Bakery, and was good friends with another driver, Carey. Nancy was Carey's wife, and for three years their home was more or less my home, too.
Nancy was a bottle blonde, feisty Italian woman who once made me leave the dinner table without food because I balked at eating creamed corn. The incident was recalled with much jocularity on graduation night, and maybe a dash of awe. It was my one and only act of defiance in three long years. To this day, I have never consumed creamed corn. Frankly, I don't know anyone, other than the Gunn family, who has.
The house on Triana Street, or it's driveway, was always filled with neighborhood kids. It was the launching point for our excursions into the canyon, or where teams were chosen for games of street hockey. Occasionally, a group would take a breather and sprawl out on the living room carpet to watch Popeye. As for me, in this mass of kids, I would faithfully remove myself every day and take a nap. As far as I remember, I was the only one who did. The quiet moments of drifting off to sleep on Nancy and Carey's waterbed were just what I needed. I enjoyed the time with my surrogate family, but in retrospect, I'm not sure I ever fit in. There was something a little more rabble-rousing about Robert, Gina, and Michael than suited my personality. I don't remember ever reading a book in their house. And it was always hockey we played, never the more pastoral baseball.
The summer prior to third grade, my mom and I moved back to the neighborhood where I was born, too far away to make going to school in Nancy's neighborhood practical, and so I became my own keeper. It took me a few months to find new friends, but once settled in, everything about my life felt right. I had complete control over how I spent my afternoons - sometimes in the quiet of my room reading or putting together a jigsaw puzzle, sometimes on my bike in the park with one or two friends.
The dry scrub of a canyon was replaced with a park of lush grass and leafy eucalyptus trees. The girl who lived up one block and was a year older became my best friend. She, like Robert, had older siblings, but the Clark family played board games and taught me how to swim. Lisa and I spent hours of just the two of us, which fit my desire for less commotion.
As I sort through these memories, I see how a quiet life is a built-in need, it's hardwired in my personality. And the two families with whom I split my childhood, gave me the foundation for understanding what can constitute a quiet but big life.
Both the Gunns and the Clarks had long dinner tables with the ability to get longer by adding leaves. They were the center of both family meals and family entertainment. With the Gunns, I recall an after-dinner game that involved an empty gallon-sized glass jug of Gallo wine being slid across the table in some sort of shuffleboard-like endeavor. Smoldering cigarettes hung from the corners of the adults' mouths who stood at either end of the table and us kids circled the sides watching. With the Clarks, I recall many post-meal games of Boggle between kids and grown-ups. After several rounds, we'd take a break and eat the best homemade chocolate cupcakes with white frosting I've ever had.
Now I know - a big life is finding the place that, and the people who, feel just right.
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