One night, right before Christmas, there was a knock at our door. There stood Kathy on our porch, bloodied and bruised from her head to toe. Our mother tenderly took her in and cleaned her up. Mom said to us, “Kathy has run away from home and we aren’t to tell anyone she is at our house.”
Mom gave her a pair of her pajamas, and she climbed in bed between my sister and me.
“What happened?”
She very quietly said, with tears streaming down her face, “My mother hits me. I don’t know why she hates me. I couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she will miss me if I’m not there and maybe, she’ll stop hitting me.”
While she spoke, she showed no animosity towards her abusive single mother. Kathy only wanted her mother to love her. A few days later her mom showed up to take her home. We watched her hug her daughter, “I am so sorry. I promise I will never hit you again.”
She was overjoyed that her mother wanted her back. We would never know if Kathy’s mother had kept her promise. My mom quit hanging out with her after that and I would never see my first crush again.
A few months later, my mom became friends with another lady who would soon become her new drinking partner. She had a daughter named Connie who was around my age. What I liked most about Connie was that she owned a brown and white pony named Judy and I was obsessed with horses. In Fontana, there were plenty of vacant lots to go riding. I can’t count how many times Connie and I got together and rode Judy. Each time we spent the day together I felt as if I was experiencing a piece of heaven. My dream of riding a horse even if it lasted only a short time had come true.
Connie was a very sad girl and she too, craved her mother’s love and attention. Our friendship was short lived, however, because for whatever reason our mothers stopped drinking together. Through the years, I often thought back to those blissful moments riding Judy, as I raced into the sunset and escaped the reality of my life. Alas, it wasn’t Connie I would miss; it was my piece of heaven, her horse, Judy.
George was another friend who hung out with Mom. They were also drinking buddies and she would spend hours with him. She knew his family and sometimes we all got together and I hung out with his daughter Georgette who was a couple years older than me. Mostly George and Mom drank at the bars though.
One sad day Mom came home and sat us kids down and told us that George had committed suicide because he was an alcoholic. That was the first time I had ever heard those two words, alcoholic and suicide and it wouldn’t be the last.
We were finally getting used to our new way of life with our dad gone and our mother constantly leaving to hang out with her new, pill-popping, alcoholic friends.
It was early summer when Mom woke us up one morning. “Now that you are all out of school it is finally time for us to move back to our old neighborhood.”
Just as Mom had said, we moved into a house one door down from our old house on Ceres. In the fall of 1967 I would be entering the sixth grade and I was excited to attend school with my old community of friends.
During this time Dad didn’t come around much. He and Glenda were living together and she was pregnant.
Even though we would miss our new house, back to our old neighborhood and to our roach-infested three-bedroom one bathroom house we went. It was a relief returning to our old friends. A few of our neighbors had gotten divorced since we had moved, and a couple of single moms had moved in so our situation didn’t feel so weird anymore.
Since Mom didn’t work, and Dad refused to pay child support, we had to go on welfare. A couple of months after we moved Mom began dating a man named Frank. She would leave us days at a time and play house with him. My brother and I took on even more responsibility taking care of our brothers and sister.
I would have done anything for my mother. Anything! I needed her love desperately and the more she was gone the more rejected and abandoned I felt. I continued to do my best to keep the house clean and take care of my siblings. I wished Mom would praise me and say well done. She rarely did. Compliments didn’t come easy for her. Once she confessed, when I was an adult, “I didn’t tell you that you were pretty because I didn’t want you to get a big head.” How I would have loved to hear those words from her.
I don’t remember her saying very many nice things to us while we were growing up. She dwelled on the negative things, mistakes that were common to all children. The older I got the less I felt she was pleased with me. We often heard her moan, “Life is so hard.” She was caught up in her own problems, she wasn’t aware that her kids were suffering from their own emotional pain. Of course, she didn’t realize what her frequent absences and mood changes did to us, she was only concerned with herself.
One of the things Mom did enjoy though was going to the vegetable and fruit stands that surrounded our town. She often took my sister and me with her. One summer afternoon it was just the two of us. After parking the car, Mom noticed several cases of vine-ripened, fire engine red, plump tomatoes sitting by our car. My mom loved her vegetables.
“Oh Deb, look at those tomatoes. Don’t they look good? I wish I could afford a whole case of them. Won’t you get me one?”
My mind started racing. She walked around with a few bags and plopped in green chilies, cucumbers, and onions while I was busy collecting my own stash. I caught up with her at the cash register, tapped her on the arm and whispered, “I got them Mom I got them for you.”
“Shhh, I’m paying for our vegetables.”
Hopping in the passenger side, we drove off. “Mom look.” I pointed to the back seat. “You asked for the tomatoes and I got them for you.”
She looked over her shoulder and there on the floor of the back seat was a whole case of luscious, mouth-watering red tomatoes. I was so proud of myself. I knew I had found a way to make my mother happy.
“Debra Ann, I did not really mean for you to get the tomatoes. I was only kidding.”
After reprimanding me for stealing the vegetables, we had a good laugh over it. Luckily, I wasn’t the sort of person to steal, and that was the last time I took something that didn’t belong to me.
Once we were back in our old neighborhood, we made friends quickly with the family that had moved into our old house. Silvia was my sister’s age. She would become Monica’s best friend. I was also included in most of our social gatherings. Walking home from school we would head for the closest 7-11 to get mouth-watering Slurpies, afterwards, we’d walk to a nearby park or library. The three of us often hung out in her bedroom listening to 45’s and dancing. It was one of our favorite things to do. Sylvia had a rare disease and when she turned twelve, she had to get all of her teeth pulled. For several weeks, before getting dentures, she had to attend school without any teeth. My sister and I made it our goal to protect her from any teasing from the kids at school. Proudly we walked with her between us, prepared for any onslaughts. Fortunately, there were none; everyone was nice to her.
I met a new friend shortly after moving back to Ceres, her name was Pam, she lived across the street and she was my age. Pam’s mother was an alcoholic and she left Pam and her two siblings alone without any food in the house most of the time. My new friend was a guest at our home for dinner fairly often. “I love your mom’s fried potatoes,” she’d often tell me. We walked to school together and hung out mostly at my house afterwards. But unfortunately, a couple years later Pam began taking drugs. She was quick to brag about the pills she popped every weekend. She called them yellow jackets, bennies, black beauties, whites, and reds. I didn’t take drugs and I wasn’t comfortable being with her when she took them. I didn’t hang out with her very much after that. Through the years Pam’s life escalated out of control although we stayed in touch for many years after we both moved away from each other.
Sixth grade proved to be a good year for me. My teacher, Mr. Covey taught us how to write short stories. I realized how much I enjoyed writing and I wasn’t even afraid to
read my theme aloud every Friday.
I was very shy around boys, but had many crushes on them from the time I was eleven. In the 6th grade two boys sat one on each side of me, but this time I didn’t mind. Spencer was a lot cuter than Danny, but Danny’s family raised boxers and I loved big dogs. For that reason, I had a crush on him. He had wavy black hair, and pimples, but that didn’t deter me. Often the three of us would sit in the back of the classroom away from the watchful eyes of Mr. Covey and talk. I usually wore dresses or skirts and I would let those boys smack my naked legs with rulers. They would slap me so hard it left red marks on my legs. Why did I allow them to hit me? All I know is, I remember how good it felt to have a boy interested in me. I never did reveal the crush I had on Danny and soon he was replaced with a new crush.
Throughout the summer I had many anxious thoughts as I anticipated starting junior high school. I would not have my sister with me at school like the previous years. Mike still acted like the man of the house, but he also started running around with his friends more often. My little brothers had adjusted to life in our old neighborhood while Mom counted on me to take care of them, making lunches and dinners, cleaning the house and babysitting. It seemed she was gone more than ever and or she would hide in her room more often when she was home.
7
Our Pets
“The godly care for their animals.” Proverbs 12:10
Our mother was an animal lover and throughout our childhood she allowed us to have many types of pets but all I ever wanted was my very own pony. I dreamed about them regularly, and at every opportunity and watched movies that included anything to do with horses. Riding on brooms, mops, or sticks pretending I was riding a horse was a much loved pastime.
Before my dad left we used to drive from Fontana to Anaheim to visit my father’s family. Regularly, I’d pretend I was riding bare back on my mighty stallion running alongside the car. I always looked forward to the drive to my cousins.
Accompanying my mother to the local hardware store to buy chicken feed was a favorite thing for me to do. Right inside the door was a large barrel resting upon four pieces of wood with a saddle on top. Climbing on top of the makeshift horse, pretending to gallop, I’d wait for Mom while she bought her supplies.
“Let’s go. It’s time to get off that barrel.”
“It’s not a barrel, it’s my very own pony with a white flowing mane. Isn’t he magnificent?
I eagerly looked forward to the “Fontana Days” parade every year just to see the graceful horses prance through the streets.
Throughout my elementary school years and on into junior high we Griswold’s were known around the neighborhood for our pets. The first dog Dad brought home was a huge German shepherd named Mark. We loved romping with him. My dad would often play a game with Mark. Sneaking outside he would quietly knock on the front door. Mark would instantly react, growling, barking, and lunging towards the door. My dad would sneak in the back door laughing and Mark’s long tail would begin wagging swiftly. “See kids,” he would explain, “Mark will always protect you.”
We were broken-hearted when we had to find a new home for Mark because he killed the neighbor’s chickens and a little Pekinese dog. For several years after that, my dad and mom would take us to visit the kind family who had given Mark a new home.
Even though we lived in a quiet residential neighborhood, we had numerous pets throughout our childhood. At any given time, our yard was filled with chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, various dogs, birds, a turtle, and an occasional cat. When we raised chickens, we couldn’t wait to gather fresh eggs from our colorful Rhode Island Red hens.
Nosey was our first rabbit. He was a large albino bunny with red eyes, whose nose twitched incessantly, as all bunnies do. He lived outside of his cage most of the time and he had been paper trained by our mother where he would occasionally romp indoors. Hopping around in the front yard, Nosey chased small dogs that dared come onto our property. We all enjoyed feeding our pet rabbit carrots and bragging about him to the neighbors. Several years later I walked outside and found Nosey dead in the back yard we all figured he had died of old age. Thus began the Griswold funeral processions. Around the block from us there was an orange grove, this would become our pet burial grounds. We put Nosey in a cardboard box and loaded him in the red wagon while my older brother carried a shovel. Standing in a circle, Mike loudly said a goodbye prayer, “God, here lies Nosey, who we loved and we will miss. Amen!”
This went on numerous times when our little pets died. The neighborhood kids stood in their front yards watching us as we rounded the corner and they’d yell, “Which animal died this time?” They in turn would join in and parade with us around the block to bury our pets. Decades later, brand-new homes would be built on our sacred burial grounds.
We three older kids loved sleeping in our front yard, under the stars, wrapped in a blanket or a sleeping bag during hot summer nights. One night, Monica and I decided to bring out our longhaired guinea pigs, which we cherished. They had recently had a baby. We set the cage beside our heads and fell into a deep sleep.
Early the next morning Monica, shrieked. “Get up Deb. Where are Zelda and Thor and the baby? They’re not in their cage!”
Suddenly, there was a flurry of excitement. The brothers came running out of the house.
“Where are they, where are they?”
Thus, we began our search on that early, July morning. It didn’t take us long to find the half-eaten bodies of Zelda and Thor, but we never did find their tiny, unnamed baby. Later our funeral march was filled with all the neighborhood kids. It was a sad day in the Griswold household.
While in Junior high, Mike took up falconry. He taught us kids how to hunt for baby chicks so he could raise and teach his favorite bird. We spent hours in the front yard watching as Mike trained his young Red-Tailed hawk teaching him to retrieve food. He’d fly back and forth, then perch on Mike’s tan leather glove. All of us got involved in my brother’s hobby.
My brother, Dave, was the proud owner of a pet bird. He was a colorful parrot named Petie. Dave taught Petie how to say a few words and frequently allowed him to perch on his shoulder. He loved that bird! Also residing with us at that time was our coal-black cat, Midnight, who had given birth to kittens just weeks earlier. At this time someone fed Petie and accidentally left the cage door open. Unbeknownst to any of us, Midnight was watching the bird. She was weaning her little kittens and needed meat for them. Unfortunately, Petie became her victim. We found Petie dead in her claws and from that day on we never had another cat in our house. Dave still talks about his beloved pet parrot and to this day he despises cats.
Our favorite dog of all was Creole. He was a medium-sized mongrel, with long, black hair, short, stubby legs, and a curled up, wavy tail. He looked like a cross between a cocker spaniel and an oversized weenie dog. Several times Creole had been hit by cars and survived. He also suffered a near drowning, and even lived after being poisoned. So, we called him the king of the neighborhood. He was like a cat with nine lives. Our dearly loved pet chased every car that had the audacity to drive down our street. He’d yelp and bark loudly while trying to nip at the tires. He was definitely in need of “Cesar, the Dog Whisperer.” But that was way before Cesar’s time.
Through the years, Creole had also become a father to many puppies in the neighborhood. He would jump through tall windows, and crawl under gates. No fences or doors ever kept him out when a female dog was in heat. He was like Superman, able to leap tall buildings, and was faster than a speeding bullet. All the kids in the neighborhood joked about our dog’s reputation. One time, the neighbor behind us called out to us kids while we were playing in our back yard.
“Come get your dog right now. He jumped through the bedroom window and broke it to get to my dog Queenie.” I don’t think my mother ever paid for the window Creole broke.
One hot, summer day, Creole
suffered his demise. He had been missing for a while and we frantically searched for him till nightfall and throughout the next day. Early in the morning, on the third day, Creole came limping to the front door. His right shoulder had been severely injured. The skin was gone and pink flesh and blood oozed out. My mom quickly wrapped him up and drove him to the nearest veterinarian.
Within an hour she walked through the door, her eyes still red from crying. She sat us down. “It would have been thirty dollars to fix Creole’s leg and we don’t have that kind of money. I only had five dollars so I had to put Creole to sleep.”
Big tears of grief rolled down our faces. We would have no funeral procession that day because the vet had disposed of our beloved pet. We didn’t even get to say goodbye to Creole.
Shortly after that someone was giving away the cutest, golden brown puppies near the grocery store. My girlfriend, Pam, who lived across the street, came home one day with two puppies, one for her and one for me. We were so excited to have them. Mine was named Taffy. We crossed the street often and let our little puppy brother’s romp together. Not long after that, the two dogs were chasing each other and were tragically hit by a car. Mine was killed while Pam’s puppy lived. I just knew my puppy died because of my secret. I’m such a bad girl.
8
Holidays
“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1
I remember the year I turned eleven. I wanted go-go boots and black stirrup pants and Dad and Glenda bought them for me. That was the last time I celebrated Christmas with my father. After the divorce, my mother always enjoyed making holidays special for us. Every Halloween she gathered extra wire clothes hangers, strung them together, spray painted them white and made a makeshift skeleton. Afterwards, she’d hang it on the huge oak tree in our front yard.
Something About Those Eyes Page 5