Back to the Future, or Everything Old Is New Again

I wrote happily about my far distant past and then felt a little low reliving some of those very early days. I found that musing about a different part of life was a little less painful and I had some donkey laughs. I was flooded with memories of a decade of early adult life and my fingers began to tap as quickly as the thoughts filled my cranium. To my surprise, I was writing (at least in part) about Ex. Without invective. With no vitriol. This was new and fascinating to me, as I have spent few moments in the ensuing years fondly remembering things past between us. I am a woman who did not let the door hit her in the ass as she walked away. Few pleasant words were ever again exchanged between us. But to my further surprise, after posting about the 1980s, I continued to recall little bits of debris from the 32 years spent together and I found it quite pleasant. Comforting. Pleasant memories burn less energy than angry ones, I've found. I believe I have grown a bit.

Friend Tag rang in on Comments to say he'd also experienced tremendous professional growth during the 1980s while also taking on marriage and parenthood. We spoke of some movies we enjoyed in common, and I'm still hangin' in the 80s. When I took my momentary little plunge, I went to YouTube and was perfectly poised to select music that would only make matters worse. But I stumbled over a fortuitous find that led me on a path to other discoveries. Pretty soon, I was laughing out loud. I danced, too!

Some adventure/comic movies of the day included Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile. These starred Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner and Danny DeVito. In retrospect, they look very 1980s, but we enjoyed them. They were fun and funny. They had some decent enough songs in the soundtrack. To call these films life-altering or even particularly memorable would likely be stretching it, and yet . . . something lingered in my mind. Billy Ocean. MTV. I don't want to say too much. I want the reader to view it. But, without giving up too much, I will say that one wants to wait until the back-up singers are revealed. I wonder if others will first grin widely, then laugh loudly, and finally replay the thing and dance with them like I did. I have got the elbow-bending leg-marching rocking thing going on! I can punch my fist high into the air just like they do . . . and I am reminded of having fun in earlier times. I can do the sideways shuffle thing like Billy Ocean and I wish - oh, I wish - I had a white tuxedo! I regret that embedding is disabled, but follow the link for some fun! Or perhaps I'm just too easily amused. "The tough get rough . . . !"

All right, enough of that. True story: Ex came home every Friday night, no matter whether he drove for hours or took the redeye. He came with dirty laundry to be exchanged for clean laundry and dry cleaning to be taken when he returned to whatever part of California on the Monday morning. The weekends were filled with errands and socializing with friends and family, at least a few hours of quiet and private conversation, prescription-filling, expense reports completion, shared meals. Sometimes I had a honey-do list for him ~ hey, I worked a zillion hours a week, too. And I was never good with drills or other tools with moving parts. If the gardener had let us down again, Ex tackled the lawn. If the cars needed service, he took them while I took the dogs to be groomed and shuffled paperwork for both of us. It worked out nicely. All we lacked was sufficient time to rest and relax. For much more than a decade. Spending more time apart than together pointed something out to me, and I believe to him. Being together for brief periods on the weekends reminded me of the things I liked and disliked most about him. It seemed to me that everything was experienced through a magnifying glass. Small irritations seemed too important. The good times felt over-the-top. Once in awhile I took a nap on Sunday afternoon that lasted from noon until 6:00 p.m.

He and I were polar opposites in many elemental ways. I am prepunctual. Always. I would rather arrive some place naked than late. Ex told time by the calendar and actually appeared to enjoy creating a little chaos by dithering. It is almost literally true that we always traveled in separate vehicles to the same destination. For more than 20 years. Air travel with him was an excruciating proposition for me, but - in fairness - we never missed a flight due to his sense of time management. However, on this particular Saturday, we rode together to the mall. Ex needed some new kicks and then we were going to see a movie everyone was talking about - Ghostbusters. We shopped awhile and he bought a pair of new Reeboks for a startling amount of money in 1980s terms - the Miami Vice model, if I am not mistaken. How's that for some 1980s aura? So pleased was Ex with his purchase, he decided to wear the new shoes out of the store, tucking the other pair inside the box and bag. I glanced at my watch and went on alert. If we didn't hustle, we'd be late for the movie. I set a pretty brisk pace to get us out of the mall, and Ex grouched at me for being too tightly wound. Yes. That has been said about me. Especially regarding punctuality. Exiting the mall, he got tangled up in the bicycle parking stand, whacking the top of his foot pretty hard. "You OK?" "I don't know. There's no time to check and see. My wife has a ticking stopwatch."

There was no discord in the theater. Ex and I were agreed on the finer points of popcorn. We both liked Diet Pepsi, and Bon Bons were a firm favorite of us both. We were completely in accord about where to sit in a darkened theater so one doesn't get a stiff neck, blasted out by the speakers or crawled over by late-arriving movie-goers. We settled into our seats and enjoyed the film like just about everyone else at the time. How can a movie starring Dan Aykroyd, Bill Murray, Harold Ramis and Rick Moranis go wrong? Sigourney Weaver was lovely and talented, and I'd watch Annie Potts in any role. The special effects were grand, the dialogue quick and funny. I was having a wonderful time! Until he started. At first it was a slight wiggle of his leg. It escalated to a pretty rapid shaking of the same leg, and non-stop. "What the hell, Ex?" He said his foot was hurting a little. Probably from whacking it on the bike stand. Soon his entire body was gyrating. "Geez, Ex, do you think we need to leave?" I'm sure my tone of voice did not suggest to him that I thought that was a good thing. He said he wanted to see the end of the movie and he'd be all right. The twitching and shaking went on until I finally moved one seat away, putting my jacket, purse and the popcorn on the seat between us. I could still see him shimmying out of the corner of my eye, but at least I wasn't being jiggled continuously. Finally the movie was over. We said we'd enjoyed it. It was good!

Making our way out of the dark, Ex commented he needed me to slow my pace. His foot hurt. It was throbbing. I'm not cruel, and I had no other pressing engagement. I slowed down tremendously and gave him my arm. "What do you think is going on, Ex?" He wasn't sure. He just wanted to get to the car so he could assess what was going on. I suggested we check the foot in the theater lobby where he could sit on a bench. Who cared if people thought it was strange for a man to take off his shoe and sock in the lobby? We needed to see what was happening. He sat on a bench and brought his foot up across the opposite knee. It was enormous! Three times the size of his other foot, maybe more. Dark brown eyes looked into blue ones. Uh-oh. I told him I wanted to take off his shoe and he agreed. I tried to remove it and was stunned to learn that foot was not going to eject that new Reebok. His foot had swelled so tremendously, it was as if the shoe had been consumed by it. I couldn't squeeze a finger between foot and shoe. "I'm going for the car. Stay here." It scared me that he agreed to do that. Usually he soldiered on when I asked him to be cautious.

Running across the parking lot, I decided we were going directly to the emergency room. If I took him home, he'd self-diagnose and self-heal. I'd seen it happen before. It scared me that he didn't bitch about my taking him directly to the hospital. Well, Ex was not an infant, was not running a fever, was not unconscious, was not pouring blood from any part of his body. He was way low on the list of priorities in that emergency room. We talked. I brought him drinks and a snack, crabbed at the intake window that the man's foot was huge and throbbing and couldn't that possibly indicate some internal bleeding? Finally we were ushered into a draped cubicle where we waited another eternity. At least now, his foot was elevated. And finally assistance came. Now I can't swear the man was an M.D. For all I know, he could have been part of the custodial staff, but he was here to do something about this foot and I was happy to see him. He replicated my earlier efforts to try to do something about getting that shoe off. No way. Ex was grimacing from the man's attempts and the fellow proved humane. "I'm going to have to cut the shoe, and likely the sock, off. There's no wiggle room here." Yes, I knew that to be a fact. He used some of the marvelous flat scissors found in places like hospital emergency rooms and made a number of cuts so the shoe and sock could be peeled away in strips. As the pressure was released, I could see Ex's body visibly relax. The foot, however, swelled even more, right before our eyes. It was incredible! "My god, Ex. You're all swelled up like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man!" The doctor or custodian, Ex and I began to guffaw in a way unbecoming in an emergency room. Obviously that good man had seen Ghostbusters. Ex quipped, "Just don't roast me in the streets of New York, please."


It was really pretty straightforward. His new Reeboks had been tied snugly. The whack on his foot at the bike parking stand broke some blood vessels and he began to bleed. A couple of hours seated in the theater allowed that foot to fill with blood until it became enormous. When the shoe and sock were cut off, the blood that had been constricted from the pressure flowed out and completed the largest single foot ever seen on an average human male. He was put on restricted physical activity and needed to keep the foot iced and elevated to the extent possible. It took a long time for his body to reabsorb so much fluid. I'm certain he was pretty uncomfortable for awhile, hobbling around trying to work, travel. He kept his brand new, single Reebok in the closet for years. I used to see him pick it up and study it closely. When we moved to our new home years later, he put that Miami Vice shoe on the patio and put a little potted plant in it. The plant thrived and grew, bursting its pot. Its root system grew and filled up that Reebok to three times its . . . I swear that's true!

In my ears right now: I imagine the reader already figured it out.

Something that charmed me: The story of Ex and his Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man foot was told and retold so many times that Amber can tell it perfectly. One can watch her face and see the laughter cross it at the funny moments, concern when she speaks of Ex being uncomfortable. She wouldn't be born until 6 years after it happened. But it is part of her landscape.

Feeling Very Simply Red ~ No, I'm Not Sunburned,It's Music

Writing about certain periods of time in my life is sometimes difficult. While I shared, with joy, about meeting an important person in my life's tapestry, much of the time leading up to that meeting and moving away from it was difficult. I've lived in the 1960s for a few days now and I've felt . . . . sometimes low. While I feel strongly compelled to tell my stories, one doesn't simply string words together and move on. Writing the words results in reliving the feelings. The good ones and the sad ones. Then some time is required to sort out those feelings. Let everything integrate. Where will that little bit of my past land after this latest reexamination? And will I ever be simply done reliving it? Will I ever be able to look at it without feeling pain?

It got even more dicey for me. When one goes to the cycling race, one is very busy. Help the cyclist find equipment and gear. Open the Clif Bar packet, but leave it on the bar, and slide it into the back jersey pocket. Put the water bottles in their cages. Figure out the start and finish lines and parking proximity to each. Watch for the photo ops and get a bead on the racing official. Eventually locate the turn-around point and hand up water, if needed. Calculate how long the race will take and when to starting watching for them to approach the finish line. There's always something to do. Not so when the race is "away". One waits for the phone calls and e-mails that always come later than one hopes for. Oh, I'm a seasoned support crew at cycling races and I know what goes on after the race. Kudos and a big drink of water, chat with the other racers, ask all the questions necessary and wait for the results to be posted. Perhaps something to eat and a trip to the bathroom. In my work world, the homes are very attuned to racing days. The BlackBerry begins to chirp a little too soon. "Les, have you heard anything yet?" "No, homes. If I'd heard anything you would have heard an all-call announcement."

I needed something to make me laugh a little and break the tension. I was noodling around on YouTube trying to locate music that was guaranteed only to make me more melancholy, when I came across something that made me sit up straighter in the chair and grin. It was an old MTV music video from the 1980s. I watched, listened and laughed right out loud. This video made me think of another from the era, and I located it. Same result: watch, listen, laugh out loud. I thought of the music and movies of the day and grinned like a loon. Clearly, remembering the 80s was going to cheer me up!

I did a little research as a memory refresher and I was reminded that the "Me Generation" manifested itself in conspicuous consumption in the 1980s. I was guilty of some of that, too. Cable television came to rival network TV in the 80s in the U.S. I remember getting a card in the mail describing how I could subscribe to Home Box Office. What? Pay for TV? I was nobody's fool. That scheme would never fly! Cheers and The Cosby Show got top TV ratings and CNN became the first 24-hour news channel. MTV came to life and when Mick Jagger said, "I want my MTV" in the advertisements, I knew I wanted my MTV, too. The AIDS epidemic was identified in the 80s and Margaret Thatcher dominated British politics. The so-called Regan Revolution introduced neo-conservatives to Washington, D.C. When I think of the clothing I wore throughout much of the 1980s, I remember industrial strength shoulder pads in my business suits and dresses. I remember power scarves, although I did not wear them. I remember enormous eyeglasses frames. There seems a theme of "too much is never enough" across the decade. On the part of just about eveyone.

On January 1, 1980, I was 27 years old, married, living in Las Vegas, working in a good career as an escrow officer. We had a nice little cottage industry: Stepfather built houses. My mother was the real estate broker who sold said houses. I escrowed them. Ex was a contractor who put in all the sprinklers and landscaping. We earned a good living, enjoying a nice home with lots of perks since we knew the contractor. We had an active social life because this young woman had learned how to entertain and pursued that avidly. We owned the first, gigantic Sony BetaMax on the block and drove good cars. We kept several much-loved cats and had houseguests constantly - everyone wants to visit Las Vegas. It was a nice, young peoples' lifestyle. And then the economy soured. It was Stepfather who taught me that Las Vegas had had the same cycle since its establishment in 1905: boom, bust, boom, bust, boom. It's still happening today in this place where I've been sentenced to serve two separate terms in my life.

We did the only thing we knew to do - run for the coast in January, 1981, and get jobs, try to cut our losses and try to keep building our capital, not dipping into it. As we drove southwest out of Las Vegas for the last time, I looked in the rearview and thought I saw my youth standing at the city limits. When I arrived at my destination 6 hours later, I felt older and mature. There followed a few years of jobs that didn't last for whatever reason, and a settling comfortably into the small city of Lemon Grove, California, a 4-square-mile speck completely surrounded by San Diego.

Ex landed a job working for the local school district. It was a good job with lots of perks and benefits and decent money. He became interested in working as a job steward for the union local. Then he became a contract negotiator and a greivance processor and then president of the local. He held the position for years and spent more time in the school district board room conducting union business than he did in the school yards working on the landscaping and sprinkler systems. We could not go to the market in our 4-square-mile city without him being tapped on the shoulder and asked for advice about three members' jobs. For years. I dubbed him the King of Lemon Grove. The state organization had a small office in San Diego and the labor reps there came to know and admire Ex as a savvy, hard working, fearless union leader. I'd met a number of them at various gatherings and when their secretary became ill, I was asked to come and run the offfice.

And so began the halcyon years. The union secretary promoted and I was hired to operate the San Diego office. I proved to be a quick study about most things concerning labor relations. Ex continued working at the local level, but the union hired him away from the school district for several long-term projects. Finally came his opportunity! Our union was willing to interview members who had spent a number of years successfully working at the local level, and hire them as labor representatives, if appropriate. The years of practical experience were accepted in lieu of a degree in labor relations, for the right person. A new department had been created and four statewide organizers were to be hired. "Statewide" meant he could be called on a Monday morning, told to report to Sacramento and expect to remain there for six months. We talked about it a long time. Because I wasn't going to move away. I saw opportunity for myself with the union if I just waited long enough and worked very hard. I've never seen a man as terrified as Ex was when he drove off to his interview 200 miles away. He didn't have to wait long for the results. By the time he pulled up in front of my field office, the message had already been left for him. He had no high school diploma. He was a man who thought of himself as one with a strong back and a weak mind. He had some trouble with dyslexia and reading was not his preferred way to obtain information. He would be expected to put on training events, and he was a man terrified of a microphone. And yet he had learned, by native intelligence, to do something so well, the union was willing to put a world of fortuitous chance at his feet.

There came the years of him apartment dwelling and hotel dwelling during the week and coming home on weekends. The union was generous about picking up the tab decently. I worked on, absorbing everything I could from every labor representative I served. Contract language, grievance processing, legal research, Unfair Labor Practice charges, representation in administrative hearings, writing post-hearing briefs from scratch (I hadn't actually attended the hearing. I was doing it from the transcript.). I was the favored child of my field director and I approached him after some years. If we hired (certain) members after they'd done union work in their locals, could an argument be made that I should be allowed to interview, based on my absorbing information from all the professionals I served? It didn't happen quickly or easily. My field director lobbied his own boss and the other field directors. I gathered (basically) a petition from my own resident labor reps and others who had worked temporarily in our office, saying what they had observed that I shouldn't have known how to do, but did know how to do. Margins annotated and illustrations. I got my interview before the 15 formidable union pros and I aced it. "Best interview the panel has ever seen, Les. You're a union rep." Unions are very careful about spending the members' dues. If one accepted the monthly car allowance, one must drive a car made in a unionized factory. One must be able to seat four passengers (read this: seat members.). I went off to buy my car. I had a letter in my hand on the gold-embossed letterhead of that union. It set out my promotion date and how much money I'd make and the fact that I would also receive the auto allowance. The car salesman's eyes popped. This was the best thing he'd ever seen! Four hours later I drove off the lot in the hottest, reddest car that could seat four members. It had a Ferrari kit. I bought it alone on the strength of my own income and credit, because I could. Ex was off in some far-flung corner of the state. It was damned heady stuff.

Lest the reader think that all sounds like a couple of smart asses, too full of themselves, that's too easy and incorrect. It's about youth and recognizing opportunity and taking calculated risks and working relentlessly while reaching for the brass ring. This was a period when neither of us thought we knew everything. To the contrary, each of us thought we knew nothing. We were sponges. We spent a few years soaking up everything we could learn about the field we worked in. We bounced ideas off of each other and we cheered the other on. We worked hard and became well regarded. But for the two human beings that we were, there was more going on. We learned, the hard way, about human beings at their best and at their worst. We learned how to work sometimes 20 hours a day and remain effective, efficient, strong, leaders. We learned to advocate for others who needed our help. We learned to lobby legislators (school employees are paid from tax dollars). We learned to do things that we never expected to know how to do. We became professionals. We were a little bit startled by that. It hadn't been in the cards.

The actress Dixie Carter passed away on Sunday and that saddened me terribly. I remembered the rare occasions in the 1980s when I got a moment to watch TV. Designing Women was a firm favorite. I wanted not to be like Julia Sugarbaker, but to be Julia Sugarbaker. I liked The Golden Girls and I liked the movies of the day: Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile, Ghostbusters . . . it's been more than 20 years.


On January 1, 1990, at age 37, I sat watching Designing Women. Charlene was going to have her baby on this episode. At the moment this TV baby was born, an ancient woman in the same hospital who had been born a slave passed away. This while Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram sang "Somewhere Out There" and the TV new daddy dipped the wing of the Air Force jet he was flying, in tribute to his new daughter. I'd sob over that today. I sobbed over it then because I was very, very pregnant. Extremely overdue. Amber was due on December 13th. It was now past December 31st. I had muddled through a terribly difficult, surprise pregnancy. After we had tried for almost 20 years without success, we'd sadly accepted there would be no children for us. I'd come home from our first trip abroad in the spring of 1989 . . . . pregnant. I'd managed to get through the holidays quietly, but now there were no more of them to look forward to. The 80s were gone and the 90s beckoned. The child was born on the 6th day of 1990. I looked back and thought I saw my mature, professional, confident self standing on the calendar page of December 31, 1989. I felt very young and immature and scared by what lay before me. Things weren't going to ever be exactly the same again. How would I deal with it? Would I do OK or even well? Could I succeed in the next chapter?

In my ears right now: It's still Simply Red. It pleases me.

Something that charmed me: I stopped avoiding what troubled me. I took it on. I lit into it. I said to the other human being, "Would you care to dance? We've got business to discuss." We wrote and wrote. We talked. We communicated. I am reminded of a couple of things. I do myself no favors by avoiding. And after two people communicate, one is reminded of the goodness that seems to fade when avoidance is operating. I'm still learning. May my life be finished when I can no longer learn new things.

Independence Day

Ex and I moved to Las Vegas on the Bicentennial Day - July 4, 1976. My mother had beckoned, saying if we wanted to be homeowners at a relatively young age, we might forego SoCal for a few years and start building our financial foundation in a place that was booming (but it does always bust eventually). Stepfather was a general contractor building homes faster than I can type it. Mom was the real estate broker who sold the homes. A post was found for me as an escrow officer - I escrowed the homes. Ex learned landscape and sprinkler systems - he put in the yards. It was a nice little dynasty we had.

We left LA that morning in our yellow VW Beetle with four kittens aged 8 weeks, a tiny traveling litter box, and everything we owned. Our home was to be one of the model homes in Stepfather's latest development. It was beautifully upgraded and we were excited . . . until we arrived in Las Vegas in 113 degrees to hear that decorating on the new model homes hadn't been completed and we'd need an apartment for a couple of months. OK ~ we quickly got one.

The 2 months rolled by and we did move into that first home. It was where I morphed from a teenager to a young woman. I learned to entertain and manage a "large estate" (ha!), keep a yard in an impossible climate, prevent my pack of cats from terrorizing the neighborhood. I belonged there. We (finally) married while living in this home. We spoke of beginning a family there. We hosted my Granny, my Dad and every known relative there. When you live in Las Vegas, you get lots of house guests. Funny how that works!

It should be noted, however, that while Ex loved everything about Las Vegas, I did not. I just liked where my life was during the time we happened to be in Las Vegas. He trenched by hand for sprinkler systems at high noon in August, no shirt on, braids to his waist . . and loved it. If I got a little dewy from heat, I hated life. When it snowed and my car spun off the road, I was ready to pack it in. He trenched for sprinkler systems in the snow and loved it.

When the economy busted, we headed for San Diego for the next 21 years (well, 21 years for me). Amber was born. We lived in one place for the longest time I've ever lived anywhere. When we divorced, circumstances were such that Ex got San Diego and I got - oh, NO, I've already served my sentence there - Las Vegas. Viva. ;(

Shortly after I returned here in 2003, and while the divorce conflagration was still roaring, I took a ride in my car to a well-known neighborhood. I parked and got out onto the sidewalk. An older man and his dog were in the yard, which was beautifully maintained, as was the paint, the wrought iron trimmings, the concrete driveway. I started to cry and he asked if he could be of assistance. "I'm sorry, Sir, I used to live here." "Then you must be Limes." Huh?

Ex and I had left Las Vegas before the house sold. We'd never met the eventual buyers. This couple had now lived in my former home for more than 20 years, and one might call them houseproud because they clearly spent a lot of time taking care of their home. For many years they had received catalogs in the mail addressed to Limes Now and had seen my name in the concrete patio with the date 6-18-78. The wife made me a cup of tea and gave me an inspirational book and then these lovely people did the most amazing thing - remember, he'd just picked me up sobbing on the sidewalk and I hadn't presented ID.

They went out into the yard with their dog. I remained in "my" home to walk through the rooms alone. The block hearth and mantelpiece I'd painted every year because the soot and ashes made it messy. The carefully concealed bullet hole from Ex's gun going off unexpectedly. My name and Ex's on the patio. Numerous rose bushes in the yard that I'd planted with my own hands. In the master bedroom, ex once hung some wallpaper I'd fallen in love with. He'd done a credible job of it for a man who'd never hung wallpaper. There it was in 2003 . . and, yep - the ferns on that wallpaper were still upside down.

I've never gone back there. I don't need to. Ex divorced me. And I divorced him right back during my stroll through our past home.

It happens that I will have the rare 2 days off in a row this weekend. I need a major walk to continue training. I've plotted my route. From my present home past the house that Stepfather built to the apartment shared with Ex and the kittens (which is now a pretty rough area). One of those kittens was in my life 17 years and waited in the bassinette when I brought newborn Amber home from the hospital. Turn around and retrace my steps. I figure it to be 16.75 miles round trip. On the 4th of July through Las Vegas. From my present through my past and back again. Very fitting!

In my ears right now: The Star Spangled Banner, what else? And James Taylor's truly beautiful tune, "The Fourth of July".

Something that charmed me: Choosing my words very carefully, so as not to ruin young men for life, I was telling some of the home dudes about different challenges of extremely long walks in heat. One is perspiring everywhere so that shirt, shorts, socks and shoes are soaked by the time one gets home. I also mentioned that my skin is irritated from moisture. "Men's clear antiperspirant, Limes. Even in the weird spots." Well, yeah! Duh. I shall try it immediately.

Something else that charmed me: Writing the blog post and scheduling it to post while I am out on my 16+ mile walk. I'll return home and maybe have comments before I've even checked out the post. We live in wondrous times!

The Other Bicycle Misadventure

At 18, I was keeping body and soul together by living in at a foster home, helping with housework, cooking, shopping, laundry, yard work, the mountains of paperwork involved in fostering minors for Los Angeles County, and general mischief. It was a place with all kinds of dynamics for potential disaster and disgrace. The parents were a regular Joe Iowan displaced to southern California and his extremely unusual French Moroccan wife. They had two young adopted children, although they were in their early 50s. Gary was 5 and Arlette was 3. There was Limes, 18. And 8 adolescent males ranging from 15 to nearly 18. There were more intrigues, attractions, connections and fallings-out than one can imagine. And these "parents" were oblivious. They'd go off for long weekends or mini-vacations, leaving Limes in charge. Come on, it was 1971. What do you think went on when an 18-year-old was left as the "adult"? Ours was known as the party house.

None of the fostered young men owned a car. A couple owned bicycles. On a warm afternoon, I asked if I could use one of the bikes to take Arlette for a ride. She was an adorable child. If one were a doll designer, one would want the face to look like Arlette's. I'm ashamed today to say I thought it was OK to put a 3-year-old on the handlebars of a bicycle and pedal her up and down a blacktop alley. Helmets weren't yet heard of, at least by me. She giggled and we chatted and I took her up and down the alley for probably half an hour.

The German Shepherd showed himself after we'd been at it for awhile. I'm not a big fan of dogs, and particularly not big dogs. It began to lope along just behind us to the right and I didn't care much for that. I said nothing to Arlette, but I was a little concerned because he kept steady pace with us and seemed aggressive. He wasn't going away. At the point in the alley where I was the farthest away from home, two other huge dogs joined the Shepherd and started circling us. They took turns snapping at the back tire. I was having trouble landing on what I should do.

I pedaled hard toward home, thinking I'd holler out for some of the guys to help us. Drew near the House of Mirth where some dozen people lived . . . nobody in the yard! Kept pedaling fast and hard, back and forth, yelling at those miserable dogs as much as they were snarling at us. Arlette didn't seem to notice anything. The dogs were leaping into the air just at the back tire, snapping . . . . pack animals seem to get more excited as the chase progresses. Not that I'm a dog psychologist.

On my umpteenth zoom toward the house, there were suddenly a number of home dudes in the yard. I screamed out my plight and caused a little commotion. Young men scrambled everywhere, whooping like warriors, picking up rocks, a broom, a rake and a chair to shake or throw at the dogs. I hoped no one would hit Arlette or me. But one of the guys seemed to keep his head - this was Ex. I saw him gesture to one of the others, "come with me". They stepped out into the alley and I aimed toward them, slowing the bike. From their perspective we had to look pretty frightening - moving bicycle, frightened child, frightened chick and a maelstrom of mangy curs. Ex executed a pretty nifty yank of Arlette off the handlebars and swiftly handed her to the other young man.

Relief hit me pretty hard as I watched the home dude carry Arlette inside. My feet were on the ground steadying the bike, but my knees were knocking. I saw Ex turn back toward me after handing Arlette off. The noise from the dogs was deafening and I could smell them. The world kind of stopped for a moment and that's when that German Shepherd took a flying leap ~ the animal bit me sufficiently to remove a piece of my 501s and my glutes. Ex executed another pretty swift move, just as the pack of my protectors descended on the pack of dogs. He yanked off his T-shirt and wrapped it around the middle of me so my humiliation could not be seen by the others. He went with me to the emergency room and sat in the hallway while I was stitched up.

I married him 7 years later and had a child with him 19 years later. He was in my life 32 years - by far the longest of anyone I've ever known. Our divorce was ugly, but I have to give him this: he was a good man to have around in a pinch.

In my ears right now: Judy Collins ~ Who Knows Where the Time Goes. I owned that album when the dog bit me.

Something that charmed me today: the picture above that looks like a huge dog is about to devour a child . . . . is actually a beloved family pet trying to get to the bubbles the child is blowing.