CANADIAN BACON AND SHRIMP PIZZA, PLEASE

Admiring the purple, marshmallow jacket that had just arrived for Lizzy, Brook giggled that it reminded her of the jacket I may have worn when I snuck the pizza into the movie theatre. “Mom, didn’t you write that story?” Meaning, had I written about the now-famous incident? “I love that story,” emphasizing love.

          Middle of a Utah summer, some good people brought by badly needed clothes for Lizzy. She and Brook had recently returned to live with us from California. Winters in this part of Utah can get mighty cold; never mind how deceiving the summers can be. Brook was going through the bounty when out of nowhere she was reminded of an incident that took place years before her own birth and even longer from when our sweet Lizzy was even thought of. My…what nostalgia came over me…

          It was 1983. My family had recently moved to Lake Los Angeles, California from Mission Hills - which was part of the San Fernando Valley. Lake Los Angeles was situated about 27 miles from both Lancaster and Palmdale – way out in the middle of the desert. Developed mainly as a real estate ploy, the small “lake” was in actuality a pond named “Lake Los Angeles” and a means to get people away from the city.  It was surrounded by buttes - mountains that looked like islands in the middle of the sand. There was very little to do, except to hike the buttes or get your car stuck out in the desert. Forgive me for the errors of my youth but I am guilty as ever of this.

I wanted to show my brothers a good time, prove to them their sister was “cool,” not some innocent, air-head.  So we tried to climb a butte with my white, two-door, ’66 Chevy Impala. I mean, others were trying it with their vehicles, why couldn’t I? We also drove out in the sandy soil, off the beaten, paved road, just to see if we could do it. Remember, this is well before cell phones and intelligence as we now know it. It was near dark and the nearest house was in the distance. Leaving my young siblings in the car (they were 17, 14, and 9) I hiked to the house to ask the man to call my family. Bill Arndt, a family friend rescued us. If memory serves me correctly, this was not the last time this happened. As I write this, I feel a strong urge to send a text to my step-mother, apologizing AGAIN for my errant youthfulness. Still, I can forgive my own kids a lot easier because of adventures such as these.

          For a good time, we had to “go to town,” meaning Lancaster or Palmdale. Lancaster had a mall with a cinema. A Christmas Story, starring Peter Billingsley was showing. My friends from Mission Hills came up to hang out one exceptionally fine, December Saturday. Billy, my off and on again boyfriend, was wearing his Los Angeles King’s jacket. The Kings were the hockey team that we all idolized. The jacket was large, even on him, and he was tall – or so I thought. So imagine how it would look on petite, little me.

          We went for pizza at a joint across from the theatre with the intention that we would sneak it in. Deciding to be creative we chose two large pizzas: Canadian bacon with shrimp and I believe pepperoni. It was unusual but I wanted to be different. We also ordered drinks that conveniently fit into my purse. But what about the pizzas? How do you sneak two large pizzas into a movie theatre and especially a crowded theatre without provoking some sort of suspicion? Easy! I would wear Billy’s jacket and pretend to be pregnant. He would cradle my arm into his as if he was trying to be extra tender, considering how far along I looked.

          Cautiously going through the “check point” where they take your tickets, I clearly and distinctly remember the looks the employees gave us. Mark Dow, one of our friends, had such a childlike gaze about him. Billy was as tender as he could have been, gently telling me to be careful. The smell of shrimp eluded from the place a child was supposedly attached under the watchful eyes of the ticket masters and yet…not a word was said.

          Once inside we sat near the back. The theatre was dark. Commercials and trailers blazed across the screen. Patrons munched on their popcorn and candy while we insidiously passed around the forbidden cache of food. Umph…oh so delicious! Who would have ever guessed such a delectable savor could come from this unique choice of toppings!

          Tinged with minute regret at leaving the empty boxes for the staff to clean up and discover our indiscretions, we left. Never have I been able to see this movie without the reminder of a simple fete of Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza being snuck into see it. It represents not only the ingenuousness of youth, but too, the simple pleasures of life that only come from trying something new.

          Nearly 30 years later during a particularly sticky summer the smell of that period prevailed like a warm blanket on a cold, winter morning beckoning me to come home to a time that no longer exists except in the crevices of my memory. I am ever so young and naïve again, wishing for them to walk through the door as if they had simply gone to the market for a soda.

          I called local pizza place to order a small Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza. “Sorry, we don’t carry shrimp on the premises” was the reply. Hmmm…so off to the store to get some just to see if the taste buds could still handle it.

Kelli McDonald, July 28, 2012, Lehi, Utah

The Picture

Years ago I wanted to write a book about the women of Kern County dating from the 1910’s through the early 1950’s. That era and the area seemed to encompass the fortitude of strength. These were women of diverse cultures such as the Mennonites, Blacks, Hispanics, Whites, Catholics, Mormons’ Baptists, Japanese decent and so on. They lived through World War I, the building of new settlements, The Great Depression, The Exodus of migrant workers, World War II, and the Korean War.

 My grandmother was LDS. She came from strong LDS pioneer stock. Her people came west from Nauvoo, Illinois to Utah in the 1850’s. Brigham Young sent her family south to the dry, arid land of Southeast Arizona to cultivate a settlement. Grams was active in the Church her entire life. My dad says his mom attended several different churches just so she could attend Sunday meetings.

 Grams married my grandfather in 1913. His family was also LDS and came from Indiana. Tradition holds that he broke every promise he ever made to her. I don’t remember how they ended up in Kern County. They had a family of fourteen kids – two of whom died in infancy – and most likely transverse to the area looking for work.  

 When I moved back to Utah in December 2002, I was looking for places to research the Bakersfield area from the confines of Utah. Some suggested the Archives of the LDS Church in Salt Lake.  So, I did. What I did not anticipate was the plethora of information on my own family. I began looking through the attendance rolls of the various auxiliary meetings. Of special interest was the Relief Society Meetings.  They included notes of who was sick, who died, who was moving, as well as the progress on the new Relief Society Room. In these notes I found many members of my family mentioned – those who I would never have suspected of ever stepping foot inside a church, let alone the LDS Church!

It was the summer of 2003. I was out of work and earnestly searching. Perusing the notes on a daily basis left me with a sense of wonder at what these fine people looked liked. As if in answer to my prayer I came across an entry telling about the photo that was to be taken for the Relief Society Magazine. I quickly ran downstairs to the library that held all of the magazines from the past. Upon finding their picture I got the distinct impression they were saying, “Here we are!”  I copied the picture along with the names of those long-ago-women who now seemed like old friends, including my grandmother, Zella Dodge McDonald.

 Fast forward to July 2011. Climbing to the top of the stairs in the Mount Timpanogos Temple in American Fork, Utah, there stood a woman by the last name of Gabbitas. Gabbitas was the name of a family frequently mention in the notes I had been transcribing the summer of 2003. I asked her the whereabouts of her family. She said her husband’s family was from the Bakersfield area. I told her about the picture saying I was sure her mother-in-law was in it. Sadly, she was not but her name was one that was mentioned. As promised, I delivered a copy of the picture for her at the temple.

 In August, Cheryl Gabbitas was visiting with old friends, Roger and Jackie Campbell. She mentioned my name. Roger wondered if I could be the same one whose father he had hung around when they were teenagers in the early 1950’s. He called and left a message. Yes, I was! The last time I had seen Roger and Jackie was when my second child was just a baby. He had brought out a chair my dad had made for her. My daughter now had a child of her own.

Roger and my dad had been close friends. Roger dated Dad’s younger sister, Joyce. Cheryl and her husband were good friends with Dad’s older brother, Dean, and his wife, Anna. Both Joyce and Dean have long since crossed over to the other side.

In October 2011 we were all able to get together in American Fork, Utah for dinner. It amazes me at how I was looking for material to write a book about one particular topic and stumbled into an unexpected surprise – the picture and the stories connected to it. I wasn’t trying to find information on my family but I did – much more, some of which ended in completing further temple work along with developing a better understanding of my own family.

I have found that researching family history is more than collecting data for temple work. It’s looking past to the past and seeing who these people were with all the smells, sounds, and feels of the time. “And like the warm breezes blowing through the fields, they are felt too. Remember? They were here just yesterday.”

~Kelli L. McDonald, January 3, 2012

                                                                                                                                                   

It's a Mom Thing

We all do it, that is, if we are of the female persuasion and have claim to at least one child. Although, I am sure that a number of aunts and good female friends who are associated with children can make the same claim. Grandma’s can call it by another name but they still fit in the same category as the rest of us. I’m as guilty as the next person. I used to make excuses but not anymore! I finally learned to identify it by the correct terminology. It’s called “a mom thing.” Wow! I feel so much better knowing there is a name associated with this behavior. Nothing here to be ashamed of despite what our kids will say, especially when they roll their eyes at you. I particularly love the exasperated tone that is provided when they think they are not getting through to us. Such joy and pleasure that it does my heart good knowing that child, too, is being normal for his or her development. Share with me the delight in discovering the clarity of how this conduct is characterized. Feel free to contribute your knowledge of this experience.   

                You act like Helicopter Parent with your first child. By the second, third, fourth, you are too tired and are ready for them to live and learn. My sister-in-law, Natalie, reports that with her first child, she could not do enough, especially with the baby books. She has 3 girls now and hasn’t even begun to start on the 3^rd child’s book.

          You tear up when your mom takes your first child for the weekend. By the time the others come around, you can’t wait to get them out the door!

            You know it’s a mom thing when, instead of fixing your own nutritional breakfast, you find it easier just to eat what the kids left on their plates.

            You get emotional every time the National Anthem is played. After my son joined the military, I was never the same during this song. I have substitute taught in the public schools where many have family members serving. Many times the kids have been disrespectful during the Pledge of Allegiance or the National Anthem. I do not mince words when it comes to this!

          You are emotional when your soldier son or daughter describes the conditions faced while in the military. One night while my son was describing the condition, I slightly turned my head to grimace. He told me not to get emotional because that is just the way it is. I replied that it was “a mom thing.”

          You offer to put ointment on your daughter’s back after your daughter comes home with a tattoo emblazoned upon her back. You think to yourself back when she was an innocent baby. Her skin - soft and supple – now scarred by permanent ink as well as the healing that will come.

          You wait up till…for your child to come home from being out with friends or at work just to make sure they are safe and so that you can sleep better.

          You give “the father’s talk” to your daughter’s date, reminding the young man that this is your baby girl – your most treasured item. You remind the young man that you expect her to be brought home as she left or he will be held responsible! I did this so many times that her male friends were afraid of me.

          You take a million pictures of your child’s first date.

          You call to check on them while they are still on that date. Thank heavens for cell phones!

          You stay up till…to listen to them lament over a heart wrenching relationship.

          You call their place of employment because they are late getting off. This is while they are now an adult and living at home. (I’ve learned to wait.)

          You offer to take their friend home from work at 11pm so that he does not have to walk the 10 miles. This really happened to one of my kid’s friends. They worked together and he was expected to walk home because his mother did not have the money for gas. We were limited too, but all I could think about was this kid having to walk that distance in the dark no less! We took him home without question.

          You struggle with the decision to let your child fall when they’ve made poor choices, knowing full well it will hurt you just as much – if not more – to allow that child to suffer the consequences.

          You struggle to avoid making contact with a child who does not want your contact or help.

          Saying over and over and over, “We are breaking. We are breaking” as you put your foot to the floor with emphasis. OH MY! Teaching children to drive and in the snow even!!!

          Avoiding the urge to “rescue” your adult child from the bullies at work. My son constantly reminded me of his adult status and that he can handle the situation. One day I will learn not to react.

          You write letters to your child’s employer reminding them of the ethic’s and health department’s codes. Several times I wrote to remind the managers who were attacking my child of the codes they, as supervisors, were violating.

          A baby cries and your milk comes in.

          A child in a public place cries, “MOM!” and you look. Never mind that your child is now an adult living somewhere else.

          You forget how to talk as you watch with teary eyes the birth of your first grandchild. I was counting and making direct eye contact for my daughter while she was in the process of giving birth. Suddenly, the baby’s head appeared and my voice left me for a moment. My daughter cried, “Mom, don’t stop counting.” I couldn’t help myself for a few moments.

          You innocently post embarrassing pictures of your children on the social network without first consulting with them. OOOPPPS!

            You offer to clean your child’s room knowing full well that as soon as you step foot over the threshold, that child will abruptly and without warning, rise to the occasion. This method works particularly well with one of my children who shall remain nameless. Speaking of which, I need something to do!

          You allow your child to keep a pet because you feel sorry for it. Never mind you not only do not have the space for said pet but you have no idea on how to care for it. I allowed my daughter to keep a rabbit inside even though we had limited space as well as several other well-cared for pets. What a learning experience!

            You eat your child’s food so it does not go to waste.

          You eat horrible-tasting baby food in an effort to get your child to eat it! Yuk!

            You run to the store to get a large bag or two of candy for your daughter’s class. Brook called me from school, saying she needed enough candy for about 30 kids. My day was already busy enough but I did not want her to be left out.

          You give in to your child’s pleas to be able to go somewhere or listen to the c.d. player.  I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.

            In order to give your child the experience, you allow her to cut your hair. When Brook was 13 years old, I let her cut my hair short. I’m not sure how ridiculous it looked, but given the interesting looks at work, I’m sure it was creative. I didn’t care. Brook was aspiring to be a beautician at the time. I was a safe project to practice on.

          In order to give your children the experience, you give them an old car for their birthday as practice. Seth was only 9 years old and Johnny was only 12 years old when I gave them my broken-down car that no longer worked. The air was removed from the tires so the vehicle would not fall on them. They went to work tearing it apart. A few “well-meaning” individuals gave their unsolicited opinions. Notice “well-meaning” in quotation marks? John is entering his 3^rd year as an automotive major at a local university.

            You remind your adolescents to wear clean underwear in the daily note.

          You rave about how wonderful the meal is that your kids just completed –even though your own stomach is churning.

            You buy a book because your child shows an interest in the movie. Then he loses interest once you buy the book. John was intrigued by “Island of the Blue Dolphins.” He said he wanted to read the book when he was 11 years old. I bought the book and he was no longer interested! My mom did the same thing when the kids sparked an interest in “The Hardy Boys & Nancy Drew” series.

          You find humor in a temper tantrum. (No explanation needed!)

            You go to extra ordinary efforts on behalf of your children to ensure they pass a class.

          Attend several award dinners with your child – even though she didn’t win anything – just so they could be there with a parent. Brook was part of several extra-curricular activities. She never won an award, but she was the winner’s biggest supporters – next to their own families. It was important that I attend for her.

            Being your child’s best and favorite supporter, especially when they are feeling especially hard on themselves.

          Burning everyone’s ears with how difficult your child’s situation is and how you wished you knew how to help them and feeling guilty for “abusing” the listening ears with your lamenting. This is for you-know-who and I love you.

Kelli McDonald 6/21/2012

Jelly Beans

As a child, my dad always seemed to bring home jellied orange slices, candy “peanuts” and jelly beans, especially on Sundays. It was part of the ensemble of food that we ate while watching Westerns on television every Sunday.

            Our family ritual did not usually entail going to church, but it did involve watching Westerns: Gunsmoke, Big Valley, and The Rifleman. Bonanza, The Virginian, and Daniel Boone. Willd, Wild West, and High Chaparral just to name a few. Feasts of homemade guacamole, onion, and bean dip were served with chips, jalapeño peppers, candy, and no matter what – soda! As my grown children read this, they are undoubtedly calling me a hypocrite. I have studied and preached the negative effects of excessive television, candy, and soda. I only drink a soda about once a month – if that. However, we have spent quality time watching movies together. We own quite a library, along with several complete series.

            I think Dad thought that we, too, savored those types of candy. I only pretended in order to protect his feelings. As an adult, of the three choices of candy, I only prefer candy “peanuts” and they need to be stale. As a child, I felt it was my responsibility to protect Dad’s feelings. This came from Christmas 1970 in Longmont, Colorado. He bought me a doll that did not come with extra clothes. We did not have a lot of money. Dad gave me this doll the night before Christmas Eve.

            When Dad arrived with the doll, I was singing the song, I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day in my little upstairs room at 720 Hover Road. The picture depicted in the songbook intrigued me for some unknown reason. To this day I cannot hear that song without thinking of that moment when I hurt my dad’s feelings for just being nice. The song brings a sense of bitter sweetness to the melody.

            My dad had a saying that he would use whenever he was trying to get a point across. He usually said this when he was in a good mood. When I would hear him say, “Ya know what I mean, Jelly Bean,” I knew that things were ok.

            When I grew up I served a mission for the LDS Church in South Carolina. There was a company that produced gourmet jelly beans. The jelly beans came in every imaginable variety and colors to match. The flavors included green jalapeño peppers. The green candy was the same color as green apple. One could easily be confused. I often sent people green jelly beans that included both flavors as gifts of affection. When they bit into the jalapeno, their mouth had the tingly sensation of spicey, hot peppers. Their face had the look of shock, disbelief, and revenge! I do not know what kind of face my dad gave since he was in Southern California and I in South Carolina. I was asked a couple of times to stop. I stopped in February 1987 when I went back home. I do not think in all of this time that I have given him jelly beans since. When Father’s Day of 2008 arrived, I wanted to give him something with a memory attached. Hmmm…Ya know what I mean, Jelly Bean?

Kelli McDonald, 6/08/2008, revised 6/03/2012

Doing the Dishes

Brothers and sisters have this insidious ability to bring out the absolute worst in each other. As adults, we look back and either cringe with embarrassment or bust our pants laughing at our innocents. Other times we sit back and cry.

          Around the time my second child, Brooki was due, I got this urge to have all of our old film developed. This included the old black and white pictures that belonged to my dad. It was an expensive undertaking for our meager budget. The purpose of the project was to label every one of these precious images and get photo albums made up. It was fun to see what the memory had forgotten as each time I would get a new envelope back from the foto-mat. They exposed years and lifetimes of the everyday events long forgotten. It was on one of these happen-chance, sort of days that I came across the picture.

          I was 16 or 17 years old and waiting for just the pristine opportunity to get my brother, Todd, into trouble for climbing on other people’s roof tops. Todd was two years younger than I was. He loved to do the un-natural, like climb on as many neighbor’s roof tops as he could get away with. He liked to pretend that he was a spy. Spies are smooth and sneaky. So his “job” was to climb on top of the roofs – usually lay flat and spy. This was easy in our neighborhood since all of the yards had lush, green vegetation year-round. Most people were proud of their yards.

          But then there were the times that he pretended to shoot at all the passerby’s or pretend that he was fishing. He would outright stand up, flaunting his so-called “right” to be on someone else’s housetop. And since my parents were at work, what could be done? There wasn’t any proof – yet!

          At just the right moment, through my bedroom window; with no one else around and using the Kodak Series 126 camera, I snapped that picture! Proof that Todd McDonald was indeed climbing on the neighbor’s roof – in print!

          That was in 1980, in a suburban town of Los Angeles called Mission Hills, on a street appropriately named, Noble Avenue. The picture was not developed until August of 1989, five and half years after Toddy died. My intent in taking the picture was to get my brother into trouble. Instead, I ended up creating a window into the everyday play life of brothers, sisters, and kids in general. It created a window into other well-preserved memories at a time when I longed for my childhood siblings and friends. It helped me to see similarities between my brothers, myself, and my children as well. For instance, my younger brother, Blake, is mechanically inclined – always has been. In 1973 and 1974 we were living in Provo, Utah while my step-father, Gary, finished his education at Brigham Young University. Blake was four years old, blonde, and chubby with a quick sense of humor, much to my annoyance. If he didn’t get what he wanted, he found a way.

          One evening while I was doing the dishes, I remember suddenly hearing my very startled mom saying,

          “Hello, hello, I think Blake cut the cord.”      

          “Did you cut the cord?”

Blake had indeed. For four hours he tried getting his mother’s attention while she spoke to her friend on the telephone. Well, he had her attention alright – he simply took a pair of scissors and cut the cord!

          A year later, Blake again showed us his childlike mechanical ability when he naively walked past my dad and step-mother one fine, fall morning. It was the usual routine for us to give them a hug and kiss good-bye as we left for Canoga Park Elementary School. Nothing more was said. A couple of hours later, someone from the school called to inform my parents that although their son was alright, two kindergarten buildings were not. Why, you may ask? Apparently, the teachers were playing a record that Blake did not approve of. To solve the “noise-problem” he simply took out his dad’s handy-dandy wire cutters –the ones that fit so snuggly in his pants pocket. When no one was looking, he cut that electrical cord in two. Problem solved!

          I relate these two stories because we pass these traits directly as well as indirectly onto our children. My youngest son, Seth, was exactly like Blake at one time in both looks and personality. The two could easily pass for father and son in the early days. Seth, like Blake, had short blonde hair. Both have had at one time or another heads that protrude forward like the side of a football. Consequently, both used to hold their tempers similar to the wet end of an electrical wire.

          About twenty years after Blake’s incidences, in a cute little desert town called Apple Valley, California, Seth inherited Blake’s genetics. Seth decided to cut the cord to the computer mouse. When I asked why, he angelically answered that it was ok since we had another one in the desk drawer. “See?” as he opens the desk drawer to show me. He, too, was four years old.

          It was while we are doing the dishes together as a family that I saw the true resemblance and again longed for strands of my childhood. My youngest brother, Shannon, wrote me a letter in 1994. He was away at sea, serving in the Marines. He wrote of how when we were kids he “couldn’t wait to do the dishes.” I didn’t understand the reason since we all hated it.

          Picture this: Blake and I are scurrying about, trying to get things done. We are arguing over who should do what. Little Shannon is helping at whatever he can. And then there’s Todd. Just standing in the background, usually near the stove, with a dish in one hand and a towel draped over the other. On his face is a stare that says, “What do I do now?” And although he was far from stupid, he knew how to convince anyone that he wasn’t too bright. Occasionally, Todd actually did dry and put away the dishes. YET – anytime, even a drop of water, yes, a drop of water landed on his fresh pajamas, was excuse enough to send him flying to his room for a new pair. Or, he had the sudden urge to go the bathroom.

          Later, it was my daughter, Brooki, who would argue with me over whether she should wash or dry. Sometimes I would let her win at getting to wash the dishes – her favorite. And like myself and Blake, Brooki and Seth would argue over who would do what and when. Of course, there was my oldest, John, who, like his Uncle Todd, hated to do the dishes and tried his sneaky best to worm his way out.

          Finally, as if by déjà vu, I noticed Seth on top of our roof top in Phelan, California, facing the same direction as Todd did so long ago. I couldn’t resist. I snapped the picture of my 11 year old son standing there, rope hanging from him with who-knows-what-else. The picture hangs in a decorated from in my living room as a reminder.  Kelli McDonald 6/11/2012

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words

There is an old saying, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” which is so true. Hanging on the fridge were a couple of pictures of my oldest son, John, and my daughter, Brooki. They are sitting with me at the doorsteps of the William S. Hart Home in Valencia, California. It is the first week of September 2001. My youngest child, Seth was spending the weekend with his father. The picture is of us sitting at the doorstep with a part of the balcony showing. It is significant for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it had been about twenty years since I was last at this very spot. I was a teen-ager then. Now, in this photo, I am there with my own teen-agers explaining the importance - a part of their mom’s history.

          When I was a kid, some of my friends could drive long before I could (about two years before me). One of their favorite places to roam was the William S. hart Park. I think it is now called something more sophisticated. But to us, and still to me, it will always be “Hart Park.” It was once the home of the cowboy actor whom the property is named for. When he died, he willed it to the County of Los Angeles, allowing the public free access.

          There was a petting zoo, acres of land to wander on, a souvenir shop, and several buildings to walk through. One could easily explore a time that no longer existed. It was a wonderful place to be a kid because of the freedom to be unrestricted. The acres were filled with trees, grass, hills, trails, and more. In order to view the main house, patrons had to wait outside the door for a tour guide to escort them through. The wait was thirty minutes or less. To us kids, 15 minutes was considered too long. To pass the time we drank our cokes while Johnny Hayes, Mark Dow, or Billy and Scott Schumacher would hang from the balcony. They chased each other through the bushes. Climbing onto the railings and sliding the very short distance was also not uncommon.

          As I look at these two pictures, I can see those long ago kids still in motion. It would also not surprise me if they had actually climbed onto the balcony and crept along under the windows. I still see them scooting through the bushes surrounding the house, something I would never allow my own kids to do. And as we traipsed over the very trails we, as kids took so long ago, I was a teen-ager again skipping in the very same way that I did back then.

          As I mentioned before, the same holds true here. Our bodies are constantly changing. Our minds mature with experience. But we still feel the same feelings as when we were children. When a familiar scent is in the air, we are transferred back to where we were when first we smelled the experience. I believe that life is for growing and progressing to new heights, but I also believe that we need not forget the way we felt or the scents that define who we are today.

          In my memory, the corner of Tuba and Noble was a fantasy world all in its own. It was always green, even the fall had a lot of green to it. It was a place where kids were free just to be. There is the picture of the neighborhood boys playing football in the street. Billy is wearing the jersey for the Los Angeles Rams. He is getting ready to kick the ball. Mark Dow is waiting for his turn behind Billy. David Van Dam is just waiting. The weather is mild-looking, somewhat green - a snap-shot into the everyday life of some ordinary kids doing ordinary things.  

Kelli L. McDonald 6/8/2012