Road Bumps Along the Journey...

It was December 29, 1970 when I first met my husband. I was a baby, a mere child. I was all of 18 years old, Miss 1300 on the S.A.T.'s going to nursing college, working in a hospital, living the successful life my parents had planned for me and feeling hopelessly trapped by the Establishment. I was a starry-eyed teenaged flower child looking for my way into the world; he was an 20 yr old disillusioned Vietnam Vet looking for the way out. We were a match made in heaven —and every mother's nightmare for her young daughter.

Me in 1971 with our Great Dane, Lakaya

Mike was barely 20, an AWOL sailor with PTSD and fresh off the ship from a year's duty in Vietnam. He'd hitchhiked from San Diego to our home town in Lancaster, CA to see his mom. He'd been denied Leave when he requested it and was told that he was confined to the ship. Mike said “like hell” grabbed his duffle bag and promptly left. He was rebellious and dangerous — two of the qualities I was looking for in a man.

We met at McDonalds (one of my hang outs) that fateful night. He was dressed like a Sears catalog hippie, trying too hard to be cool. I wasn't impressed. His hair was short. His clothes were too new. I only dated bonafide long-haired Freaks. But he stalked me for a couple days until I would go out with him. I must have let my guard down. I must have been looking for something I-didn't-know-what and I gave in. We spent every day together for a full two weeks before we he swept me off my feet. We fell crazy in love and during the third week, announced our engagement to my parents. You can imagine my mother's reaction. The blood drained from her face as she stood there speechless. My dad, detached and unemotional as ever, just shook his head, muttering "Well I don't think it's a good idea" and walked out of the room.  We deemed that response our patriarchal blessing and a mere week later, sans wedding ring, I left home for good. I gathered up my tie-dyed shirts and patched up jeans as well as my guitar, climbed into the back seat of Mike's brother's Plymouth, and shook the dust of Lancaster, California off my sandals.

Looking back I should have read the signs. I should have seen the clues that might have deterred me from my hapless quest to Paradiso Perdu but I was too enmeshed in the throes of new love—whatever that is. And the first sign should have been meeting my future In-laws.

Bernie and Tex in their back yard-1971

We had been seeing each other for a full week when Mike asked me to meet him one morning at his parent's house. I had a VW bug and was fully mobile. He had his two young feet and a good left thumb for hitchhiking. I was to be there at 10 am and he would introduce me to the people that birthed him. I was foolishly excited. DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! I should have had orange flashing warning lights going off in my brain...that should have deterred me. But no.

I showed up on the doorstep at 10am sharp and knocked. I knocked several times before a middle-aged, short, red haired bespectacled woman with a cigarette in her mouth answered the door. (None too cheerful I might add.) “Yeah?” she stood there at the door looking me up and down, obviously disapproving of my appearance. “Um....I'm here to see Mike”. “Heh!?” she said, in a deep Bostonian accent, cupping her hand behind her ear. “Mike?” I squeaked. “Well shit, I can't heah a word you say.” At that she turned her head and yelled to the inside of the dark house, “Tex! Come heah! There's some girl at the doah!” So a few seconds later here is Tex at the door, standing next to her staring at me with the same frown on his face as his wife. He had a shock of greased black hair high on the top of his head and a matching cigarette perched between his lips. His resemblance to a bantam rooster was remarkable. He got right to the point. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. At this point I was inching my way backwards, hand in my jeans pocket fingering my car keys. “Speak up!” the woman yelled. “Um...Mike told me to meet him here at 10 am?” I asked more than announced. Tex turned to Bernie (for the red haired woman was, indeed, Mike's mother Bernie) and shouted “Where the HELL is your son! This girl is here to see Mike. Where IS he?” Nonplussed, Bernie pulled the cigarette butt out of her mouth, flicked it to the gravel driveway in back of me and shouted back at him “How the hell do I know? He's not heah!” They both glared at me again. Tex began ranting and this time it was aimed at me. “If he said he'll be here at 10 then he SHOULD be here at 10! So where IS he?!”

The camel's back broke. I burst into tears right there on their doorstep. I was speechless. I was horrified. My mascara was running. I had no idea where Mike was and desperately needed rescuing. This was the catalyst to a brand new wave of nagging from Bernie. “Aww Tex now look what you did! You went and made her cry. What the hell is wrong with you! You made her cry!” Tex countered with a disgusted “Oh shut up woman!” and stormed off, back to his recliner to finish The Rifleman.

Bernie w/her first grandchild, Kevin in 1971

It was precisely at that moment that Mike drove up in his friend George's car. He got out of the car and walked up to the front door. Oblivious to my tears and degree of humiliation, as well as his mother's scowl, he enthusiastically embraced both of us in a communal hug, and said “Oh I'm so glad. You two have met!”

He then stepped into the house, whistling like a fat canary and I, like a fresh young lamb being coaxed into a Greek restaurant, carelessly and innocently followed right behind.

For a good time to come our road to happiness would be paved with shattered dreams and salty tears. But that is another story for another day. Suffice it to say that now, over 40 years later we all know that the story did, indeed, have a happy ending. And I am quick to add “by the Grace of God” with gusto and conviction here because that is the only reason. I toughened over the years. Learned to ignore Tex's rantings and Bernie's disapproving glares...and I am still married to that same impetuous Vietnam Vet who actually turned out to be a wonderful man, a great husband and a good apple —who thankfully fell a decent distance away from the family fruit tree.

Mugsy and Other Tails...

Grampy is going on 87 now and his life has become very small. He can no longer drive, so the few activities he has to do every day have taken much more importance in his life than they would yours or mine. His days are pretty much centered around copious cups of coffee, the Western channel, collecting coupons and doctor visits.

Susie looks like this...but fatter

The highlight of his day, however, is walking over to the double-wide next door to his trailer to visit Susie. Susie lives with Alice. Susie and Alice are best friends. Grampy visits Susie every day at 1:30 sharp. He takes her treats and hand feeds them to her, massages her neck and lets her sit on his lap. He told me he doesn't really care about visiting with Alice but he has to in order to see Susie. Susie is a fat, wheezing, Russell Terrier. Alice is a 85 year old grizzly haired widow. The three of them together in Alice's living room is Grampy's idea of the perfect ménage a trois.

“But Dad” I tease him, “Alice is available and has most of her teeth. Aren't you interested in women anymore?” “Aw hell” he spits at me “She's got one foot soaking in epsom salts and the other foot in the grave. I've BEEN married and I don't want to go through that again.”

But we all need companionship, even Grampy. For 16 years he had his little dog Mugsy. Mugsy was a rescue dog from the SPCA and Grampy swore the dog was a purebred Cock-a-poo. “With Papers?” I asked, just to be a brat. “Well of course not. Me and mama got her from the pound. They don't give you the Papers at the pound unless you pay more.” Purebred or not, Mugsy was his life and his raison d'etre. He might have been a handsome dog with proper grooming, but his grungy gray and white hair was more often than not shaved close to the skin, “to keep the hair out of his eyes and from being matted” he'd say. Then Grampy kept a ratty sweater on that dog—mostly all year round cause Grampy said Mugsy had no hair to keep him warm. He has always been practical that way.

Grampy and Mugsy 2005

Grampy and Mugsy were rarely more than 3 feet apart. The dog slept with him, watched TV with him, went with him everywhere and ate his meals out of Grampy's hand. Grampy would curse at that dog like the dickens. Mugsy was a little deaf—nevertheless, I think Mugsy considered Grampy's rantings his love language. And he swore the dog talked back to him. He'd cut up leftover meat after family dinners and put it down on my kitchen floor for Mugsy to eat. Mugsy was finicky and would sniff at it for awhile then more often than not, walk away. We would wait expectantly for what always came next. Grampy would get down on his hands and knees close to that dog and shout in his ear “Eat it or go to Hell!” Booyah! Take that, Mugsy you ungrateful flea bag! We would laugh ourselves silly—silently behind Grampy's back. He was always calling the dog a liar. Mugsy would patiently sit by the back door staring outside till Grampy would finally get up and let him out. Grampy would watch that dog pee on every tree and bush outside, nagging at him to “do potty” (which means number two, mind you, not number one) the whole time. When Mugsy would prance back into the house, without performing his “doody”, Grampy would be so disappointed and would cuss at him like a sailor “You're just a (blankety blank) liar! You wanted to go outside to do potty and you did nothing!” Personally I think Mugsy just liked going outside to chase birds and mark his territory. I told Grampy that once and he just shook his head then proceeded for the next ten minutes to describe in detail to me the state of Mugsy's constipated bowels. Clearly I know nothing about purebred Cock-a-poos.

Mike and I really worried that when Mugsy passed on to wherever it is good doggies go, Grampy would not be far behind. I think he loved that dog more than he loved breathing...or even Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty. But Mugsy passed about two years ago and although he does NOT want another dog, Grampy is still going strong. I'm thinking we can attribute some of that to Susie. And everyday when he cooks up his hot dogs, cuts them into tiny pieces, takes them next door to give the little dog her “treat” and nag her to do potty, I imagine he's getting his battery charged to go on living... just a little while longer.