Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon - Part III - The Neighborhood Park and the Great Rebellion

My playground at Colonel Summers park- still standing for the next generation

Hands down, the absolutely best thing about my childhood was Colonel Summers park, located a couple of blocks from my foster home. I woke early every summer morning and headed to the park by myself while the rest of the foster home still slept. As a 6 yr. old, I had staked a full-ownership claim of 'My Park.' No one was there more than me. I loved the playground and most especially, the wading pool that was open all summer long for free. To swim in the indoor pool located in the basement of my elementary school cost a dollar. To swim in the wading pool required nothing, not even a swim suit. (The wading pool was closed in the early 2000s due to concerns about health hazards. I'm surprised it took so long.)

One morning. long before anyone else showed up, I was swinging on the swings in the picture above. Oh, how I loved the silence of the empty playground! Just me, the squeaking of the chains and my legs pumping as hard as they could go. As I was enjoying my early sunrise work out, I spied out of the corner of my eye a man standing in the nearby archway where the bathrooms were located. His pants were down at his ankles and he was watching me while holding himself. I didn't know exactly what he was doing, but I knew enough the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I immediately dug my feet into the dirt and stopped the swing. I could hear the man calling out to me as I ran away as fast as my worn out tennis shoes could take me.

Hours later, after pondering the situation in my head, I decided to tell my foster mother Dorothy about the man at the park. I wasn't worried about the man hurting me, I had full confidence in my ability to outrun anyone who tried to mess with me. I was just curious about what he was doing. I  wanted to talk to someone and she seemed as likely as anyone to be knowledgeable on the subject. I hadn't intended to get him into trouble, I just wanted to know.

As I told the story about the man at the park to Dorothy, I could see the color drain out of her face and her hands stopped kneading the dough on the kitchen counter in front of her. She listened while I explained that I wasn't doing nothing, that he just appeared out of nowhere and was watching me from the archway of the nearby shelter. After I finished, Dorothy announced no one in the house was allowed to go outside by themselves anymore. All of us children had to have a buddy with us at all times if we left the house. She didn't explain anything about the man, she just BOOM!, enacted a travel ban for everyone.

I was furious with her. Didn't I just say that I wasn't doing anything but swinging, the way I did every morning? I didn't do anything wrong, so why was I being punished? More than any other child in the foster home, I relied on my freedom to roam the neighborhood to keep me sane. Her clipping my wings was not at all what I was looking for. Once again I was reminded how stupid I was for trusting an adult. No good ever came from telling a secret to a grown-up.

After being blocked several times at the front door by Dorothy because I refused to find another child at the foster home to drag around with me while I made my neighborhood rounds, I decided I had had enough. It was time to show her that I wasn't going to put up with her silly rules that kept me chained to the house.

It was time to pull out the big guns of rebellion. I was going to run away. Of course I couldn't do that by myself. I would never leave my brother behind. If I was going, he was too. Ezra didn't seem to mind when I whispered we were leaving. He was 8 years old, two years older than me, but we both knew I was the boss. I stole food from the kitchen and packed my school backpack with my meager personal treasures. Foster kids don't own bedrooms full of stuff. Their lives fit into a suitcase, if they are lucky enough to have a suitcase. Ezra had his bag of treasures, and we invited Barney, another foster kid who was often my co-conspirator in adventure, to come with us. He happily joined us with his own backpack.

Barney was a good choice as a travel companion. He was my age and the toughest boy on the block. He ate live ants off the sidewalk with gusto and could climb trees with the best of them. We all affectionately called him "Barney Google, with the  goo-goo-googly-eyes" because both of his eyes were lazy and tended to roam disjointedly in their sockets.

We set off in the afternoon with me in the lead. I was determined to never go back. Living in the foster home was one thing, but being shackled by an unfair dictatorship was a whole 'nuther thing.  1973 was an excellent year to run away. No one questioned three little kids with backpacks walking on their own. Back then it wasn't illegal to be on an adventure. Things went well until dusk, when my brother started complaining his feet hurt, he was tired and he wanted to watch tv. I tried to keep Ezra happy, but when Barney chimed in he was tired too, I realized things weren't going in my favor. I looked for a porch for us to sleep on. My plan was to sleep on covered porches and to keep moving. To where, I had no idea.

Ezra refused to sleep anywhere but a bed. He wanted his tv, and he wanted it now. After his third temper-tantrum, I gave up. It was well after dark when we straggled our way back to our street. I knew I was in trouble when I saw the flashing police car lights blocking the street in front of the foster home. Crowds of people from the neighborhood surrounded Dorothy, who was red-eyed and tear-streaked. When she saw us, she grabbed Barney and Ezra and pulled them into her bosom. "Where were you? What were you thinking, running away like that?"  The questions came fast and furious from Dorothy and then the police. Both Barney and Ezra pinned the blame squarely where it belonged, on me.

I was proudly defiant. I told the police I ran away because Dorothy wouldn't let me play outside by myself. After I answered their questions, all three of us were sent straight to bed since it was very late. In the morning I prepared myself for the spanking of my life. I knew it had to be coming, but I didn't care. It was a matter of principle. Amazingly, other than being grounded for an indeterminate time, no other punishment came. By the time I was ungrounded, the rule about having a buddy outside was long forgotten and I was free to once again roam the streets of Portland, Oregon at my will.

It was so worth it.

Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon - Part II - Home is Wherever You Are Sleeping

Our Foster Home - Portlland, Oregon

 The blue house on the corner is where my brother Ezra and I lived until he was 9 and I was 7 yrs. old. It was our foster home, along with a pack of other kids who had no place to go. Ezra and I stayed here Monday-Friday.

The thing I want you to notice is the single car garage on the left side of the blue foster house. The garage door is painted brick red now but when I was a kid, it was white. How do I know that? Look at the cover of my memoir in the side bar on the right hand side of this page. That is a picture of Ezra and I standing in front of that garage door in 1973, getting our photo taken to show prospective adoptive families. I learned to ride a tricycle, bicycle and roller skate on that driveway. I had a lot (way too much) of freedom at the foster home and have fond memories of climbing the trees in this photo, along with all the other trees in the neighborhood.
It was a good block to be a kid on. The house? Not so much.

 

Ralph and Claudia's  Home - Portland, Oregon

This is a photo of our biological parent's home. My bedroom window was directly above the front door on the second floor. This is where Ezra and I lived on the on the weekends.  We lived at the foster home during the week and with Ralph and Claudia on the weekends. I much preferred the quiet of our biological parents home. I didn't have to share a bedroom or worry about getting my fair share of food at their house. We weren't physically or sexually abused here, either. I wish I could say the same for the foster home, but that wouldn't be true.

Both our parent's home and our foster home were in Portland, Oregon. I didn't realize until I was working on this post, exactly where each house was. After all, I was only 7 years old when Ezra and I were abruptly moved from the foster home to our new adopted family, never to see either home again until I was an adult.

They are 5 miles apart. 5 miles on a major road in town, driving from the northeast side of Portland to the southeast side. I have memories of sitting in the backseat, watching the buildings go by as we traveled back and forth between our homes. I had no idea they were only 5 miles apart. Ralph and Claudia stayed in their home for 13 years after we disappeared from their lives, waiting for Jehovah to work a miracle for us to return back home. It breaks my heart to think of their pain, knowing we were only 5 miles away and then we were gone forever.

Thank goodness the universe was kind and years later,  Ralph and Claudia's prayers were answered. They deserved to have those miserable 5 miles that separated them from their children erased for good.

Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon Part I

Thank you for joining me on my tour of my childhood haunts in Portland, Oregon. Today we are going to look at my elementary school, Buckman School.

Buckman was an old school when I attended it. It was so old, it was built before paved roads were a real thing in Portland. Here's the proof:

I wanted you to see this photo for a more important reason than to know it was built in 1920. I wanted a picture of the long side of the school. In the basement, the lowest level in the photo, my school had an indoor swimming pool. I was lucky enough to go swimming there all summer long for a dollar a visit, except for the 3 weeks I was kicked out for horsing around in the water (unjustly, I am still mad about that.) According to the internet, the pool is still there and open to the public. Lucky public.

The other reason you needed to see this side view of my school is that I learned my first funny swear word rhyme at this school and I haven't forgotten that either. 

*****DISCLAIMER----If you are sensitive to words,  you should skip down to the end. ****

One morning while I was walking up the hill to school, I saw spray-painted on the side of the building at pool level an unfamiliar word. I was in 2nd grade and making good progress with my reading, so I was feeling proud that I could decipher the word. 

There, in large block letters, was the scrawled word F-#-@-K-M-A-N.

Huh. My 7 yr. old mind immediately went "Whoa! Buckman, F#@kman, Buckman, F#@kman, - Hey! That rhymes! Ha! Ha! Ha! That's so funny!" When I got to class I told my teacher I made up a new rhyme. I proudly repeated the graffiti word along with Buckman. 

I didn't get into trouble, Mrs. White just growled it wasn't funny and not to use filthy language again or I would find myself in the principals office. I slunk away, not sure exactly why it wasn't funny to her. In the foster home I lived in, swear words flew on a regular basis so it didn't seem shocking to me. I didn't know what the F word meant, but I had heard it more than a few times and didn't think it was anything other than funny because it rhymed with Buckman. That rhyme is why I haven't forgotten the name of my first school. Thank you, mnemonic devices.  

The other interesting thing about my second grade class was that I had a black teacher named Mrs. White and a white neighbor down the street named Mrs. Black. I told my foster mother that it was funny that I knew mixed-up people and that I should introduce them to each other so they could swap names, but Dorthy said it was ridiculous to think such a thing. I thought it made perfect sense. 

Lastly, Dianne, the girl in the upper far left corner, was the first classmate ever to invite me to play at her house. She lived in a lovely house with real carpet and a mother who was suspicious of me from the first instant she saw me. I didn't know what I had done to earn her disapproval*, but her dislike was obvious. Everything went great until Dianne's mother asked us to walk to the nearby store and buy a newspaper. On the way home I offered to carry the paper. Dianne was reluctant to hand it over since her mother told her to be in charge of the money and newspaper the whole time. After a few minutes of begging, Dianne gave it to me. While crossing the street I dropped the paper and the brisk Oregon wind grabbed it and flung the pages all over the pavement. We desperately ran to and fro, trying to gather the flying paper, but we couldn't get them all. 

Dianne was crying as we walked back to her house, saying her mother would be furious and she would get a spanking. I said, "Don't worry, I'll explain it was my fault, not yours. You won't get into trouble."  

Yeah....Dianne's mother took one look at the pile of disheveled papers in our arms and told me to go home. I didn't even get to start apologizing before I was out the front door, sent on my way. Not only did Dianne never invite me to her house again, including her birthday party, she didn't play with me during recess either. Our budding friendship was over. 

* Now that I think about it, Dianne's mother probably knew I was a foster kid and heard the stories of my defending my brother on the playground against bullies. I am positive she knew about my infamous Pocket Knife incident. Everyone in school knew about that. It's a good thing I was a student during the 1970's when it wasn't illegal to be a stupid kid. 

Here's what Buckman looks like now. Isn't it sweet? 

Next week: We Explore My 'Hood - Let's Tour My Portland, Oregon Part II

Sharing the Love

Don't you just love it when someone loves your book? I do.

ByMcWood Publishing LLC "McWood Publishing"on December 1, 2014

Format: Paperback

Reviewed by Kelsey Britt
11/24/2014
4:32pm

I was not really sure what to think about this book before I started it, but it sounded pretty interesting. I am a sucker for true stories – and so I dove in head first. By the time you get to the end of this book, your heart has been pulled in a million different directions, and I found myself feeling more like a trusted confidant than an anonymous reader. Heather Young hands you her heart on a platter that just so happens to be disguised in the pages of this book. As she takes you through the things that happened in her life, it reads much more like a novel than like a non-fiction auto-biography.

As Young - who was born as the title character of Hadassah - moves through her life in the Oregon state foster program with her brother Ezra, they encounter all the worst kinds of people. They see many let downs in their lives and they each have to find their own way to survive in their harsh reality - and sometimes that does not always mean that they get through it hand in hand. Their struggle in this world is at once harrowing and heartwarming and I found it to be well worth my time and investment.

Since I finished the book, I cannot get the characters and themes out of my head and that is something that I deeply appreciate with a well-written book. I find myself constantly wishing I had been able to be there for these children throughout their lives, and it’s a definite motivation to do my best to be there for the people that I know and love today. It was a deeply moving read from start to finish.

I would give Ezra and Hadassah 4 out of 5 stars!

Kelsey Britt
www.mcwpub.blogspot.com
www.mcwoodpub.com

Even the Angels Sung for Us

The first selfie ever taken in the history of love. Circa 1987 the day Rob and I got engaged. 

(Previously published on the website mormonmentality.org. Edited and reprinted.)

On the first Sunday in December Rob and I will be celebrating the 28th anniversary of our engagement.  He didn’t mean to propose, it was a horrible accident he tried to take back three times during our six month engagement but I wouldn’t let him out of it. I am spiteful like that.

We dated casually for months but Rob was a recently returned missionary who was determined to get the first college degree in his family so I understood there was no immediate future with him. I dated him strictly because he was cute. That was reason enough for me back then. I wasn't thinking long-term.

I went to school out of town for the fall semester so we lost contact until Halloween. We ran into each other at a church regional young adult dance. Rob describes our meeting as a highly-charged encounter. All I know is the guy I went to the dance with got his nose out of joint over the attention I was paying Rob and almost wouldn’t let me into his car for the three hour drive back to school. He then loudly told the whole student church congregation we attended that I was the biggest flirt and tease he had ever seen. I was shocked. I didn’t know he was interested in me. I thought we were just friends and he was nice enough to give me a ride to a big dance. But it didn’t really matter because after that dance Rob was smitten. He came to visit me on the weekends and we talked on the phone nightly. There is a price for romance. My long-distance phone bill was over $300 for the month of November. My meager ramon noodle and ice cream bar from a vending machine food budget got even tighter.

All along Rob kept telling me that he liked me but that marriage was out of the question until he got his degree, at least three years away. I was fine with dating. I was living in a dorm away from home for the first time, going to school myself so our long distance arrangement was working for me, other than that pesky phone I couldn’t afford.

On the first weekend in December Rob once again came to visit me (Staying with mutual guy friends. We were virtuous.) We ate at Denny’s on Friday night. After our meal we went back to the apartment. In a gentle way, with trembling hands, Rob produced a ring box. I was surprised. For a guy who protested he didn’t want to get married, he was moving fast. In what can only be described as the work of angels, for the only time in my life, I let Rob speak without interrupting him. Good thing I did. He showed me a simple gold band with intertwining hearts and a tiny diamond chip. He once again reminded me that he was in no position to marry, but that he was offering an exclusive friendship. Would I consider being his friend? Accepting the ring would mean we would date exclusively but with no other long-term attachments until after college graduation.

I was smiling so big my mouth almost cracked. I was laughing on the inside but I didn’t want to hurt Rob’s sincere attempt at landing his first ever girlfriend. He was trying SO hard to be true to his heart and his head at the same time. I accepted the deal. I went back to my dorm and showed all the girls on my floor my official friendship ring. Everyone was very confused as to its meaning.

For the next 24 hours as Rob and I hung out, I proudly showed off my ring, explaining each time that it signified Rob’s and my friendship. It was corny, but very sweet. The girls in my student ward were happy for me because that meant I was officially off the market for the rest of the boys.

We attended church together on Sunday morning. During the opening hymn of  “Hark ! The Herald Angels Sing” Rob leaned over and whispered in my ear, “ Will you marry me?” I didn’t immediately reply. We continued singing until last stanza of  the song. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Yes.” He looked at me and while closing the hymn book he responded, “Oh shoot!”  The church service began and we sat together in silence, pondering what had just happened. I was wondering what the “Oh shoot” was about. I assumed he regretted his proposal. After the Sacrament was passed I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. I whispered, “What do you mean, “Oh shoot?”  Did you make a mistake?”  He put his arm around me and  said in my ear, “No! I wanted to ask you, but not like this. I wanted to wait  and do something really neat. I just felt compelled to ask. And now I have ruined my chance to do something unique and I will be forever stuck with this.”

I love that every year we get to celebrate his mistake. Some years we get lucky and the ward chorister randomly picks our song as the opening hymn for church on the first Sunday service in December (I used to request Hark! The Herald Angels Sing every year but after a rather unfortunate run-in with a church chorister who took offense at my request for reasons that still don't make sense to me, I now leave it up to fate. Just another reminder the universe doesn't revolve around me. How rude.)

Whenever I have the chance, I also tell anyone who will listen that Rob and I were friends for only  24 hours before he proposed. It explains a lot about our marriage.

Below is a link to a version of Hark! The Herald Angels sing that is a Must Listen To at our house. This singing group has performed on Sesame Street and our Grandbaby Eleanor adores them. Nowadays, this the only version that counts. 

What You Should Consider Before You Act Badly

In regards to the art of memoir writing, I think no one does a better job of explaining the rules than the author Anne Lamott.

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.
-- Anne Lamott”


Amen and Amen.