CALIFORNIA LIVING

When I was about 11 years old we were living in San Pedro, California. I was due to go into the Junior High where everyone had to wear a uniform. I thought that was really a neat idea. This was my first year of living in a big city and going to a huge school. I think that in the 6th, 7th, and 8th grades we had about 1,400 kids in that one school. My Dad got a job working in a cookhouse in Glenwood, Oregon and we were going to move again. I have always said that Dad was half gypsy because he was always moving. I rarely went to one school more than a year. It was very difficult because I would just make friends and feel comfortable when we would move to another school. I can attest to the fact that this is not easy on a child. I cried a lot. When this new move came up I pled with Mom and Dad to please leave me there in California so that I could go to a junior high where they wore uniforms. Surprisingly, they decided to allow me to do that. I stayed with my Aunt Francie who was my Mom's sister. Everyone in that home spoke French. My grandpa lived there with my aunt, and one of her daughters lived there because her husband was in the Navy and rarely got home. So I was the only one who spoke only English. When they wanted to talk about me, it was easy for them because I could not understand anything they were saying.

On Sunday afternoon I was always allowed to go down town on the bus to see the movie. I remember seeing Flash Gordon weekly serials, and what fun I thought that was. I had been told many times to never get off the bus and walk in front of it to cross the street. I was to wait for the bus to move. One day I was coming home, wearing a new dress and a pretty new coat that I got for Easter. I went skipping in front of the bus just as a car was passing , and he hit me hard. I went flying.. The man wanted to take me home, but I insisted I was not hurt, and that he didn't need to do that. It was hard to talk him out of it. Actually, I was hurting all over my body, but didn't want anyone to know that I disobeyed and went in front of the bus as I had been told so many times not to do. Aunt Frances always had Sunday dinner for her family, and instead of me coming home hungry, I told them I didn't feel very good, and I went in to bed. I could hear them talking about what could be wrong with me, but they had no clue about the car hitting me.

The next morning I managed to get up and keep my skinned up knees and elbows hidden from my aunt. I went to school anyway. When I came home I told a big lie ! I said that I had fallen on the graveled yard where we played basketball. In California we always played basketball on the outside grounds and never in a gym. I got away with my story, and have thought so many times since then that I could have been hurt seriously, and because I lied about it the conclusion of that story could have been a bad one. I have used this story when working with children's bible classes to impress upon them the importance of always telling the truth.

This proved to be a wonderful year for me, and in the summer time I was allowed to be a passenger on a train that took me to Portland, Oregon. I thought I was pretty big stuff to do this alone. My folks met me and took me back to the country, to live in another logging camp area in Glenwood. This was where I went to a two-room school house where we had about 50 kids in attendance. Life was good there, and I have good memories of living right beside a beautiful creek, and being able to walk to the swimming hole where we swam in water that came right down from the mountains. Rarely did we wear shoes all summer long. I adjusted to living there where I found new friends and teachers, plus life that was full of fun and had many things for kids to enjoy.