Growing Up Sane- My Autobiography

Growing Up Sane

Growing up inDisneyland

        I don’t think my story is all that unique. As a matter of fact, I’m sure most people have some amazing stories to tell by the time they hit 40. What makes my story kind of amazing is the fact that I emerged from one of those dysfunctionalOrangeCountyhouseholds a well adjusted and happy woman. Read my tale and judge for yourself if it was strength or simply fate that saved me.

On October 1st, 1964 at 2:00 am, I entered the world at St. Jude’s Hospital inFullerton,California. My mom told me I was born early. Always a sensitive question for Mom considering my parents were married March 21st, 1964. I’d say I was a bit early! Mom refused to discuss the matter out of embarrassment I’m sure. Hell, I didn’t care. I figured I was a New Year’s Eve party baby and I thought it gave me a little something extra special. My Dad always said I was conceived in the back of his Corvette, and he never let me forget the fact that he had to sell it after I was born. I always reminded him of the shear logistics of being conceived in the back of a two-seater, yet he stuck to his story. My parents began their journey in a tiny apartment inAnaheim, just a few blocks away from Disneyland. They were young, in love, and had no idea that life wouldn’t turn out as they planned. Seriously, who does at twenty-four? It wasn’t long until they needed a bigger place. Besides the obvious reason of not being able to afford the beach, they moved inland to Ontario to be close to my Mom’s parents. It was cheap, close to a babysitter, and far enough away from my Dad’s parents inLaguna Beach. They rented a little pink house on Flora Street. I look back at it now and see that it was a tiny house in quite a sketchy neighborhood, but back then I thought it was a mansion. I loved the big back yard with the swing set, pool, and a long driveway to play on. I remember my room being 3 different colors and hardwood floors. Oh what I’d give to have the luxury of hardwood floors now. That floor was kind of painful the time I fell out of bed late one night when the 1971 Sylmar earthquake rocked our house. It knocked the pots and dishes out of the cupboards in the kitchen, and gave the entire family a middle of the night scare. I’ll never forget a line from a Jimmy Buffett song “Fruitcakes” where he describesCaliforniaas “Shake and bake life with the quakes, the secret’s in the crust.” Jimmy got it right. We made our move to OrangeCounty(appropriately nicknamed the “OC”) in the summer before third grade. They bought a cute 1400 square foot house in an up and coming community called Laguna Niguel. Mom and Dad raised us in this modest home with everything I could have asked for. Yet they always talked about how poor they were. I suppose it was because they spent all their money on my brother and me. I felt like I had everything money could buy except for sanity and stability.

On a low traffic day, we lived only 45 minutes away fromDisneyland, and thanks to my mother’s summer job with a cheerleading camp, we were able to visit the park for free as often as we wished. The owner of the camp was a choreographer for many of the parades. It was probably the only time I was the envy of all my friends.

Ours was one of the first houses on the street and my younger brother, Michael and I had endless fun playing in the construction zone. Life was so different back then. Kids could be free to play away from the house, walk to school on their own, and ride their bikes where ever they wanted to. In today’s world, young children don’t always walk to school or to the store by themselves without fear of being kidnapped or molested. It’s such a different world now. I’m sure my parents thought the same thing comparing the 70’s with the 50’s. Michael and I were so lucky to have all that freedom.

I’ve heard people call the entire state ofCalifornia“Disneyland” and part of that nickname is dead on. Californians have a different way of looking at the world. Our attitudes and speech patterns stand out to the rest. After living inColoradonow for 20 years, I have found myself out of place when I visitCali. Getting passed up on the freeways like I was standing still. I had forgotten how aggressive and impatientCaliforniadrivers are. Another trait I’ve long since forgotten is that people are caught up in their own worlds in the OC. The idea that what happens in the house, stays in the house is certainly not unique to my family. No one else is to know another family’s personal business, and I respected that until my college years. Most don’t stop to smell the roses or lend a helping hand to others. Of course there are the exceptions, but for the most part, people are so busy making the money necessary to afford their million dollar homes that life passes them by. After I moved toColorado, I realized how fast paced and self-centered Californian’s are. I speak from experience as, admittedly, I was the same way.

Life in the OC

            “Welcome toCalifornia, now go home!” was the bumper sticker found on many aCaliforniacar. To this day, movies and television shows influence people from around the world to settle there. My 17 year old daughter used to want to make her life there and swim with the dolphins. But after dealing with the traffic and high prices, she’s changed her mind. I have to tell you that so many of the stereotypes ofOrangeCountyare so hauntingly accurate. One would wake up every morning and wonder if the temperature would be 70 or 71 degrees. Flip flops were the daily shoes of choice. Tennis shoes were reserved for sports or the occasional trip to theSaddlebackMountainsfor a hike. Winter coats were owned by skiers or transplants from other states. It’s a county where the rich and paranoid had earthquake insurance just in case the “big one” ever hit.

Orange County was made up of two distinct classes. The rich who own everything and the poor who served the rich, and my father was the latter. He was a trusted auto mechanic who was well known for taking good care of the cars inLaguna Beach. It was odd growing up around all that wealth. My family was by no means poor, yet we led a completely different lifestyle. Driving aroundOrangeCountywas a variable tour of ying and yang. I drove my old ’71 Chevy Malibu next to a Mercedes or a Porsche. My high school parking space, labeled “My Malibu”, was nestled in between a convertible and another sports car. I wasn’t embarrassed, just happy to own a car at sixteen. With the exception ofOrangeCounty, the state was full of progressive and forward thinkers. Cities likeLos AngelesandSan Franciscowere full of like-minded people striving to change the world. I grew up in a somewhat different atmosphere. The extreme wealth ofOrangeCountymade it a highly conservative area. In one of my many jobs, I remember struggling to sell the Orange Country edition of the LA Times newspaper to anyone living in the OC. The Times was a considered a very liberal paper and I surely didn’t make much in commissions! I seemed to fit in politically because I was leaning towards my parent’s conservative viewpoints. I voted for Regan because my parents did and I thought he wasn’t too bad looking for an old guy. Thankfully college opened my eyes. Once I started at Cal State Fullerton, I made a 360 degree turn in my political and social views. In retrospect, I’d have to say my life was completely changed after I finished my bachelor’s degree. I’m sure that I wasn’t the only one who felt like I never really fit in. To this day, with such a mixture of viewpoints,Californiais like a wildDisneylandride and it’s unique from any other state.

A Writer without Talent

            A bedroom provides a young girl’s only true privacy. It’s a place where she can truly be herself. For me, it was a place where I could close the door and escape to my own world. When I was twelve, I pretty much stole my mother’s old manual Smith-Corona typewriter and locked myself in my room on a regular basis. I put many a callus on my fingers typing on that old manual typewriter, and to this day I kick myself for throwing it away. I found out at an early age that I had a burning passion for something that I had absolutely no talent for. Living without talent never stopped me, though. Writing has always given me an outlet of pure joy and a sense of release to this day. I didn’t care if another living soul read my work. It has always been a pleasure to commit my thoughts to paper.

I wonder how many otherOrangeCountykids grew up as I did, skirting insanity throughout the years. How many kids had Thanksgiving turkeys end up tossed out the back door instead of on the dinner table? How many kids saw WAY too much of their parents during their wild parties. The extreme disparity between the rich and the poor created a dysfunctional environment for many children to grow up in. Whether rich or poor, growing up inOrangeCountywas a daily adventure. These adventures I have to share helped form the person I am today. Some were rather ordinary, while others were honestly pretty shocking. Sit back and picture in your mind what my life was like in my OC.

The Societies VS the Farmers

My two sets of Grandparents were the perfect example of the disparity of the “have” and the “have nots” ofOrangeCounty. There were the Gwinn’s, my father’s parents, who were known to my brother and me as Dot and Big Grandpa. I’ve nicknamed them “The Societies”. Then there were the Beal’s, my mother’s parents, whom the Gwinn’s had not so lovingly nicknamed “The Farmers.” My mother and father came from opposite worlds to clash in a dysfunctional marriage of sporadic happiness and turmoil.

The Societies

            Dot wouldn’t allow her grandchildren to call her grandma, I assume from being stricken by extreme vanity. Her real name was Dorthea White. I remember my grandma Dot as a prim and proper disciplinarian who would never wear the same outfit more than twice. If any of you have seen the grandmother on the show “Gilmore Girls,” you’d have a clear image of Grandma Dot. She was extremely classy, as was her mother, Katherine White. My grandfather was born William Maddison Gwinn, but was known to the rest of the world as the somewhat famous TV star Bill Gwinn. He refused to talk about his parents and it’s sad that I know nothing of his childhood. We knew him as the “everything will work out”, easy going Big Grandpa. No matter what the situation, he would promise that the turmoil wasn’t worth the stress and that everything would work out with a little patience. He was brilliant at advising others of this motto, but not too competent at following his own advice. He spent his younger years traveling the world playing saxophone and doing radio shows. He later found his nitch on radio and TV. Bill Gwinn was known mostly to people a couple generations before mine. He was famous for his radio show “The Bill Gwinn Show,” “What’s the Name of that Song,” and “Day in Court.” What’s the name of that Song made him a household name as the smooth talking game show host. All that I remember was his Sunny Delight and Beekins commercials and his occasional guest star roles on Death Valley Days. I remember telling my Grandma, oh I hope he doesn’t fall off that horse! They had the most incredible life of wealth and society. They were both from the Bay Area inNorthern California. Big Grandpa was fromSan Francisco and Dot was fromMenlo Park. Dot taught preschool while Big Grandpa was a college professor. He was a proud graduate of Stanford University, and he’d never let me forget it. He tried throughout my high school years to get me to apply there; little did he realize that neither my brain nor pocketbook could ever make it to such a college.

Dot and Big Grandpa moved fromBeverly Hills, to a small private beach community calle dEmerald Bay in Laguna Beach,California.  Although my memories were not filled with love and warmth, they still had some wonderful moments. The beach house never seemed to be filled with joy. It must have been very difficult for my father and Uncle Mike to grow up in such a sterile, strict environment. I remember the Emerald Bay house very well. It was filled with very beautiful and very modern furniture. I remember the patio had a glass fence around to ensure that the fantastic ocean view was never hindered. The house was so pristine that there were only certain pieces of furniture that children were even allowed to touch, let alone sit on. The living room was completely off limits to my brother and me. I remember it being very large and full of beautiful cream colored furniture. The house had spectacular ocean views from almost 180 degrees of windows. I was allowed in the family room and in one of the bedrooms downstairs. That was it! There was one piece of furniture that I was allowed to touch –Steinway and Sons piano. I have very fond memories of Big Grandpa spending wonderful hours with me sitting at that piano. Dot had such hopes that I would become an accomplished pianist. But after 2 years of piano lessons, I gave it up to roller skate. She always remembered how much I loved the piano and left it to me when she passed away. I have it still in my living room and it one of my most treasured possessions.

However, my grandma spent a great deal of time taking care of things, which gave me ample time to investigate the entire house. Little did she know that I had explored every inch of the house and garden. It was such a unique old house with back rooms and closets galore. I knew the gardener pretty well because I was always sneaking out to the yard to explore. It never lasted long enough though. Dot seems to always track me down. I also remember how my Barbie dolls provided hours and hours of entertainment for me. I used build little imaginary homes and forts with the elaborate cat scratching posts they had. Their cat Singey meant the world to them, although she detested everyone else on the planet. She was a very elegant and snobby Siamese cat whom I wanted so much to pet and play with. Singey was just like the Gwinn house. Cold and untouchable.

I’ve come to realize that my brother was rather terrified of Grandma Dot.  I spent a lot of time with her, while my brother rarely visited. Unfortunately for Michael, I was the little girl Dot never had. She treated Mike like a second class grandchild. She hardly paid any attention to him and practically ignored him at Christmas and birthdays. No doubt this contributed to one of the biggest differences between my wonderful brother and me. I always stood up for myself. I was very strong. To this day, Michael is a gentle soul that would never harm a flea. He really never did stand up for himself. I endured many spankings from Dot because I didn’t do what I was told, yet I wouldn’t back down. This was one of the reasons why I didn’t mind spending time with the “society grandparents.” I could handle myself.

Although Grandma Dot was quite strict, she loved me with all her heart the only way she knew how. Lucky for me she had passed along some rules of etiquette and manners. She impressed upon me the importance of staying out of the sun and staying away from drugs. Another attribute she passed down to me was her love for being a party hostess. It must be in my blood to throw parties because I endeavor to make throwing parties a grand event, even if it’s just for a few people. Every detail planned and prepared. She was my party planning idol.

One of the most vivid memories I have of Dot and Big Grandpa were their elaborate parties. Dot entertained like no one I’ve ever known. From what I’ve heard, they used to have many well-known celebrities attend their parties. William Shatner, Merv Griffin, and I’m sure plenty of others. Dot told me that William Shatner often partied and stayed over night after some of their wilder gatherings. Grandpa thought Shatner was an intelligent and entertaining young man. Knowing what a Star Trek fan I was, she somehow loved to shatter my image of Captain Kirk by telling me over and over how bald he was. Probably one of the main sources of celebrity connections came from an exclusive club Big Grandpa belonged to. The very exclusive and secretive all men’s club called the Bohemian Grove in Northern California. Only one day a year they would allow women for the weekend, otherwise, it was an exclusive men’s club dating back to the turn of the century. My lucky mother had the chance to visit one such weekend and described the Grove as a backwoods playground for the rich and famous. Legend is that the most powerful men meet once a year and many of the most important world’s decisions are made during this once a year event.  Apparently clothes were optional at this rustic get away. Big Grandpa would definitely fit right in. Grandpa partied with other members such as Ronald Regan and Richard Nixon. Apparently he often spoke very highly of them both. He was regular fishing buddies with Ansel Adams, Clark Gable, and John Wayne. He was very good friends with Andy Devine, Hop a long Cassidy, and Merv Griffin.  He also worked with Andy Devine and famous daytime TV producer Selig Seligman. Grandpa appeared on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson to promote his game show. I wish I’d had the opportunity to see that episode.

As a kid, I did what I could to entertain myself at these parties. I would bring plenty of things to do and stay in the spare bedroom. Children at these parties were not to be seen nor heard. Therefore I would take it upon myself to spy on the guests. I saw women in beautiful dresses, very strange foods that I wouldn’t have liked anyways, and lots and lots of alcohol. There were drinks of every kind and everyone seemed to always have a wonderful time. The most memorable part of one party was the time when Big Grandpa had had enough. He was tired and it was time for bed. He never excused himself; he just retired to his bedroom. A few minutes later he came out in nothing but his boxer shorts and bid his guests farewell. Apparently this had happened on more than one occasion and his friends were all familiar with his antics.

One of the most obscure traits my grandmother had was that she had a schedule for EVERYTHING! Down to what time of the day we would have to go number two! She wouldn’t allow us to leave the restroom until we had “taken care of business.” Well I can promise that a child’s body—let alone ANY human body just doesn’t work on a set schedule like that. But the pressure she used to put on us was rather terrifying. It’s just another reason why father made his way in to adulthood with so many problems.

Dot passed away in 1987 and Big Grandpa lived on to be ninety-three. Obviously living large didn’t affect him in the least. He ate and drank to his heart’s desire. I attribute his calm and carefree attitude of “It’ll all work out” to his wonderful long life. He knew how to enjoy himself and never allowed anything nor anyone to get in his way. I wish I could be more like him, but unfortunately, I’m more like a Beal. Anxious and hyper twenty-four/seven, finally taking meds for anxiety years later.

Bill and Dot had two children, my father, William and Michael. They barely remember their brief time in Beverly Hills, and spent most of their childhood growing up in Laguna Beach, California. They were surrounded by the wealth and eccentricities of the charming city of Laguna Beach. These eccentricities greatly influenced my uncle Mike. He was engrossed completely in the ideals and, unfortunately drugs, of the 60’s. He’s a very talented musician, has a heart of gold, and has been surfing and skiing even in to his late sixties! He was always my favorite uncle. My father, however, grew up on the other end of the spectrum. His creatively was discouraged and stunted. He followed his father’s footsteps and took up acting throughout high school, and was very talented. Unfortunately, his father didn’t encourage him nor my uncle in the arts. He didn’t want any of his family members any where near Hollywood. He even refused to help me with my screenplays when I was trying to find an agent.

My father, William Charles Gwinn, Jr. He grew up on the sets of Hollywood and missed out on the love and fun of a normal childhood. He later told me that Hollywood was such a detrimental place for a child to be exposed to. He was constantly offered alcohol and drugs. My grandparents never attended his sports activities and rarely came to his plays. I’m sure this was another experience that contributed to his growing up a bitter and unhappy old man. He attended Chaffey Jr. College in Ontario, CA, where he met the love of his life, my mother, Lindalee Beal. But Dot and Big Grandpa had other plans for him and yanked him away to University of Oregon to get him away from my mother. To no avail, though. He was in love and dropped out of college a semester before graduation. He may have wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, but Big Grandpa continuously dashed any dreams he had. Dad ended up a dedicated and hard working auto mechanic. He struggled his entire life to make a decent living to provide for his family. He also spent some years managing a Thrifty Drug Store before finding his niche as a mechanic and manager of South Laguna Beach Union gas station. I do have one treasured memory of Dad and Big Grandpa-LA Dodger games! Thanks to Big Grandpa’s money, we generally had seats behind home plate or the dugout. I am a true blue Dodger fan to this day.

It was all such a shame. He had a wonderful singing voice and a great sense of humor, but with crushed dreams and no love and support, he searched for other ways to find happiness. To this day, he has yet to find it.

The Farmers

             The Farmers, as they were called by the Gwinn’s, were my Grandma and Grandpa Beal.  The Gwinn’s somehow regarded them as farmers because they lived in Ontario, California and were never rich with money. They instead were rich with a bounty of love and happiness. As far as I’m concerned, Grandma and Grandpa Beal were the two “richest”  people I’ve ever known. They experienced a lifetime of love and respect that I can compare to my own marriage. Grandma was still in high school when Grandpa started wooing her. To this day, my Mom still has the love letters Grandpa sent to Grandma during their courtship. As a matter of fact, I still have love notes Steve and I wrote to each other on the back of office memo pads! Grandpa even saved his Valentines Day cards from when he was a kid. Sentimental man that he was.

My grandpa, Clyde Dennis Beal was born on a farm in Iowa and had a shoebox for a cradle. He was born only 2 and a half pounds. Some interesting trivia to share was that his great grandfather actually founded Nantucket. I wish I knew more. My grandma, Lois Alice Scherb was born in Conneticut and raised in Pasadena, California. Her grand parents, Herbert and Florence Scherb, came from Germany under the name Von Shermon and had lineage back to a wealthy duke who was ostracized. As did so many back then, they changed their last name to Scherb when they came to America. Florence was nicknamed by my mom as “Mimi” and was the daredevil of the family. Apparently she feared nothing, from a Disneyland ride to a woman speaking her mind!

I thank God for “The Farmers” because without them, I would not be the person I am today. While my parents both worked, I spent my days with Grandma. Grandma and Grandpa Beal instilled in me love and warmth I’d never known in my own household. I’m pretty sure the only hugs I ever felt as a child came from my time with Grandma and Grandpa. Throughout my entire childhood they took me on the most wonderful road trips. They also took my brother and me to San Francisco for our first plane ride, which I’m sure, was at great expense to their pocketbook. My brother was well known for shouting “we’re pulling a wheelie” as the plane took off  They were big fans of Las Vegas, and since it was only a 4 short hour car ride away, they took me there quite often. They took me to fabulous shows like Tom Jones, Englebert Humperdink, and Mac Davis. We stayed at Circus Circus and Motel 6, all heavenly hotels as far as I was concerned. Grandma would play the slots while Grandpa took me around Vegas and showed me the sites. Grandma always made the car trip a treat. She had a bountiful of snacks and fun things to play with. Never could my grandma be found without gum or breath mints in her purse. She was a savy woman with a purse prepared for anything! To this day, Vegas is one of my most favorite vacation spots because of all my wonderful memories. One fateful trip was our visit to the Grand Canyon. I was amazed by how beautiful it was, yet the most memorable part of the trip was the infamous “pink elephant” incident. I don’t remember how old I was, around 10, I guess. We took this tram ride tour around the Grand Canyon and wound up at a gift shop half way through the tour. I found this tiny pink elephant made of marble and chose not to spend my allowance money on it. By the end of the tour, I was so sad that I had not bought it that my grandparents took the freakin’ two hour tour again! What other grandparents would do such a thing just so that I could buy that silly, half inch, and pink elephant? I still have the elephant to this day, displayed prominently on my dresser. It’s one of my most valuable possessions and tears of joy fill my eyes when I think of it. Clearly they would do anything for me, and yet, Grandma was always a firm but loving disciplinarian. Apparently something I was  famous for was my bad attitude. Something I carried with me through my twenties. Any time I wasn’t happy with Grandma’s rules, I would march around the house flipping the nobs up on all the furniture yelling you’re not the boss of me! I wonder how much I’ve really changed. I’m still pretty obstinate when it comes to taking orders.

I spent many weekends at Grandma and Grandpas’ house. I had more fun with them enjoying the simple things like watching TV shows such as Hee Haw and The Mac Davis Show eating popcorn. My mother used to bring me over to Grandma’s on the smog alert days. They had air conditioning with a filter because of her serious asthma condition. In the Los Angeles area, it was commonplace to have smog alerts. Often the smog was so dangerous that children weren’t allowed to go to school and people were cautioned to stay indoors. I remember how much my chest would hurt from coughing during those smoggy California days. Since then, of course, California has cleaned up its air and is continually searching for ways to save our environment. Far more is needed to save our planet, I’m afraid, and I pray that we continue to fight for our only Earth.

Grandma Beal was the strongest women I’d ever known. She endured severe health problems her entire life. She almost died a couple times due to asthma attacks, and later survived colon and breast cancers. I’ll never forget one day she came home from the hospital, laid in bed for about 15 minutes, and then promptly started doing the laundry and running the house. She never knew the meaning of rest.,

She was a Democrat through and through and made no bones about it. Most of our holiday get-togethers were marred with debates between my Grandma and my die-hard Republican father. At first glance Grandma seemed quiet and very shy. Nothing was further from the truth; she was strong willed and ran her house like a tight ship. Grandma never missed an episode of General Hospital, and if anyone knew the Celeb gossip, it was Grandma. Grandma finally passed away in her sleep one day after being paralyzed from several strokes. She lived a very, very long life in to her late 80’s. “Tough old bird”, her son Dennis used to call her.

Grandpa Beal was the hardest working man I’ve ever known. He started as a young teen delivering newspapers on his bike, and later became the manager of Shady Grove Dairy. NO ONE, and I mean NO ONE made better ice cream! Ice cream companies begged him to share his secret yet he proudly never gave it up. He was an incredible athlete. He beat the pants off everyone at tennis. He had a drop shot that no one could return. He also excelled at golf and bowling, but his love and passion was always for tennis. Every weekend you could find him on the tennis courts of Chaffey High School playing the young and old. One rewarding aspect of my moving to Upland was that I had the fortune of playing tennis with him and his buddies as often as I could. It was rare, however, because I was always up late cocktailing the night before. I joined him when I could. Grandpa Beal lived to be 91 years young, and was my last living grandparent. The last I heard he had not lost his touch. He had been spending his meals with a pretty lady in the dining hall at the rest home. I was not surprised, he’d always been the most friendly and personable member of the entire family.

Grandma and Grandpa had two children, my mother, Lindalee and Dennis. My uncle, Dennis, paid his bills and supported his family as a truck driver while following his true passion, mining. He had to most interesting trucker stories. His best tale was of his hero story. Dennis me when he was driving his rig down the highway and there were a ton of orange cones directing traffic to come to a stop. Well, they didn’t give the truckers near enough time to come to a stop, so Dennis plowed on through the cones. The other truckers jumped on the CB radio and called him a hero! He also was rumored to take on some Hells Angels in a bar one night. No one messed with my uncle Dennis. I later found out that he was one of the only men my father truly respected. Dennis now spends most of his time living in the wilderness at his mine outside of Spokane, Washington. Thanks to Facebook, I stay in close touch with my Aunt Merrilyn and her daughter  Vicki and grandkids Stephanie and Allie. All of them are such an important part of my family.

And then, of course, there was my mother, Lindalee Beal. For the first five or six years of my life, my mother taught P.E. at a junior high school in the Los Angeles School District. She loved teaching! After leaving her school teaching, she began a new venture. Every year she was the assistant manager of the Camp of Champs cheerleading and baton twirling clinics around the country. Lindalee grew up in Ontario, California as a well known young lady. She had the most wonderful and fulfilling childhood. Grandma and Grandpa took her and Dennis on extensive road trips on top of all the travels to various baton competitions. She spent her teenage years baton twirling and ended up obtaining the title of a national champion baton twirler! She practiced three hours a day and loved every minute of it. Most of Ontario knew her because she was always in the local papers, and was quite often on television in parades. In college, she was a twirler for the Los Angeles Rams football team. The Ramette’s were very well known and she received the constant attention of any man she wanted. Unfortunately she met a man named Bill Gwinn, Jr and fell for his irresistible charm. I suppose I shouldn’t say “unfortunately” because if they hadn’t met, I would never have been born. But my mother was such a bright and beautiful woman with smiles and grace that lit up a room. From the moment she married my Dad, her life was a roller coaster filled with far too many low points. She was a small time girl with good values and a sweet innocence. She loved old movies and romance, which, of course, she has passed down to me. I love movies. Period.  Old and new. As a matter of fact, it was at an Oscar party that I started falling for my husband, Steve. But I digress. Mom did the best job she could raising me. She gave me good values, love, and security. She spoiled me rotten, and that was all part of the love. Before she’d met my dad until, alcohol had never passed here lips. There had never been alcohol in the Beal household until the Gwinn’s came and fully stocked one of grandma’s cabinets. Never could she have imagined that her life would be turned upside down by alcoholism. Mom turned to alcohol in order to survive drinking and abuse my Dad dished out, and it eventually consumed her. In forty years, her life had gone from innocence and happiness to grim depression. How could anyone expect to be able to adjust to the wild Gwinn lifestyle?

Thankfully Mom found the most incredible inner strength and learned not only sobriety, but a reason to live. To this day, she spends every moment eating right, exercising, and is determined to outlive Dad! She deserves it and I pray every single day that she does. She knows she has every right to outlast him on this earth. Maybe the Gwinn’s indeed were right. The Beal’s were simple farmers with simple ideals. My parents came from two different worlds that clashed in this insane place called Orange County.

My Brother

            My brother Michael and I couldn’t have been any closer when we were kids. Although we were five years apart, we shared incredible times together. If we weren’t beating each other up, as siblings do, were playing Barbies and GI Joes, Leggos, or just hanging outside. Later, as we grew older, one of our favorite activities was to spend the day at the theater. We had the viewing of multiple movies for one price down to a science. With a day’s supply of snacks in hand, we’d change our hair, glasses, hats, coats, and walk from screen to screen, spending the entire day together. Christmas was always our favorite time of the year. Every Christmas Eve a lavish party was held at Dot and Big Grandpa’s house. People would arrive in fancy clothes and enjoy Dot’s usual party expertise. Michael and I would hide in the guest room at the Gwinn’s house and spy on the guests. The most important task we had every year was to plan our Christmas morning. We’d plan everything down to the last detail. Including who would wake up first, how would we wake up the other, and what presents we were hoping to get?

He was a talented tennis player, and still is an avid surfer and skateboarder. I admire that he continues with his passions to this day. Keeping active with what we love should be held on to for a lifetime. Yet as close as we are, Michael and I are such different people. He is an intelligent, warm and thoughtful person. He and I both share a problem with anxiety that we’ve dealt with in different ways. I handled mine the best I could, but he unfortunately struggled with drugs. I escaped the Gwinn Hell House, as we call it, but he never found his way out.  The five years difference in age was such a disadvantage to him in later years. I was fortunate to be a teenager by the time my dad really started loosing it. He felt the brunt of it most of his life. Our personalities were so different. I was able separate the anger and abuse from it being my fault, and always fought back. I’ve hit my dad with a baton, a bottle of Heineken, and anything I could get my hands on. My brother just sat there and took it. When I was 20 years old, I left home and never looked back. Neither my brother nor my mother really stood up for themselves back then.

I’m glad to report, however, that today Michael and Mom are two of the strongest people I know! They do indeed hold their ground with Dad and have become each other’s support system. He has found happiness with his long time beautiful girlfriend Ashley. She is an amazing woman whom I’ve enjoyed getting to know. I’ve begged him to escape the clutches of the Gwinn Hell House, but like so many other Orange County inhabitants, he doesn’t feel that life actually exists outside his realm. All but one of my best friends from high school have never escaped. They, like my brother, are perfectly content with the crowds and high prices. I have to admit, is truly difficult to leave a home that has beautiful weather year around. And the beach has a calling to a person who grew up there that resides deep in our souls. I miss the beach so badly that it hurts.

My Room, My Solace

            I look back on my bedroom now and I wonder how I could have fit in to that tiny box. Somehow It felt huge when I was a kid. I went through several different bed phases as a kid. I had a twin, a water bed, and even my Mom’s old four poster bed. As a matter of fact, that same bed is in my guest room today. I we even lucky enough to have this incredible loft bed that Dad built. Being a mechanic, he was so good with his hands. I was one of the luckiest kids to have a loft bed and an egg chair! Living large in the 70’s! I went through many shades of wallpaper and paints as my mother was very creative.

The most important thing about my room was that it was my escape from my parents. I’m sure all kids feel that way, but for me, the escape was even more important. It was a place where I could close the door and escape to my own little world, away from the constant turmoil my parents suffered. This was my escape where I can totally be myself. I would dream up characters for my stories and loose myself in other worlds. When I was little, I would use my imagination with my Barbie dolls and Leggos to create completely alternate lives for myself. They were certainly far more exciting and interesting lives than I had. The creativity later served well in creating characters and stories. By 11 years old, I had written my first TV fan fiction. Thanks to the wonderful influence of my mom, I was already an odd combination. At an early age, I was a hopeless romantic and a science fiction fan. I started with writing stories based on existing television shows such as I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Star Trek, and, of course, Space:1999.  I found out at an early age that I had a real passion for something that I really didn’t have much talent for. The lack of talent never stopped me from writing. It has always given me true contentment and enjoyment throughout my life. I didn’t care if another living soul read my work. To this day it has always been a pleasure just to commit my thoughts to paper. For years now I’ve been a member of a fan fiction writing club we call the Divas. There are 8 of us from around the globe that write and share our stories. We also share our lives and our families as we’re all around the same age with lots in common. I’ve been fortunate to meet a few of them at past Space:1999 conventions. Writing is such a crucial part of my life, and I just don’t feel whole if I’m not creating.

Saved by the Neighbor

            My parents are both agnostics and never attended church. I was blessed by meeting a lady down our street who invited me to come to church with her son when I was very young. She started taking me to Faith Lutheran Church and I found that although I enjoyed going, I really didn’t understand most of what was said. This church was quite a strict Missouri Synod branch and it was so formal that I just couldn’t relate. Thank heavens I met one of my best high school friends, Kathy Tierney. She took me under her wing and was instrumental in helping me change my life through finding Jesus. I accepted Jesus one wonderful weekend at a church camp when I was about 13 years old. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. I remember feeling changed and confident for the first time in my life. Throughout the years I’ve grown closer to God, and unfortunately, had times growing distant. The irony was that during the darks times in my early 20’s I pushed God away when I needed him most.

Gwinn Hell House

            It wasn’t exactly a scene out of a horror flick, but every night around 5:30, the family would be walking on egg shells before Dad walked in the door. We usually had about 5 minutes of peace while he fixed his drink, then it was all over. I’m not committing this to paper out of  bitterness. I honestly thought it would make an interesting story. I’ve somewhat forgiven my dad for what he’d done to me, but I have a very long way to go in forgiving him for how he’s treated Mom and Michael. The Gwinn house on Porter Circle had a reputation of being the house to avoid. Many of my friends were afraid to over if there was a possibility that my father could be at home. Thankfully, he was usually at work. My friends were intimidated by his bent sense of humor, and the Playboy magazines always spread all over the coffee table.

I’m sure my dad thought he was being funny when he was scaring the crap out of people. One instance was a day when one of my best friends (to this day), Ann, was scared by dad with what she still calls the “cat in the trash” incident. My dad jokingly put my poor kitty, DC, in a box, closed it tightly, and tossed her in to the big trash can in the garage. He walked away and Ann and I had to save my poor kitty. Another incident happened when some friends of mine tried to kidnap me on my 16th birthday fairly late at night. They came through the back yard gate and knocked on my window, and were quickly met by my father with his loaded 44 magnum! My father, of course, was just trying to protect his daughter from whom he thought was a burglar. Last time these friends came over. My high school boyfriend Eric only came over to pick me up for dates. There was one instance when he visited and I made the mistake of shutting my bedroom door. We were just sitting on my bed talking, and my father kicked the open the door and threw Eric out. Not the last time my door would be kicked open.

Forth of July was always an interesting and eventful holiday on Porter Circle. We often spent it with our neighbor, Mary, and partied in the streets with the other neighbors. The neighbors stayed away too. All except for my parent’s best friend, Mary Larkin. She was a loyal friend that stayed by my parent’s side through thick and thin. She and my father knew each other from Laguna Beach High School. I’ve always had a tremendous amount of love and respect for Mary. She was a wonderful person.

When I was very young, I remember spending the 4th at the Will and Carole’s house in Emerald Bay. We had a beautiful view of the fireworks that the Bay always shot off every year. However, our parties on our own street were always far more fun. We BBQ’d and partied in the street. My mother sometimes brought out her fire baton for entertainment, and my father enjoyed firing off his “Dirty Harry” gun, a 44 Magnum. A situation where obvious common sense was lacking when he never stopped to consider where the bullet would eventually land. I remember one New Years Even I was babysitting about a half a mile away and I heard the gunshot and wondered why the police would never come.

Throughout Dad’s life he seemed to have some sort of shield around him that protected him from trouble. All those times he drove home drunk with us in the car, and was never once pulled over. Of course, he was friends with most of the Laguna cops and it helped to have a somewhat famous father. I doubt he even got in trouble the night be beat the crap out of Ricky Nelson at the famous Laguna bar called The Little Shrimp.

The house later became notorious for the sheriffs stopping by.

I’m not quite sure when my father’s mental problems began. All I know is they worsened with age and alcohol. When I was young, I remember him has being a good father. He spent time with us, took us fishing, on picnics, and seemed to be pretty normal.  He’d always give the shirt off his back to a friend or customer in need. His temper was always on a short fuse; however, I didn’t notice him loosing control much before my junior high school days. I was somehow able to separate the fact that when my father lashed out at me, it was out of his own anger and hurt, and that it had nothing to do with me. So many children never see through this but I was old enough to understand. My father had self-image problems that stemmed from his parents. Unfortunately he displaced them on to his children. I was thin and beautiful my entire childhood. However, for some odd reason Dad felt he needed to show me the Playboy models in his magazines and try to drill in to my head that I needed to look like that in order to find a decent husband. He constantly told me I was overweight but then used to get angry with me with I didn’t eat enough! I started hiding snacks in my room in order to escape his wrath, which eventually contributed to eating problems later. No one nor nothing was every good enough for him. (which is I’m sure how he felt about himself to his father).

For over 25 years I’ve begged Mom to leave him. He’s hit her over the head with a bottle, beaten her, belittled and demeaned her nightly. Yet she saw no way out. One incident that only my brother witnessed was my dad throwing mom to the floor, pointing his gun at her head, and firing it in to the floor. The 44 magnum bullet is still lodged in the cement under the carpet. A few years ago he was finally arrested when he threw my mom in to the entertainment center and was forced to take her to the hospital. The ER docs called the cops and he spent a whole two nights in jail. Mom went back to him as always. She has refused repeatedly over the last 25 years to move in with me. It’s been an extremely sad existence for both my mom and dad. Even before that I doubt either one of them has experienced true happiness in their married lives. I was determined to make my own way and my own happiness in my life and let karma deal with Dad. Thank God I did because I truly did escape the Gwinn Hell House.

I’m positive there was something severely wrong with him that I’m sure has contributed to his alcoholism and abuse. He had grown up in an environment devoid of love and tenderness where drinking and drugs were the norm. After being arrested for throwing my mother in to the TV and stereo system, he was forced in to counseling. He stopped drinking through A.A. and actually became a sponsor.  Prozac helped him deal with life and he did seem to change. I hear now that he still opens and ends his days with alcohol, however, he isn’t as physically abusive as he used to be. Although he’s still the same cranky self, he’s been able to refrain from any abusive behavior. My mother has kept her own bedroom for at least 10 years now, and spends her time there when my father is home.

I doubt he even remembers throwing Mom down and firing the gun in to the floor next to her head. I doubt he remembers throwing me in to my stereo system, knocking all the shelves down on me and cutting my wrist (What did he have against stereo systems?)  I could show him the scars on my wrists from some things he did. If you were to talk to him today he honestly has no idea that what he had done was wrong. Anything he did remember, he honestly did not believe that what he did was wrong. In the environment he grew up in, it was perfectly normal. I still call Dad on his Birthday and Father’s Day, but honestly if I never spoke with him again I wouldn’t bat an eye. I call my mother at least once a week and always kept in touch with Michael no matter where he lived. I would love to live even further away than 1200 miles from the Gwinn craziness.

There’s a reason why when we visit California we spend 5 days with the Bement’s and 5 hours with the Gwinn’s. It’s incredibly sad that Shannon hasn’t had the chance to really get to know my side of the family. I’m to blame for this because I’ve shielded her all these years. Steve, Shannon, and I visited the “Gwinn Horror House” this past summer. My father was very ill, yet what was even more sad was the fact that only Steve and Shannon seemed to give a damn. Mom, Mike, and I barely paid attention to him. The only attention we paid was feeling like were were on pins and needles every moment before he walked in the door from work. It was a conditioned response after all the years we lived there. The only other times I’ve been back were when my mom was close to death ill, and when I’ve stopped by when I was at the Space:1999 convention in Los Angeles. Because I stayed away from my parents, I made the tremendous mistake in not visiting my grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa Beal were dearer to me than anyone. They were my lifeline throughout my childhood and in my early 20’s after I left home. My Grandpa Beal was still kickin’ in to his 90′s at 91 and I’d write to him. But I should have spent a lot more time with him and Grandma in recent years. Shannon remembers her great grandparents are Big Grandpa with the walking stick, and the Grandma and Grandpa Beal with the pool and the oranges in the backyard. She has a vivid memory of Grandma trying her best to lift her up to pick oranges off the tree. My grandma’s back hurt all night, but she always treasured that moment.

Dad always did have a good heart with good intensions. He always meant well with his family, friends, and customers. He treated customers the same whether rich or poor. One vivid memory was him always helping the Hispanic guys who lived in the roach infested motel next to the station. A big group of these guys lived in this one place, working when they could, and sending every penny home to their families in Mexico. He came to my school and sporting activities when he could. He came to my rescue more than once. One fateful night at around 2 am, he rescued me after I drove through a puddle the size of a small lake on Aliso Parkway and stalled my car. Never once did he ask how much I had had to drink that night. He simply picked me up and said nothing to me the entire drive home. I backed in to his customer’s Corvair convertible and he said it was OK. He’d handle it. I suppose he did the best job he could. I truly believe that neither he nor his parents should have EVER had children. My mother should have married one many Rams football players that used to ask her out. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose, and I’m grateful to be the person I am.

Wild Parties

            My parents would often get together with their best friends Will and Carole Baker. They dragged my brother and me along for the ride. I have some fond and some scarred memories of these parties. I would use my imagination to escape and create my own fun. As I think back on the parties today, I’m amazed by what I witnessed. Now I’m sure that there are plenty of people in the world who won’t think of this as shocking. I certainly didn’t when I was a kid. Their behavior was perfectly normal as far as I knew. My parents would go to their friend’s houses fully clothed. However, after time passed, and the drinks were flowing, they would enjoy the rest of the party completely in the buff! Now I have to tell you what a sight it was to see my parents and their friends nude. They seemed to be always being having a wonderful time so I figured it was normal. My escape during these parties was usually playing a game of spies. My brother and I used to pretend that we were spies and passed the time investigating the homes. We actually took notes. Oh how I wish I still had those notes today. What adventures I’d have to report. My parent’s best friends in the world were Will and Carole, Frank, and Mary. My father grew up with Will in Emerald Bay and they remain good friends to this day. Will grew up as my father did, around wealth and society.  Will and his wife became millionaires with their printing business. I am very fond of both of them. Will is a very wise, kind-hearted man who was very generous to me. Carole had a big heart and was always very sweet to me. They were never able to have children of their own, and they kind of took me in as their honorary child. They took me to zoos and parks. They once took me for a weekend of New Years Eve skiing in Park City, Utah for an experience I’ll always cherish.

But back to the wild parties. On more than one occasion I caught these good friends doing the “wild thing” in the patio shower outside. This house was a block from the beach and it was common place to have outside showers. Will and Carole and my parents found fun in their parties in their birthday suits. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable this was for my sweet mother.

We used to spend weekends at Will and Carole’s house in Palm Dessert. This was always fun for Mike and me. I love the dessert. My husband, Steve, often calls me a reptile as I simply crave the heat. My mom used to make these lemon-limeaide drinks for us and we’d always bring lots of toys to play with. We’d also bring our bikes and ride in the evenings when the weather was cooler. Another memory was sitting outside on the lawn; listening to the locusts and watching the bats fly over-head. The hot summer dessert nights were so pleasant the house was right on the golf course so Michael and I had a blast searching for golf balls. These weekends, of course, were spent with the adults running around nude.

My Dad often walked around the house nude, and he was always nude in the hot tub. He didn’t care that Michael or I was in there with him. It seems sick and twisted to me now, but back then it was normal. As a child, I’d seen all the body parts, but didn’t know what their purpose was. My sick father one night decided that I needed to know their “functions” while in our jacuzzi. I was trying to enjoy some tranquility of the outside jacuzzi when Dad decided to join me. Of course he was naked, as always. He gave me some bullshit about how I needed to know what a penis felt like so I’d know what to do once I had a man of my own. Time to get out of the pool, I said to myself! The sad thing was I honestly think he meant well in his sick and twisted psychie. Unfortunately, I  grew up pretty uncomfortable with sex. My favorite movies or TV shows were the ones where they had the most subtle romance in them, very little sex. There wasn’t a lot of subtlety in my family. Between the Playboy & Hustler magazines on the living room table and the wild parties, I felt differently about romance after having “seen it all” as a kid.

The Beach Bus

            For fifty cents my friends and I could hitch a ride on the beach bus to Salt Creek Beach in Laguna Niguel. Nearly every weekend my friends and I would grab our boogie boards and head for the waves. I swear living only 3 miles from the beach wasn’t close enough! My teenage dream was for me to be sitting on the deck of my beach house writing one of my Oscar winning screenplays. Oh how dreams are pushed aside as reality breaks in. The reality of my not having enough talent for writing and no money destroyed that beach house fantasy. Considering that I know everything happens for a reason, I was meant to end up penniless and yet completely satisfied.

My summers were spent either on the beach or at the mall. My brother spent his summers surfing, and to this day, it’s the surf that has an eternal hold on him. He’ll never move. One difference between my friends and me was that they sunbathed and I boogie boarded. I was constantly in the ocean while my girlfriends would bake their skin searching for the perfect So Cal glow. I, however, couldn’t care less. I always wanted to play! To hell with the tan! I just couldn’t grasp the concept of baking and sweating under the hot salted sun. Besides, one of the most important lessons Grandma Dot taught me was to not bake myself in the sun. Back then we were all baking in the sun, and now, 30 years later, we’re getting skin cancer. Dot told me that I would end up old and leathery like Robert Redford if I didn’t take care of my skin. So our of sheer vanity I listened to her, thankfully. The irony though, was that all that baking in the sun never affected my friends. I was the one who ended up with various types of skin cancer. Thank God not the melanoma that Grandma Dot eventually died from. When Dot was a teenager she would put olive oil on her skin and bake in the sun by the Northern California’s Russian River. Even in her adult years she spent most every day on the beach in Emerald Bay playing bridge with her friends. Like smoking, no one paid attention to the dangers of the sun back then. My mom said that her grandmother used to take her out in the sun to get a “healthy glow”. Back then it was common put your kids on the sun to aide in healing when sick. Unfortunately this was how many children with measles lost their eyesight. If we knew then what we know now, there would be less skin cancer. Of course with the ozone layer disintegrating, either way we needed to change our ways.

As much as I liked Salt Creek Beach, my favorite beach was Emerald Bay. It was the beach where Dot and Big Grandpa had lived. I have too many fond memories to count. It was a small private beach reserved just for that community. It was always incredibly clean and never crowded. My family would drive an hour all the way from Ontario just to go to the beach, and Emerald Bay was always the spot. My brother and I used to climb on the rocks and explore the tide-pools. We’d stand on the rocks and make bets on who would get hit by the splash of the next wave. Then run back to Mom or Grandma for a yummy beach picnic lunch. I’m not sure why, but lunch at the beach always tasted sweeter than anywhere else on Earth. (once I picked the sand out of my grapes, that is). We held my daughter’s first birthday party there with relatives from both sides of the family. Believe me, it was a big deal for Steve’s parents, Ron and Jackie, to drive all the way up to “LA”, as they called it. Still cracks me up to this day that his family considers Orange County as part of Los Angeles. It was a very rare and memorable day, and it would be the last time our two families would ever get together.

Emerald Bay would forever be one of my favorite places on Earth. Even after my grandparents moved, I knew so many people there that I was always able to get a pass to visit the beach. I later house sat for a friend of my grandparents, Lois Funk. For two months of sweet summer bliss, I lived among the rich, one block from the sand, and I awoke each morning to the smell of the salty ocean air. I have an empty hole in my heart caused by my missing the beach terribly. If I ever find the money, I will certainly buy a condo on a beach somewhere in Laguna. When I die, I’ve made it well known to all that I want my ashes spread over Laguna’s ocean.

The Teenage years

            I was one of the fortunate kids who had a wonderful high school experience. I attribute this to my mother and best friend, Lindalee. She was a wonderful mother. She knew the importance of always staying involved in her children’s lives. She took my brother, Michael, to all his soccer and baseball games. She suffered through all my roller skating lessons and competitions, baton twirling, and mostly through my terrible outbursts. Why my mom put up with my deplorable behavior I’ll never know. She never once deserved to have the baton thrown at her in a moment of frustration. Any other parent would walk away. Not my Mom. I spent three years, and a big chunk of my parent’s money, roller skating and baton twirling through high school. Ever since I could remember I wanted to ice skate. However, it was far too expensive a sport for my parents. I found out that there were freestyle competitions for roller skating! At thirteen, I dumped the boring piano lessons like hot coals and started my skating adventure. When I was 33 years young, I decided to get back in to skating. I never let it stop me that I was old, not talented, and far too tall to be a skater. I worked hard and enjoyed making it to Jr. Olympic National Championships in Fresno, CA. I placed 27th out of 30 skaters and couldn’t have been more proud of what I had accomplished. I had fulfilled one of my teenage dreams with no regrets. It was painfully obvious that I didn’t learn my Mom’s lesson and ended up putting my family in debt doing the same thing for my daughter. However, what most parents don’t understand is that it was all worth EVERY SINGLE PENNY.

My high school years were spent a Dana Hills High School in Dana Point, California. For those who have seen the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High, I can tell you that it was my high school to a “T”. In fact the writer of the movie, Cameron Crowe, attended high schools and colleges in nearby San Diego, California. He must have had similar experiences. We nicknamed Dana Hills High “The Prison”, because it was built like a big box with no windows and very few doors. Thank goodness we had an open campus policy since the weather was almost always nice enough to eat outside. We wore shorts, tanks, and flip flops year around. One of the joys of going to school near the beach was that we were able to go visit the sand or Dana Point Harbor for lunch. I had later heard that the class of 1982 was well known as a wild bunch, and the open campus was rescinded. Dana Hills’ grad night was traditionally spent at Disneyland from midnight to six am. Unfortunately, 1982 would be the last time Dana Hills would be invited back. I’m sure I had NOTHING to do with it! I’m sure the fact that security kicked my friends and me off the rides Inner Space and Haunted Mansion because we played “musical chairs” while the ride was in motion. The funniest trivia of Dana Hills however, was the fact that my science and math teachers would pile in to an old VW bus and surf on their lunch hours. They’d come back to class with wet salty hair and smiles on their faces. These were the same teachers that got me involved in science club which made our Morro Bay excursion a memorable experience. True to form for the class of ’82, the senior prank was legendary. They took apart a little Honda Civic and re-assembled it in the lunch room commons. Can you imagine the look on the principal’s and janitor’s faces? I had nothing to do with it but I sure wished I had.

My straight “A” student best friends and I shared some great adventures together. I somehow must have been able to identify with them on some sort of nerdy level. Kathy Tierney was Dodger baseball buddy through high school. She was also my devoted skiing buddy. We could often be found on the slopes of Big Bear instead of in school. Not fooling anyone the next day with our sunglass marked – sunburned faces. I, like my father and his father before him, was a true blue Los Angeles Dodgers fan. Big Grandpa and Dad often took me to games. Thanks to Big Grandpa’s connections, we often sat right behind home plate. The only drawback of sitting that close was the embarrassment of my Dad’s shouting to the players and the refs. At least I always had my Dodger Dogs and sodas.

My other great friend, Ann Sullens and I had been friends since the forth grade. We lost touch for a few years of high school when she became beautiful and popular. Thankfully, we somehow found each other again towards the end of high school. We remain friends and stay in touch.

A teacher who touched my life was Mr. Horimoto, the talented band director. He allowed my mother to coach the baton twirlers since Dana Hills had never such a thing. Has patient, enthusiastic, and all bout making school fulfilling. This was where I met another best friend, Tracee Seibert. We performed at all the football games, pep rallies, band competitions, and basketball games. She and I attended cheerleading and baton twirling camp three summers in a row. Time of our lives. My boyfriend, the drummer in the band, Eric, and I became close during gooey duck hunting in Morro Bay at a science club field trip. He was one of the best parts of my senior year. For some reason, I attracted musicians like a magnet. There’s just something about their wild, flakey, and irresponsible lifestyles that made them irresistible. Certainly not marriage material though!

Senior Year at Dana Hills High was a nine month long party. I had only four classes and one of them was tennis! I was usually out of school by noon, except for the days I stayed late for extra help in Chemistry. Mr. Cunningham spent many of his lunch hours helping me barely pass chemistry. Along with science, he preached dedication and determination. My life changed in so many ways during my senior year. This was the year I had quit skating. Although I was sad, it changed my life. I was able to get rid of a painful back injury, and I finally had my evenings free to spend with my friends. I still missed the thrill of competing and decided to focus baton twirling. Of course, I was a natural! No doubt I always was, but I never had any interest in putting in the required effort. Once I started taking lessons from my Mom’s former baton partner, Beverly Miller, I won most every competition I entered. I had devoted three years of my life to a sport I had no talent for, when I could have been an accomplished baton twirler. But my passion was always for roller skating and I ended up quitting twirling once I went to college.

I was so fortunate to spend a lot of my summer breaks at a cheerleading and baton twirling camp called Camp of Champs. Because of growing up in “the biz” of baton twirling, the owner of the camp hired me the summer after my senior year to teach baton twirling. My mother had worked for Barbara Pruett for the last ten years teaching baton and helping her manage the camp. Lucky me I got to tag along and stay in dorm rooms some summers with my mom. Teaching camp, however was a whole new experience. I was fortunate to spend my summer of 1982 at Pepperdine University in Malibu, University of Southern California at San Diego, and Northern of Arizona University at Flagstaff. I was the youngest instructor there, and the other staff made me feel like one of the gang. Including supplying me with a fake id so that we could get in to the bars in Arizona. I was my usual cautious self and didn’t end up with any hangovers, however, I did end up with some pretty nasty cuts on my legs. On a whim one night, we climbed over a barbed wire fence as a short cut to an ice cream shop in Flagstaff. Another fateful night we took the camp van to Santa Monica Beach where I luckily escaped an open container violation. Thank you kind officer who just let me pour out the beer and move on. I’ll always appreciate that! The camp director had no idea what her son and staff were up to as we all partied in the camp van from state to state. The funny thing was the camp owner’s son, Steven, was the biggest party animal of us all. Barbara never had a clue.

The other important change in my life was my boyfriend, Eric. I was almost seventeen and not a soul had asked me out on a date. I got to know Eric at the science club’s Morrow Bay trip and discovered he was the drummer in the band. We had some fun times. Prom night was a blast! I went with my baton buddy Tracee and her boyfriend Mark, another musician. Dana Hills Prom night was on the Queen Mary! We danced to many a Journey song and caused a stir when we were all signing one of their famous songs “Open Arms”….we replaced the lyrics loudly with our crazy band boyfriends, and sang it as “broken arms”. Our fellow classmates thought we were annoying and crazy, but we couldn’t care less.

I’ve never been back for any reunions and I wish I had gone to at least one of them. I was always afraid that no one would remember me, beyond the vague memory of a baton twirler during half time shows. My Grandma Beal went to every single one of her high school reunions in Ontario, well in to her seventies. I always wanted to be more like her.

Gas Station Adventures

My first real job was working at a gas station. Shockingly enough it was a pleasure to work for my father. He managed the Union 76 service station on Coast Highway in North Laguna Beach. I worked there for almost three years while I attended Saddleback Junior College. Dad treated me fairly and we actually had some success in finding common ground. I came to know a man who treated his employees fairly, his customers well, and he went above and beyond to help those in need. He used to do whatever he could to keep a car running for the less fortunate. Hispanics (legal or not) could come to him without fear and he would keep their cars running and charge them next to nothing. He’d say horrible things about the Hispanics, yet he treated everyone with respect. It was the strangest thing because he’d come home a completely different person who made his entire family walk on egg shells our whole lives.

The most interesting story was that of the station’s flamboyant owner, Steven Sadler. He was a 60 year old recovering alcoholic who never missed his daily AA meeting at the church. Formerly with the covert CIA agency called Air America, he was an interesting man indeed. Besides having an IQ through the roof, he kept me in stitches laughing daily with his completely inappropriate humor. It was obvious that he was incredibly bored with his current life. It always took a lot of restraint for him to behave himself around my 18 year old virgin ears. Every single morning he greeted me with hello, Sunshine. The stories he told me were fascinating! My father did what he could to keep me away from him, but I couldn’t help but sit there and soak in his fascinating life, as well as the dirty jokes. Towards the end of my three years there, he would disappear for weeks at a time while my Dad ran the place. Mr. Sadler did little but come in and pay the bills anyway so it wasn’t difficult for my dad. No one every really knew where he would go for those long weeks, but he’d come back with tons of cash to burn.  My dad started getting mysterious phone calls from a man named Hector with a thick accent. Then there was one day Mr. Sadler didn’t come back. Apparently his small plane had crashed somewhere in the mountains in Columbia, South America. Whatever he was “running” back and forth from Columbia to Texas at least brought him a joy he had not known in years. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. At least he died living an adventure.

I had plenty of the most memorable experiences working at Sadler’s ’76. One guy in a convertible pulled in to the full service lane wearing nothing but a washcloth! Full service, huh? I don’t think so. Gas and window cleaning was all HE was going to get! Then there were the stinkin’ rich women who used the full service lane because they could afford to have someone else pump their gas for them. There were old fashioned older gentlemen who would tip me for pumping their gas and cleaning their windows. The tips I could use, the dude with the washcloth I could have done without.

Not that this is much of a claim to fame, but I can also report that I pumped gas for baseball star Reggie Jackson,  Baseball commissioner and LA Olympics President, Peter Uberroth, actress Kelly McGillis’ family lived there and her sister Kathleen, whom I later had some college classes with, frequently drove her Mercedes convertible in the full service line. Somewhat humiliating, I might add.

Then there was that fateful day in 1993 when a dark blue Cadillac Seville pulled in. This grumpy older gentleman came up to me and asked for the restroom key. After smiling and handing him the key, it occurred to me that I had just handed our restroom to key to none other than my favorite actor, Martin Landau. Shortly after, a beautiful and refined older woman asked me for the key. She gave me the kindest smile and a thank you. Both speech and breath had escaped me while I rushed over to my Dad to tell him who was in our restrooms. Naturally he glanced at their car to see if it looked “rich” enough. In a complete panic, I grabbed the back of a credit card slip and was ready to request their autographs. Martin didn’t say a word when he signed his name and seemed pretty damn unhappy. Barbara was gracious and gladly signed, “To Colleen, Best, Barbara Bain”.  My two favorite actors needed a pit stop and they chose my Union 76!

College Years

            I started attending Saddleback Junior College second semester of my senior year. I wanted to get a jump start on what would end up being the first of college majors. My first years were like an extension of high school and were both educational and enjoyable. While most of my friends were away at college, living in a dorm room, I was stuck at home with my parents. I’m not bitter that they couldn’t afford for me to go away to college. I just wish that I could have escaped the insanity of the Gwinn house sooner than I did.

I thought special education would be a rewarding profession and I wanted to work with the deaf. I thought of being a teacher or an interpreter. I’m still sorry that I didn’t pursue it because I know I would have loved being an interpreter. Then suddenly, while dating a Laguna Beach cop, I changed my major a second time to Criminal Justice. I was under the delusion that being a crime scene investigator would be an exciting career. My boyfriend at the time, Tony, better known to my family as “creepface”, never meant to inspire me. He was a friend of my father’s from the gas station. He actually never did anything to deserve that name. He would just never commit to me, nor would he leave me. I later found out the cause was his fear of my father. Go figure! He was so terrified of Dad and there was never any hope for that relationship.

The two years I spent studying criminal justice were two of the most memorable years of my life. After a semester the head of the Criminal Justice department at Saddleback College created a Chapter of the American Criminal Justice Association on our campus. We were charter members and had to pledge to a nearby college. Hazing was an experience. We were considered whale poop not fit to scrape the bottom of the ocean. During the pledge period we were treated like we were in the police academy. I never did make it over the 6 foot wall, but in the end, my fellow brothers and sisters pushed me over. I made it through the hazing period with a sprained ankle. I had some of the best times of my life with my brothers and sisters of ACJA. When we weren’t playing “quarters” and driving around listening to police radios, we were doing community service work and learning everything we could about the field. I went on a ride-a-longs with the Santa Ana Cops and the crime scene investigators. My teacher and mentor, Gary Brazelton, was a tremendous inspiration to me. He knew about my life at home and did his best to instill confidence and pride in me. He continually told me that I could do anything I wanted to in my life. I always sensed that he wanted something “more”, but he was 17 years older and we both knew better. In between all the fun, I managed to earn almost straight “A”s for the first time in my life. I made the dean’s list and was very proud.

Amazingly growing up in an alcoholic’s house, I never touched the stuff. I remember that on my 16th birthday, my dad gave me a glass of champagne. I thought it was pretty nasty and remembered that it burned my throat. I thought people were crazy drinking that crap. Of course, years later, unfortunately I discovered California Coolers. They were a delightful wine cooler that my frat brothers and sisters always had for me at all parties. I’ll never forget a midnight grunion run with a huge bonfire at the beach. It was amazing how there were always California Coolers and beers a plenty most of us weren’t old enough to buy the stuff. It’s scary how accessible alcohol was.

We were lucky to go on field trips to courts, police stations, and jails. The most memorable by far, was our tour of the Tijuana jail in Mexico. How Gary arranged this I’ll never know. That jail was definitely a scary place I’d never want to find myself in. The chief gave us the tour and it was amazing to sense his pride in how things were run there. After the tour, of course, it was time to party. The food and margaritas were flowing non-stop. We ended up partying all night and then crashing at a cheap motel in San Diego. We all piled in to two rooms and shared beds. Of course they guy in bad shape spent the night in the bathtub. Gary snuck a picture of my frat sister, Charlene, and me, each lying between two of our frat brothers. He said the picture was going straight to my father. However, the guys were absolute gentlemen…drunken gentlemen, but gentlemen none the less.

My CSI career aspirations all ended one night when I had a dream that my neighbor’s mutilated, dead body was placed on my front porch, and I was assigned to investigate the crime. The dream quickly turned to a nightmare as I awoke and realized that police work was not for me. I was determined to help people and decided to change my major to social work, much to the disappointment of my brothers and sisters of ACJA. I still completed my associate’s degree because I wanted to finish what I started. I graduated with my AA Degree with a sense of pride and importance I’d never known. I then transferred to Cal State Fullerton to start my third major how difficult “real” college was.

Cal State Fullerton

            I knew I wasn’t cut out for a career in anything that could make me a fortune and I didn’t care. I felt determined to find a way to help people and saw social work as the avenue to take. I just wanted a fulfilling career that made me happy. I must have been delusional in thinking that a degree in social work would be a cake-walk. I had a rude awakening when I found myself struggling for a “C” average. I was shocked when I actually had to study hard! I often sought help from tutors and the professors. Although it wasn’t just that the college was more difficult, it was that I had FINALLY escaped the insanity of the Gwinn house and had moved out. I was only 20 and ended up cocktailing at some bars to make ends meet. I worked until 2:00 am and then dragged myself to class in the morning. No Doze pills and strong tea helped me barely stay awake during class over the next two years. I used to bring a tape recorder in class for the times I had lost consciousness.

The great escape happened a few days before my twenty-first birthday. My new best friend, Aleta, offered me an out. She and her young son Dennis shared an apartment with a guy named Jim in Upland and had a spare den that I could make my own. It was a crowded apartment and I loved being on my own.  So with seventy-five dollars to my name, a bed, a dresser, and some clothes and I left home! It was one of the best risks of my life. We had shared some social work and counseling classes and became close friends.

One would think my parents would have been proud of me.Yet the day I moved out my parents dis-owned me, accused Aleta and me of being lesbians, and told me they never wanted to see me again. At almost TWENTY-ONE years of age, my parents thought it was too SOON for me to move out? They yelled and me asking how I could do this to them. How dare I grow up and move out! Neither of them spoke to me for over four months, and at that point, I couldn’t care less if I ever spoke to either one of them again.

It was a crowded apartment in a bad part of town, and I was in heaven!  I moved all the way from Laguna back to where I had started from, Ontario. Was this pure coincidence or was it fate? I’m sure God had a hand in it so that I could live only a mile away from my dear grandparents, the “Farmers.” I spent many days getting home-cooked food, doing my laundry, and soaking up the family time that I was missing. Grandma and Grandpa had of course welcomed me with open arms.

Aleta and I worked together on our school assignments until all hours of the night. One memorable late night report caused a mistake on an essay that I found when I was fully conscious the next morning. This was before the age of personal computers that could easily correct an error. I has this little Cannon typewriter that had the most basic word processor in it. I awoke early to proof-read my paper before heading off to class. Smack dab in the middle of one of the pages had the words “space shuttle” in the sentence for absolutely no reason at all. This was right after the space shuttle Columbia had tragically exploded killing everyone on board. It was obviously on my mind and somehow was typed in to my report. I laugh about it now, but I was late for class having to re-type that page.

Between living with my new friend, close to grandparents again, and plenty of group and individual counseling at school, my life began to change. I was incredibly naïve. I figured my parents weren’t serious about dis-owning me and it didn’t take long before I started missing my Mom. Aleta found the time to always be there for me. She was a few years older and far, far wiser. She taught me all the things my mother didn’t. How to cook, clean, and, filled me in about sex. Thank goodness I had made the decision to stay a virgin until marriage, because Lord only knows I could have gotten pregnant with the zero amount of information my parents gave me. The only talk my parents gave me was my Dad telling me that if I got pregnant, I’d be out on the streets. This obviously worked, I must say, because I remained a virgin until I met my soul-mate, Steve.

Student loans and cocktail jobs paid my way, and I was determined to finish college. The “interview” for the cocktailing job was beyond humiliating. The rather fat restaurant manager barely asked me any questions and asked me to try on the cocktail waitress dress. He had me walk up and down the hallway and quickly said “you’re hired.” Obviously no skill was required, only long legs. My first night on the job was my twenty-first birthday. What a pitiful way to spend my twenty-first—serving drinks to OTHER people. My new roomies came by with red roses and wished me a happy birthday. Meanwhile, one of the restaurant workers had stolen the $75.00 I had in my purse. Every penny I had in the world. The bar manager felt so badly for me that he grabbed $50.00 out of the register and told me to pay it back when I could. WOW! I was floored by the generosity. The next day I came to work and the ENTIRE bar staff had been fired, including that manager. There I was, only the second day on the job, training the new waitresses. It was ridiculous! Apparently the entire bar staff had been caught steeling money and dealing cocaine. No matter, it was a paycheck.

I had managed to graduate from Cal State Fullerton with a Bachelor’s Degree in Social Work. Life was good, but very tough. I was constantly poor, charging groceries and fuel on my gas station credit cards, buying my clothes from thrift stores, just to get by. But I was on my own! I was sixty miles away from my parents, and that was all that mattered.

I met some fascinating people at Cal State Fullerton, students and professors alike. The professors in the field of social work were incredible. I was lucky to intern for the Hands Across America event to raise money and awareness of the homeless problem in America. My roomie and best friend Aleta and I drove to Los Angeles every weekend to work on this historic event. I had also gained valuable life lessons from teachers and from counseling. Six months of individual counseling and a semester of group counseling were requirements for the degree in social work, and honestly six months was all I could handle. I remember the people in my group were so frustrated with me because I maintained that I was perfectly healthy without a care in the world. They were spilling their guts in deep counseling and I had nothing at all to say. It took a weekend retreat with our groups and our professor for me to realize I certainly was not in perfect mental health. I remember hating every minute of that retreat and couldn’t wait to get back home. This prompted me to finally enter individual counseling offered free through the college. I pretty much hated those six months as well.

My Cal State Fullerton years helped me finally mature and take responsibility for my life. I realized the dedication it was going to take to be a social worker and thought that I had what it took. I was wrong.

Back East Adventure

On a wild hair, Aleta and I decided not to wait until we graduated from college to take that graduation adventure that so many students enjoy. I had just lost my waitress job and had nothing to loose. Without a penny to my name, and a brand spankin’ new credit card, I was off on an adventure I’ll never forget. We packed our bags and headed for Washington D.C. and New York City. Two naïve young ladies who’s appearance screamed “tourist” explored the sites and culture of our nation’s proud cities. We arrived in D.C. and took one of many hairy taxi rides to our Days Inn Hotel. Hotel, which was a laugh! Little did I realize when I made the reservation that it was in the bad part of D.C. We called up the Hyatt and pleaded with them to rescue us. They were so wonderful and gave us a room at a convention rate and we were set. So we thought.

Our first night out, Aleta wanted to take in the sites, but all I wanted to meet men!  We did both as we bar hopped through Georgetown and we met up two guys. Not surprisingly we ended up at their hotel bar. They offered us a nightcap in their room and Aleta intelligently refused and headed back to our hotel. Yet several drinks later I stupidly risked everything and went up to the hotel room of total strangers. Thank God sanity returned to me and I changed my mind just after entering their room. I returned to our hotel room. I found Aleta, in her bed, feeling very ill. She swore that they had slipped her “a Mickey” and she didn’t know what was wrong with her. So, we jumped in to a taxi and ran off to the emergency room at Washington Memorial Hospital. There she lay, on the very same bed where Ronald Regan had lay after being shot years before. I figured that the guys didn’t slip us anything, and that something else was wrong. Turned out the poor thing had a terrible bladder infection that had spread throughout her entire body. She had a high fever and was in desperate need of antibiotics. The next night I selfishly left her in her hotel room and took off sightseeing around D.C. by myself. I had a blast, but I really missed my best bud.  After a couple days, she finally started feeling better but missed out on a some good sight seeing and fun. A couple years later, we returned to New York for the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty and, thankfully, she was able to enjoy herself.

We took a train to New York to New Jersey and stayed with the parents of our roomie in college, Jim. They were the most wonderful hosts! We quickly became experts at riding the bus to and from the city. One evening we took in the Broadway play Sweet Charity. Jim’s father worked at Gallagher’s restaurant and he allowed us to use it as a hub of sorts. We actually changed in to our evening wear for the play in their meat locker!

By far my favorite part of NY was Greenwich Village. It was a haven for the uniqueness of artists, shops, and of course, the most fascinating people I’d ever run in to. I envisioned myself making my home there and it pained me to leave that night. Still today I wish I could have lived in the village and allowed my creative side to shine. I must bring my daughter there one day. We shopped until my credit card was maxed out. After dark Greenwich Village turned in to a completely different scene. It reminded me of Hollywood after dark. The people and places become almost unrecognizable once the sun goes down. I’m sure I’d learn to adjust if I had lived there, but now wasn’t the time to experiment. It was time to head back to the Hotel Edison where we had booked a couple nights. Just in case I’d forgotten that I was in New York, the gunshots in the streets below that night reminded me.

Throughout the trip I begged and pleaded with Aleta to ride the subways and walk through Central Park. She was too afraid to do either one of them our first trip to the Big Apple and I felt cheated. However, on the second time around, I was finally able to convince her. We rode the subway to the World Trade Center and had a slice of pizza. I’m so grateful for that moment in time. I actually sat in the World Trade Center and enjoyed a slice of New York Style Pizza. I also fulfilled another dream of mine and walked through Central Park. Actually, rushed through was more like it. No doubt wiser, Aleta didn’t have the fearless adventuring attitude that I had.

Obviously wisdom has left us one late night we were walking the streets of New York and had taken a wrong turn down an alley, hoping was a short cut. We were quickly met by two of New York’s finest. They informed us that two pretty young ladies had no business walking down that alley and they offered us a ride. Another “brilliant” decision of mine was to actually get IN their car and let them drive us back to New Jersey. I, of course, was hoping to get a date out of the whole situation.

Looking back to the Greenwich Village tour, I remind you that I said I had charged up my credit card. This was the beginning of the most, shall I say, ridiculous, portion of our adventure. Not only did I find out that credit card approval machines can make a loud, embarrassing beeping sound when they’re maxed out. I also learned that the line of credit Citibank graciously granted me was all I was going to get. I had to use the remainder of my cash to pay for what was left of the hotel room bill. Penniless and desperate, we spent the night sleeping with one eye open in the Port Authority bus station. We had just enough to pay for the bus to get us to the airport. Thanks to our young and foolish hearts, Aleta and I shared an adventure that was a dream come true. We actually considered moving there after college, but I couldn’t bare to leave California’s beaches and Aleta wasn’t about to uproot her son, Dennis. New York will always be one of my favorite places to visit.

Life After College

            One of the proudest moments of my young life was when I moved in to my own studio apartment in Fullerton. I had graduated from Cal State Fullerton with the sad grade point average of 2.9 and worked as a counselor in a group home for teens. My first and only real career job was full of adventures ranging from an earthquake to two teens wanting to kill me. As much as I wanted to have a fulfilling career helping people, there were too many omens that tried to show me the way out. It was not meant to be.

Happy birthday to me on October 1st, 1987 when a 6.0 magnitude earthquake ended my graveyard shift. The kids were still asleep when it happened around 7:30 am. The whole house started shaking and I leapt over the couch to get the kids under the doorways. They simply ignored me with a moan, turned over in their beds, and said to leave them alone. After all, it was only an earthquake. Californians were used to them. I was a nervous wreck. What if it had been the “big one?” Here I was responsible for 6 teenagers and practically a kid myself. It gave me some perspective and I started to realize that maybe this profession wasn’t for me. I wasn’t mature enough to handle this job. Before long I found myself dating the graveyard shift counselor, Mike. He was an amazingly and fun guy to hang with. His side job was being the music producer for the has-been Molly Hatchet band and some old guitarist who used to be with the Guess Who. We had a ton of fun together but it was never true love. I was waiting for true love a couple years down the road. Back to the maturity level, this fling with Mike landed me a demotion to part time counselor with lesser responsibilities. They felt I just wasn’t quite ready and they were right. I continued working there plus part time at another group home in hopes that I could improve my skills. I still thought I was meant to save the world.

I felt like my life was out of control. Most of my friends had graduated from college and started their careers in accounting and teaching. Here I was almost 24 years old and what had I accomplished? I was at my most unhealthy period of my life. I was gaining weight due to poor eating habits, drinking too much, and never exercising. My self-esteem had hit an all time low.  I was incredibly lonely and felt a despair I’d never known. Although I was quite poor, I should have had a good life. I had a wonderful boyfriend who treated me like a queen, and I was still living far enough away from Porter Circle. Yet I was lonely and very unhappy with my life. I rarely saw my friends and spent hour outside of work watching TV and eating junk food. I knew I had to do something to turn my life around. The only positive aspect of this time period was that I threw myself in to my writing by taking a screen-writing class at a Chapman Community College. I’d found a healthy outlet. That was until the professor kept hitting on me! Another lesson learned the hard way. What was it with me and college professors?

My social work career was clearly over about as fast is it started. A year and a half later, I was making less money than some of the people I was trying to help. One day the police came to my door to warn me that one of the kids from the group home had escaped from the group home and was determined to hunt me down and kill me. Apparently I reminded him of his mother. Nice. My boyfriend stayed with me that entire night until the kid was arrested. The last straw was when one of the teenagers in the home tried to set me on fire because I had her on restriction. I locked myself in the office, called the police, and put an end to my social work career. I decided that $6.50 an hour wasn’t worth it and it was time for a change. After five years of college and changing my major three times, I finally realized that I wasn’t meant to be.

Life after college obviously didn’t go as I’d planed. I envisioned myself in a cushy government job working as a social worker, and I ended up working in the field for only a year and a half. Surprisingly it took that long for me to realize that I was never cut out to be a social worker. I wasn’t cut out to bring home a paycheck less than the clients I was helping. I wasn’t cut out to have my life threatened twice because I reminded some kid of his psycho mother. So I made ends meet by telemarketing the LA Times. I no longer cared about helping people, and just cared about a paycheck. I decided that I needed out of Orange County and convinced my ex-roomie Aleta to move to San Diego with me. As much as I didn’t want to be roomies with my friend again, I missed the beach and couldn’t afford it on my own. Good thing I did because that was how I met the love of my life and soul-mate, Steve Bement.

So Aleta and I began our San Diego adventure with fancy apartment three miles from the beach and a promise of a job with the LA Times. Of course it was karma that when we arrived for our first day of work, we were laid off. Within hours I was out looking for a new job at various temp agencies. I just signed my life away to some fancy apartment on the beach. I needed a job pronto! Thanks to me, I landed both me and Aleta jobs with Telecheck collecting on bad checks. Not exactly an “aim for the stars” career job, but it was a paycheck. Thank God I did as fate would have it, a handsome young man named Steve Bement also worked there.

Love of my Life

            I have a few good stories to tell about my Telecheck days. The most important story involved happy hours, and ulcer and a boyfriend. To this day it’s no secret that my eating habits leave room for improvement. This combined with frequent happy hours with the Telecheck crew cursed me with an ulcer. I was already dating two guys. Both were good men I just didn’t happen to be in love with. One night at Aleta’s and my annual Oscar party, I came with my date Greg, and ended the evening with Steve. Our other roommate Mike had been insisting for months that I had it bad for Steve. Yet the clueless part of me continued to play the field. I’d always thought he was totally cute, but kind of proper and a bit nerdy looking. Of course, tall, dark, and handsome with a touch of nerdy was right up my alley. On top of that, he was a very sharp dresser. It wasn’t until the morning after a wild happy hour night of drinking and dancing that I realized two things. One, hangovers on weekdays were for the birds, and two; I had fallen in love with my co-worker. He wrote me little love letters and tossed them over our desks. We also couldn’t stop talking about movies. We spent every Thursday night at a restaurant called The Rusty Pelican drinking Tom Collins and playing a trivia game. Finally the hangovers came after having just one drink and I knew a trip to the doctors was next. I had an ulcer. Steve had to suffer through my cancelled dates and many nights staying home sick. After about 4 months of no alcohol and a lot of Tagaments, I lost the ulcer and luckily kept the Steve.

The other good story involves a healthy mixture of curlers and stupidity. My grandfather gave me his 2 tickets to the 40th birthday party for CBS, and I had every intention of mingling to market my screenplays. I had a couple scripts in my car and I was determined to meet someone in the biz. I hadn’t quite realized that I wasn’t cut out to be a screenwriter. Anyways, Aleta attended the shindig with me. We were stunning in our Nordstrom cocktail dresses, and we set off on our journey to make it big. I can just imagine the laughter the valets must have enjoyed as we pulled up in my 1971 Chevelle. I came to work with curlers in my hair because I couldn’t care less about my job with Telecheck, I was focused on the evening ahead and I had to look my best! It didn’t take long at all before I was called in to the manager’s office. After getting her laughter under control, she instructed me to take the curlers out. It goes without saying, I did not mingle nor did I meet anyone important that night. We had a great time and I came out of it with a good story.

Lake Tahoe

            I knew this would be an interesting wedding when we saw the minister himself was out shoveling snow just before the ceremony. It was a chilly 11 degrees out and our families from the beach made their way through the snow to witness our wedding. I was fortunate to have Aleta there to help me get ready and keep me calm.

Steve and I had been together for over a year and had decided our money would be better spent buying a house instead of a wedding. Since we were both raised at the beach, we decided to take the Lake Tahoe route. We tried to elope, but thankfully our family and friends followed us. It was a quaint chapel in Lake Tahoe and it was our little wedding could not have been any more perfect. We played our song “All I ask of You” by Andrew Lloyd Webber and I remember barely being able to catch my breath. I never wanted a big wedding. I had been in a few and why anyone would want to subject themselves through all that stress and financial debt is beyond me.

We treated everyone a very nice dinner down the hill at the Balley’s hotel in Reno, and then parted ways. Steve and I enjoyed skiing in Tahoe, explored Virginia City, and then spent Christmas with our families. I would rather have gone to Europe, but again was against going in to debt. The day after I married Steve I already started planning my 10 year anniversary! We cruised the Caribbean with Shannon and it was a memorable trip. The day after that trip I started planning our 20 year anniversary trip to Italy. I’m now celebrating my 20th year of being married to the most amazing guy on the planet. No Europe again, but the cozy bed and breakfast vacation will be fabulous.

Shannon

            I never wanted to be a mother. I always wanted to marry my true love, but children? I was convinced that I’d screw them up royally. Yet 17 years later, much to my surprise, Steve and I have raised the most beautiful, smart, and independent young woman imaginable. Everyone had Steve and me convinced that Shannon was going to be a boy, so we had the name Ryan Christopher Bement all picked out. However, much to my extreme delight, she was a girl! With the exception of the first few months when I thought she’d never stop crying, Shannon has been a dream child. I figured God was looking out for me by blessing us with the easiest child to raise. We went through the usual soccer, ballet and tap dancing lessons—she even tried singing lessons. But of course, I had to go and put ice skates on her! She said she didn’t like roller skating and wanted to know if she could ice skate like she saw on TV. Over enthusiastic mother that I am, I put her right in to lessons. I knew full well that it was a sport for the rich, but I figured she’d quit it within 6 months like she always did. Six years later, she had blossomed into a far, far better skater than I ever even hoped to be. Our credit cards were always maxed out but the pride and self-confidence it gave her was worth every single penny! That was until she turned 12 and had the figure of a 16 year old! The doubles were just too much for someone of her height, and she finally gave it up during the summer before junior high.

After 17 years, each day is filled with amazement by how she’s grown and how much I learn from her. I’m beyond proud of the young woman she’s turned in to, and I’ve realized that I must have done a few things right after all.

The Odd Trio

            I don’t think that three best friends have ever been so different than Aleta, Marcy, and I. This odd trio of friendship has been one of the best parts of my life. All three of us have strong opinions on certain subjects, we rarely agree on anything, and yet we respect and learn from each other’s view points. I’ve been friends with Aleta for over twenty-five years, and Marcy about seventeen years. We have a bond that’s strong enough to transcend politics, unsolicited advice, and hardships. Marcy and I have even talked about moving some place beautiful and sharing a very large house together once the kids are out on their own. I can just imagine it, a commune on a beach somewhere. Somewhere near plenty of shopping, that is. Truthfully though, the commune idea would never work as I have no doubt we’d kill each other living in one house. Truly Marcy and Aleta my best friends in the world.

Living the Good Life Now

        Twenty years of marriage, and one beautiful 17 year old daughter later, my life couldn’t be any richer. Rich with love, rich with stability, and rich with pure joy. Without a doubt the two most wonderful moments of my life were my marriage to Steve and Shannon’s birth. Although leaving the California beach was difficult, it was one of the best decisions we have ever made. We moved to Colorado in the summer of 1991. Living so far away from the OC and my parents has been life-changing. I am now 1200 miles away from the dysfunctional and violent household that unfortunately my mother and brother have chosen to stay in. They constantly make excuses about how they feel trapped and have no choices. It’s so sad that they cannot see past the insanity and leave.

Steve, Shannon, and I now live at the base of the Rocky Mountains in Littleton, Colorado and it’s become the most wonderful place to call home. However, I will always  miss the beach so much I swear it hurts. My bedroom is Caribbean themed and I listen to ocean waves as often as I can. Every time we go back home to visit our relatives and friends, we always visit the beach. I just don’t feel complete until I kick off my shoes and squeeze the sand between my toes at least once a year. I stay active with my Space:1999 fellow fans online and attend a convention when I can. I have made the most amazing friendships with a group of sci-fi fans here in Denver and we call ourselves the Johnny Snows. I have finally found the confidence to put my fan fiction stories on line for all to enjoy, and, have written and directed a video, and am running a podcast. The show biz blood in me was too strong to resist. At 47 years young, I am the happiest and most content that I’ve ever been in my life. No one seems to understand the constant smile on my face. It’s sad that they just can’t relate. Not only do I have the most wonderful husband and daughter, best friends, and faith that God is looking out for me. I have a peace and contentment that shocks most people, considering that I had come out of the most dysfunctional county and family in America. When I tell people about all the crazy stories of my growing up, they’re shocked at how I turned out. No doubt I’m frequently a little “off”, but I somehow was able to grow up sane.

The End