A child called it - The Good time

2 – Good Times
In the years before I was abused, my family was the “Brady
Bunch” of the 1960s. My two brothers and I were blessed with
the perfect parents. Our every whim was fulfilled with love and
care.
We lived in a modest twobedroom house, in what was
considered a “good” neighborhood in Daly City. I can remember
looking out of our living room bay window on a clear day, to
gaze at the bright orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and
the beautiful skyline of San Francisco.
My father, Stephen Joseph, supported his family as a fireman,
working in the heart of San Francisco. He stood about five feet
ten inches tall, and he weighed about 190 pounds. He had broad
shoulders and forearms that would make any muscle man proud.
His thick black eyebrows matched his hair. I felt special when
he winked at me and called me “Tiger”.
My mother, Catherine Roerva, was a woman of average size
and appearance. I never could remember the color of her hair or
eyes, but Mom was a woman who glowed with love for her
children. Her greatest asset was her determination. Mom always
had ideas, and she always took command of all family matters.
Once, when I was four or five years old, Mom said she was sick,
and I remember feeling that she did not seem to be herself at all.
It was a day when Father was working at the fire station. After
serving dinner, Mom rushed from the table and began painting
the steps that led to the garage. She coughed as she frantically
brushed the red paint onto every step. The paint had not fully
dried, when Mom began tacking rubber mats to the steps. The
red paint was all over the mats and Mom. When she finished,
Mom went into the house and collapsed on the couch. I
remember asking her why she had put the mats down before the
paint dried. She smiled and said, “I just wanted to surprise your
-16-
dad.”
When it came to housekeeping, Mom was an absolute clean
fiend. After feeding my two brothers, Ronald and Stan, and I
breakfast, she would dust, disinfect, scour and vacuum
everything. No room in our house was left untouched. As we
grew older, mom made sure we did our part by keeping our
room neat. Outside, she meticulously attended a small flower
garden, which was the envy of the neighborhood. With Mom,
everything she touched turned into gold. She didn’t believe in
doing anything halfway.
Mom often told us that we must always do the best we could,
in whatever we did.
Mom was truly a gifted cook. Of all the things she did for her
family, I think creating new and exotic meals was her favorite.
This was especially true on those days when Father was home.
Mom would spend the better part of the day preparing one of her
fantastic meals. On some days when Father was working, Mom
would take us on exciting sightseeing tours around the city. One
day, she took us to Chinatown in San Francisco. As we drove
around the area, Mom told us about the culture and history of
the Chinese people. When we returned, Mom started her record
player, and our home was filled with beautiful sounds from the
Orient. She then decorated the dining room with Chinese
lanterns. That evening, she dressed in a kimono and served what
seemed to us as a very exotic but delicious meal. At the end of
dinner, Mom gave us fortune cookies and read the captions for
us. I felt that the cookie’s message would lead me to my destiny.
Some years later, when I was old enough to read, I found one of
my old fortunes. It said, “Love and honor thy mother, for she is
the fruit that gives thou life.”
Back then our house was full of pets – cats, dogs, aquariums
filled with exotic fish and a gopher tortoise named “Thor”. I
remember the tortoise best because Mom let me pick a name for
it. I felt proud because my brothers had been chosen to name the
other pets and it was now my turn. I named the reptile after my
favorite cartoon character.
The five– and tengallon aquariums seemed to be everywhere.
There were at least two in the living room, and one filled with
guppies in our bedroom. Mom creatively decorated the heated
tanks with colored gravel and colored foil backs; anything she
thought would make the tanks more realistic. We would often sit
by the tanks while Mom told us about the different species of
fish.
The most dramatic of Mom’s lessons, came one Sunday
afternoon. One of our cats was behaving in an odd way. Mom
had us all sit down by the cat while she explained the process of
birth. After all the kittens has slipped safely out of the mother
cat, Mom explained in great detail the wonder of life. No matter
what the family was doing, she somehow came up with a
constructive lesson; though we were not usually aware that we
were being taught.
For our family – during those good years – the holidays
started with Halloween. One October night, when the huge
harvest moon was in full view, Mom hurried the three of us out
of our house, to gaze at the “Great Pumpkin” in the sky. When
we returned to our bedroom, she told us to peek under our
pillows where we found Matchbox race cars. My two brothers
and I squealed with delight as Mom’s face was flushed with
pride. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom would disappear to the
basement, then bring up enormous boxes filled with Christmas
decorations. While standing on a ladder, she tacked strings of
ornaments to the ceiling beams. When she was finished, every
room in our house had a seasonal touch. In the dining room
Mom arranged different sizes of red candles on the counter of
her prized oak hutch. Snowflake patterns graced every window
in the living room and dining room. Christmas lights were
draped around our bedroom windows. Every night I fell asleep
while staring at the soft, colorful glow of the Christmas lights
that blinked on and off.
Our Christmas tree was never ever an inch under eight feet,
and it took the whole family hours to decorate it. Each year one
of us was honored by being allowed to place the angel at the top
of the tree, while Father held us up in his strong arms. After the
tree was decorated and dinner was finished, we would pile into
the station wagon and cruise the ne ighborhood, admiring the
decorations on other homes. Mom always rambled on about her
ideas of bigger and better things for the next Christmas, even
though my brothers and I knew our house was always the best.
When we returned home, Mom sat us down by the fireplace to
drink egg nog. While she told us stories, Bing Crosby sang
“White Christmas” on the stereo. I was so excited during those
holiday seasons that I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes Mom would
cradle me, while I fell asleep listening to the crackle of the fire.
As Christmas Day came nearer, my brothers and I became
more and more excited. The pile of gifts at the base of the tree
grew day by day. By the time Christmas finally arrived, there
were dozens of gifts for each of us.
On Christmas Eve, after a special dinner and caroling, we
were allowed to open one gift. Afterwards, we were sent to bed.
I always strained my ears as I laid in bed, waiting for the sound
of Santa’s sleigh bells. But I always fell asleep before I heard his
reindeer land on the roof.
Before dawn, Mom would creep into our room and wake us,
whispering, “Santa came!” One year she gave each of us a
yellow, plastic, Tonka hard hat and had us march into the living
room. It took us forever to rip the colorful paper from the boxes,
to discover our new Christmas toys. Afterwards, Mom had us
run to the backyard in our new robes, to look back in through
the window at our huge Christmas tree. That year, standing in
the yard, I remember seeing Mom cry. I asked her why she was
sad. Mom told me she was crying because she was so happy to
have a real family.
Because Father’s job often required him to work 24hour
shifts, Mother often took us on day trips to places like the
nearby Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. As we slowly drove
through the park, Mom exp lained how the areas were different
and how she envied the beautiful flowers. We always visited the
park’s Steinhart Aquarium last. My brothers and I would blaze
up the stairs and charge through the heavy doors. We were
thrilled as we leaned over the brass, seahorseshaped fence,
looking far below at the small waterfall and pond that were
home to the alligators and large turtles. As a child, this was my
favorite place in the entire park. I once became frightened, as I
thought about slipping through the barrier and falling into the
pond. Without speaking a word, Mom must have felt my fear.
She looked down at me and held my hand ever so softly.
Spring meant picnics. Mom would prepare a feast of fried
chicken, salads, sandwiches and lots of desserts the night before.
Early the next day, our family sped off to Junipero Serra Park.
Once there, my brothers and I would run wild on the grass and
pump higher and higher on the park’s swings. Sometimes we
would venture off on a new trail. Mom always had to pry us
away from our fun, when it came time for lunch. We wolfed
down our food, hardly tasting it, before my brothers and I
blitzed off for parts unknown, in search of high adventure. Our
parents seemed happy to lie next to each other on a blanket, sip
red wine and watch us play.
It was always a thrill when the family went on summer
vacation. Mom was always the mastermind behind these trips.
She planned every detail, and swelled with pride as the activities
came together. Usually we traveled to Portola or Memorial Park,
and camped out in our giant, green tent for a week or so. But
whenever Father drove us north across the Golden Gate Bridge,
I knew we were going to my favorite place in the world – the
Russian River.
The most memorable trip to the river for me, happened the
year I was in kindergarten. On the last day of school, Mom
asked that I be excused a halfhour early. As Father honked the
horn, I rocketed up the small hill from the school, to the waiting
car. I was excited because I knew where we were going. During
the drive, I became fascinated at the seemingly endless fields of
grapes. When we drove into the quiet town of Guerneville, I
rolled my window down to smell the sweet air from the redwood
trees.
Each day was a new adventure. My brothers and I either spent
the day climbing an old, burnt tree stump with our special
whomperstomper boots or swimming in the river at Johnson’s
Beach. Johnson’s Beach was a whole day’s event. We would
leave our cabin by nine and return after three. Mom taught each
of us to swim in a small, trenched hole in the river. That summer
Mom taught me how to swim on my back. She seemed so proud
when I was finally able to do it.
Everyday seemed sprinkled with magic. One day after dinner,
Mom and Dad took the three of us to watch the sunset. All of us
held hands, as we crept past Mr Parker’s cabin to get to the
river. The green river water was as smooth as glass. The
bluejays scolded the other birds, and a warm breeze blew
through my hair. Without a word, we stood watching the
fireballlike sun as it sank behind the tall trees, leaving bright
blue and orange streaks in the sky. From above, I felt someone
hug my shoulders. I thought it was my father. I turned and
became flushed with pride to find Mom holding me tightly. I
could feel her heart beat. I never felt as safe and as warm as that
moment in time, at the Russian River.