I had spent the first nine years of my life in Rhode Island, surrounded by my parents, sister, maternal grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and a plethora of neighbors who felt free to drop by at any time and never bothered to knock because the back door was always open.

It was a warm, secure, loving, if someone noisy environment. Until one day, when my sister Merna and I were told that we would be moving to New Hampshire in the summer, to be closer to my father’s even larger family. In truth, the job opportunities were better there; but we children didn’t need to know that.

At age nine, it seemed like a grand adventure. And indeed, it worked out well. Merna was in high school by then, and had hated her school in Rhode Island; she found her niche in Manchester, making friends and ultimately graduating with honors.

I was entering the sixth grade, still two years younger than my classmates and a bit small for my age. When my mother brought me to school to register, the principal immediately said there was no way a tiny nine-year-old could be expected to fit in with eleven- and twelve-year-olds. But my mother — never one to accept criticism of her precious children — showed her my fifth-grade report card (all A’s, of course, as nothing less was acceptable in our family) and a document certifying my passage to sixth grade, and it was agreed that they would “give it a try.”

In brief, the next four years were the best of my school years. I had lots of friends and continued to ace all of my subjects. I couldn’t have been happier . . . except for the times when my father would disappear for weeks on end.

It wasn’t another woman, as far as my mother knew. It was even more stupid than that: in his 40s — considered middle-aged in those days — he had decided to become a jazz groupie. He had always loved jazz music, but had no musical talent of his own; so he latched on to a friend’s band and occasionally traveled around the country with them, finding temporary jobs in the various cities and sometimes sending money home to the family who had taken second place in his life.

My mother rolled up her sleeves and went back to work, as did Merna, who had to drop out of college. And when he next came home, my mother told him that if he ever left again, he would return to an empty house. He didn’t believe her.

But that’s exactly what happened. He took off, she took the money she had been secretly squirreling away, put the furniture into storage, and moved us to Washington, D.C., where she had a brother who helped us get settled.

When dear old dad returned to New Hampshire, he found an empty house, with only a bed, a dresser, a chair, and a snarky farewell note.

Surprise!

So, at the age of 13, my future character was once again molded by an event over which I had had no control. We stayed with my aunt and uncle for a month, my mother and Merna found good jobs, and we moved into an apartment where I suddenly found myself on my own all day, five days a week.

Until school started in September, I explored the neighborhood, made friends with the neighbors and several local shopkeepers, taught myself to cook and do the family laundry . . . and decided I liked being self-sufficient.

I also had a lot of time to read. On one of my strolls to the nearby shopping center, my eye was caught by a small book entitled “Over Sexteen” — a compendium of suggestive cartoons and jokes that would be considered ridiculously mild by today’s standards, but were a little racy for those times. I bought it and was curled up on the sofa, reading and laughing out loud, when my mother returned home from work that evening and asked me what I was reading that was so funny.

I didn’t try to hide it . . . instead, I just nonchalantly held the book out to her and watched her eyes double in size as she began leafing through the pages. I know I heard her snicker a couple of times, though she made a valiant effort not to. Finally she asked if I understood the jokes; and when I said of course I did, she handed it back to me, shrugged, sighed, and said, “Well, then, I guess you’re old enough to read it.”

And that was pretty much the extent of my advanced sex education, other than having earlier been handed a book designed for pre-teens on the subject of menstruation, which I found instructive but totally icky.

As it happened, Mother actually did enjoy a good joke; but serious talk of S-E-X was too much for her to handle.

Fortunately, my generation outgrew that.

*. *. *

Well, that takes us through the second phase of my personality development, and on to the final three years of high school in suburban Prince George’s County, Maryland (a suburb of Washington, D.C.), where I began to make serious life decisions on my own.

Please note that I didn’t say they were all good decisions — just serious ones. So stay tuned.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/4/25