Our "Girl Autobiographies"

[Angela]

I've got four older sisters (so that's five girls in total). There's quite an age gap between me and my three eldest sisters with just over a year between my other sister June and me.
I was brought up in a completely female household consisting of my Gran, my Mum, my sisters and the youngest girl, me!
Female clothig was always available and I dressed as girl as often as I could.
This was the 1950's and girls (thankfully) didn't dress like boys. Girls wore pretty dresses, petticoats, and panties.
I spent most of my childhood as a girl and I was a very "girly" one, I loved playing with my sister and the other girls with our dolls, skipping ropes etc.
I look back on my childhood with tremendeous affection.

[Erin L]

Sorry I haven't posted any excerpts lately, but I have been really busy since my boss quit right before Christmas. So, I'll make up for it with a two-in-one - that is, two segments together, the first super short but imporant, the second quite a bit longer.

Thanks again for all the supportive comments. You ladies are just great!

[Erin L]

January, 1965


Some days are indelibly stamped in your memory. I remember a Saturday morning in late January, 1965.

I got up early and got dressed, and noticed how tight my training bra felt on me. I’d known for a while that my breasts were growing. Today was the day I was going to tell Mom that it was time to graduate to a regular bra.

When I emerged from my room, Dad was sitting in his easy chair, which was odd for him for a Saturday morning. If he was home, he was usually still sleeping, and if he was up he was usually on his way to work. But today, he was just sitting there, and the left side of his face, the side I saw as I came out of my room, was badly bruised; his left eye was swollen shut and looked about the size of a rubber ball.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “Dad, what happened?!”

“I got mugged last night,” he said, dully. “Bastards jumped me.”

Dad usually limited his use of language to “hell” and “damn” when around family.

“Are you all right? I mean, are you going to be?”

“Yeah, honey, I’ll be okay. I called the police, and I’m going to help them nail these guys.”

What was it about Mom’s attitude that morning? She was concerned, and yet distant. I couldn’t figure it out.

With me, though, she was fine. And when I told her of my particular problem that morning, she smiled broadly. Funny, I had thought she would treat it like another problem, but instead she seemed to throw herself into it. She eagerly took me shopping for new bras that morning, and she bought me lunch as well. I was a little late for rehearsal, but I didn’t mind.

By Monday morning, though, I was starting to get the picture. Dad hadn’t actually been mugged, he’d been jumped from behind while leaving a bar. But he was definitely pressing charges.

He went to the doctor and when for a brain scan, which showed no damage. In a few more days, the eye was back to normal and the bruises began to fade. Little details began to slip out about some kind of fight, and by the time the case came before a judge, it was thrown out – just another barroom brawl, which Dad probably started.

He tried to blame his assistant, who had been with him at the time, for not supporting his story on the stand, although it couldn’t come as a surprise that he wouldn’t want to perjure himself. In the end, he was reduced to saying, “Well, all I objected to was his taking the boots to me.”

When I told Terri, she invited me to stay over, and I did. We went right to her house from school on Friday. I decided to miss rehearsal for one week, and Terri’s mom said I was welcome to stay the whole weekend, borrowing some of Terri’s clothes for both Saturday and Sunday.

Friday night, Terri’s mom did our nails, which was a lot of fun. Saturday, she took us to the city for the day, window shopping along Fifth Avenue and stopping by the Empire State Building. Sunday, Terri and I went to the children’s mass together at 10:00, then spent the day at her house, partly doing homework, partly just goofing around.

Terri’s mom drove me home that night, and I hugged her and Terri both before getting out of the car.

“Be strong, Erin,” Terri’s mom said. “You always have us to lean on. And things often work out far differently than you expect.”

I thanked her.



Summer, 1965



By the time sixth grade ended, Terri had begun to develop, as had Diane and Catherine. For the first time, I was dreading summer.

With Mom and Dad both working, they had decided that I shouldn’t be alone all day, every day, and decided to enroll me in a day camp. I knew instinctively I wasn’t going to like it – being away from the neighborhood, and the chance to do things with Terri and the other girls – but even I underestimated how bad it would be.

True, we did get to go swimming every day, and I passed two swimming tests which allowed me use of the entire pool and also gave me confidence for the first time that I might be good at something athletic. But the first day, our group leader started off with the announcement, “All right, listen up: all of you are here because your parents can’t stand you!” He followed that with a long list of rules we dared not break.

In short, it felt more like a prison camp than a day camp. And try as I might, I found that none of the girls were particularly friendly. Some of the boys would look me over at the pool, and I just ignored them.

There were five two-week sessions, and Mom chose to register for them one at a time. Dad was supposed to mail the registration for the third session, but he forgot, and by the time it was discovered, there was nothing to be done. I got a two-week reprieve, and loved every minute of it; for those two weeks, Terri and I were inseparable, and often were joined by Diane and Catherine (who that summer suddenly insisted we call her “Cathy”; of course, we did). I cried the Sunday night before I had to return to Session Four, and Mom said she was sorry and would never send me again, but felt that since the last two sessions had already been paid for and were nonrefundable, I should attend.

During my two-week furlough, though, I had had another new experience. On a warm afternoon in late July, John’s sister, Pat, called me and asked if I was interested in joining a bunch of them for some musical goofing around. Pat, John, their sister, Helen and a couple of other kids from the neighborhood were on the front porch of a friend of John’s named Lenny, playing and singing Beatles songs.

It sounded like fun, and Lenny’s house was only two blocks away, on 213th Street, so I grabbed my guitar and went. When I got there, John had set up a makeshift drum set with washtubs, Lenny had an electric guitar and a small amp, and everyone else was kind of standing there. John introduced me to Lenny, who smiled a warm welcome, and invited me to stay.

“No electric guitar?” he asked.

“’Fraid not,” I said with a sad shrug.

“That’s okay. Just strum louder.”

But as it happened, my guitar had enough volume to be heard, and Lenny kept the volume down on his amp. We did practically all of the Beatles’ songs that afternoon, and a lot of kids from the neighborhood came around to watch. One of the most enthusiastic was a black boy whose family had just moved in two doors down from Lenny, named Darnell.
We called ourselves the Starlighters, and decided that we would keep working together until we made it big. As it happened, we only played together one more time before the novelty wore off. But Lenny invited me over several more times to play, just the two of us.

I soon found out that he was a lot more advanced than what he had shown that day on the porch. One evening, we were sitting on the porch and he was showing me something brand new to me – blues. He had me play a blues progression on my guitar while he improvised a lead.
We were playing it when Darnell walked up.

“Oooh, hey!” Darnell said with a laugh. “Now, that’s my kinda music. All we gotta do now is get Erin to sing like Billie Holiday.”

“Who’s Billie Holiday?” I asked. Darnell gasped.

“You have to make allowances,” Lenny said. “She’s led a very sheltered life.”

“Wait,” said Darnell, and he dashed back to his house. While he was gone, Lenny told me about Billie Holiday.

When Darnell returned, he had about a half dozen record albums with him – Billie Holiday, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf, and James Brown.

“You sound okay when you play,” he said, earnest now. “But your playin’ is – what would you say, Len?”

Lenny grinned and said, “A little too white.”

Darnell clapped his hands and laughed.

“Are all these albums blues?” I asked.

“Billie Holiday and Howlin’ Wolf is pure blues,” Darnell said, growing serious. “Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, I guess you could call ‘em rock’n’roll, with some blues mixed in. James Brown – he somethin’ else!”

“Yeah,” Lenny said dryly. “Don’t play that one while your parents are around.”

I wanted to say “What do you mean?” but I knew what he meant. Blockbusting, the real estate tactic by which white people were panicked into selling their houses by the prospect of an onrushing flood of black families, was in full swing in our part of Queens. Darnell’s family was on the leading edge of a wave that we had first noticed in Jamaica when Mom and I went shopping; from there it had swept eastward, pausing at Francis Lewis Blvd. before pushing on past Colfax Street, then 212th Street, and now finally approaching 213th.

“Better sell,” the brokers warned in tense tones. “The neighborhood is going colored.”

And they did, in staggering numbers. I had even heard my own parents talking about the need to “get out”. Of course, they usually meant get out of an apartment and buy a house, and they’d made a few false starts in that direction, but there were occasional references to the neighborhood “going”.

And yet as I sat on Lenny’s porch, playing the blues and listening to Darnell, I wanted to know more and to get a little closer to this most guileless and enthusiastic boy. When it was time for me to go home, he walked with me, telling me about Muddy Waters and Leadbelly and other musicians I would later grow to love. Lenny had placed the albums in a shopping bag, which turned out to be fortunate.

As we approached the gate in front of my house, we stopped so I could listen to him finish a story about when he had first become hooked on the blues. He made me laugh, and just then I saw Dad coming up the walk. As I introduced Darnell to him, I hoped his feigned nonchalance was more convincing to Darnell than it was to me.

When I got upstairs, I took the shopping bag right into my room and placed it beyond the foot of my bed, out of sight. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, talking in low tones. They barely acknowledged me as I came in.

“Erin,” Mom called at last. “Please come out here.”

The interrogation was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Who was he? Where had I met him, and how? Why did he walk me home? What kind of friend was Lenny that he didn’t offer to walk me home instead? Had he touched me? Had he…tried anything?

“What do you mean?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Dad snapped, losing his patience. I could smell alcohol on his breath, which didn’t help.

“I don’t!” I insisted. “Please tell me what you mean.”

“Watch your tone of voice!” he warned. “You’re old enough to know that there are some things you don’t do!”

“I can’t have a boy walk me home?”

“Not a colored boy, no!”

“What difference does that make?” I demanded. Now I was getting really mad.

“It makes all the damned difference in the world! You are a white girl, and that makes you a target. You may not like it, but that’s the way of the world.”

“Look,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Darnell lives a couple of doors down from Lenny, and they are friends. We all share an interest in music, and that’s what we were talking about. I thought the most important thing was what kind of person someone was, not what color his skin might be.”
I stormed off to my room and closed the door. Of course, that didn’t last long because they had to pass through my room to get to the bathroom.

Dad waited a good hour, which gave us both time to cool off a little.

“Erin,” he said softly. “I’m sure he’s a nice kid. But I’ve seen a lot more of the world than you have and I’m telling you that they are raised differently than we are, and with different ways of looking at the world. You are a very attractive young woman, at an age when you are extremely vulnerable. You may not think so, but you are.

“All I’m saying is that I do not want you to allow yourself to be alone with his boy at any time. Do you understand?”

I understood. I had just gotten my first look at racial prejudice, up close and personal. I hated it.




All summer long, the weekends were my respite. A few times I stayed over with Terri, once with the other girls as well. And Saturdays, I had corps practice.

It was at one of these, right after school ended, that I got a surprise. Mr. Connolly and Jay’s dad called me over before we started horn rehearsal. They had a large case open, revealing an instrument that looked a lot like a baritone horn, except that the tubing seemed a bit smaller and more extensive, the throat of the bell a little smaller, and the mouthpiece looked like the one on my soprano horn.

“Erin,” said Mr. Connolly. “We’d like you to try this. It’s a French Horn.”

I knew what an orchestral French Horn looked like, and figured this was a single-valve adaptation. I picked it up and worked the valve with my thumb a few times – it was well-oiled and loose. I was nervous as I put it to my lips, not wanting to feel the same empty rush of breath I’d experienced several months earlier when I had tried the baritone.

Instead, I produced a mellow, rich tone, lower than a soprano horn but higher than a baritone. From memory, I played a few of our regular numbers, and Mr. Connolly smiled with satisfaction.

“Whaddaya say?” asked Jay’s dad. “We’ll add a second French Horn eventually, but right now, you’d be it.”

“You mean this would be mine?” I gasped.

“As long as you belong to the corps,” he replied. I enthusiastically agreed.
After rehearsal that day, I tendered the borrowed soprano horn back to John. As it was, I was a little sad that his family had moved away from the house on 110th Avenue. Although they were only about a half mile away from the school, and so close enough to remain in the corps, any dreams of getting the Starlighters back together were dashed forever.
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “I’ll really miss playing it. It’s a really fine instrument.”

The corps had changed a lot since we had gotten rid of Mr. Harkins. All three sections sounded good. We looked sharp. That summer, we added the promised shakos to our uniform, although I found them less comfortable than the overseas caps.

The horn section now sported a large contingent of soprano horns, three baritones and one French Horn. There was a separate section of beginners on G-bugles who marched behind us in parades and only played on the numbers that could accommodate the limited scale of the G-bugle. Our repertoire now included several new numbers that sounded terrific, with “Mam’selle” being the absolute best.

We marched in several Firemen’s Day parades that summer. People really listened when we played, and when Dad heard us, he said, “You kids have really, really improved.”

I loved those parades, both the experience of marching in them and the social aspect of going and coming home. We rode better buses these days, not school buses, and a routine had evolved whereby the oldest kids – Richie and Peter from the horns, Jimmy from the drums , the girls of the color guard – all gravitated to the back of the bus. As a soon-to-be seventh grader, I soon found myself being welcomed back there, too.

When I had first joined, time going to parades or competitions on the bus would be killed with group singing, usually “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and such. But over time, we started singing popular songs, like Roy Orbison’s “Doo Wah Diddy Diddy”, The Temptations’ “My Girl”, The Drifters’ “Under the Boardwalk” and The Supremes’ “Where Did Our Love Go?”

The back of the bus also crackled with the beginnings of teasing and flirting, and little romances began to blossom. By now I had given up on my crush on Richie, and I was aware of interest from some of the other boys. But it was the acceptance from the older girls that meant a lot to me, and made me feel welcome.

One night we marched in a parade in Bellmore, and everything went right. What’s more, when we came to the reviewing stand, we saw a familiar face – Mr. Harkins, who was waiting for one of his other groups to come across. Lorraine, who by now was the corps’ drum major, saw him, too, and blew her whistle and signaled for “Mam’selle”.

We played it perfectly, and from where I stood, I could actually see Harkins’s jaw drop. He couldn’t believe we were his old rag-tag group that only won competitions when he was the judge. To top it all off, that parade was also a competition, and we placed third that night, our first legitimate win.

When we got back to the bus, Eileen held up the teddy bear she had brought with her for luck. We had teased her unmercifully on the ride out, and she had been somewhat embarrassed by the whole thing, but she now proudly waved the bear about, calling it our lucky charm.
On the spot, Richie, Danny and a few of the others made changes to the Beach Boys’ song, “Be True To Your School” and changed it to “Be True To Your Corps”.

It only took a short time to get everyone to learn it, and by the time we arrived back at school, the whole bus was singing it, including the adults. Never before had I felt so much a part of something bigger than myself. From then on, no trip was complete without several renditions of “Be True to Your Corps”.

[Leeza]

And as always, Erin, I am enjoying your posts.
Leeza

[Absaroka]

Great new chapter Erin.

I remember block busting real well.

Absaroka

[Connie]

I enjoyed this part with the story about the drum and bugle corps, having marched myself but much more recently that the G-D bugles.

It sounds like "Be True to Your Corps" could have ended up as an official Corps song.

Connie

[Erin L]

Thanks, girls, for the always supportive comments.

[Robyn Katie]

Hi sisters,

Probably I should have posted sooner, but I haven't had anything of my own to add (I'm working on it though). Meantime I have been following everyone's girl adventures and wow, I'm so happy this thread is going strong.

I do want to post more eventually but you have all given me such a high mark to shoot at. I am learning from all of you how to broaden (pun intended) my expression and not just settle for bits and scraps but try to construct a story.

It's taking a while! Meanwhile though I just want to say how knocked out I am by all of your contributions and please, please do keep them coming! This is turning into one of the most informative threads ever.

Love, Robyn Katie

[Erin L]

October, 1965...

Our schedule for the fall was fairly slim; we marched in the Columbus Day parade in Manhattan for the second year in a row, and we entered an indoor competition. Each would be a significant moment for me.

It was cooler than usual on Columbus Day, and the long march up Fifth Avenue left us cold and tired. I had never been so glad to get back on the bus, and I just took a window seat close to the back, pulled a jacket around my shoulders, sat back and closed my eyes. A few moments later, someone plopped down heavily into the seat next to me.

“Hi,” I heard a familiar voice say. I opened my eyes, and Jimmy Larkin was sitting next to me, holding two covered cups. “Want a hot chocolate?” he asked, offering me one.

“Thanks!” I said gratefully, taking the cup. His fingers brushed lightly against mine as I took it. As I looked around, the bus was still mostly empty. “This was really sweet of you,” I added.

“Least I could do,” he said. After a pause, he said, “Is it okay if I sit here?”

“Of course,” I laughed.

Our eyes met, and we held the gaze. Oh, wow! I thought. He didn’t just buy that hot chocolate for anyone – he bought it for me. He likes me.
I thought back to the previous Memorial Day at the VFW hall; he’d been kind of attentive then. He’d been really friendly on the bus during the summer. At Saturday rehearsals, I usually caught him looking my way a couple of times a session.

And I realized he was really cute. He always had a kind of determined expression when he was playing. I remembered back when Mr. Harkins had still been in charge, he had led the drum line into a really difficult piece without saying anything before hand. Harkins had said afterwards, “You got a lotta guts, Larkin!” And Jimmy had just kind of stuck his jaw out at him.

His features were sharp, emphasizing his toughness. And yet now he was quiet and sweet. And he was sitting next to me.

The unspoken rules of back-of-the-bus considered a boy sitting next to a girl as something of a public declaration; there were more and more corps romances budding as we got older, but they were usually kept low key. And as the others came aboard, I could see the glances cast our way. I knew there would be a comment made, and, better yet, I knew that Jimmy knew.

We chatted quietly about what a drain the parade had been, and how tired we were. I told him how good I thought the drums had sounded, and he told me how good the horns sounded.

The bus pulled away. Mr. Cannaro stood in the front and told us what a great job we’d done, and that we should be proud of ourselves. We broke into a chorus of “Be True To Your Corps.”

“So, Jimmy!” Lori Mahoney said in a voice loud enough to carry the whole bus, even though she was only two rows behind us. “You’re not in the same seat going back.”

That was another Corps tradition.

“No, I’m not,” he said, just as loudly, and with a grin.

“What’s the matter?” she pressed. “Richie’s not good enough to sit next to anymore?”

The whole bus seemed to lean forward in anticipation.

“Erin’s a lot better looking than he is!” Jimmy called out, and the whole bus went, “Whooooaaaa!!!”

Pandemonium followed, with the older kids giving him a really hard time, and he just sat there and grinned at me. What everyone else could not see was that he also held my hand. And he didn’t let it go until we got off the bus back at school.

The back of the bus led the singing going home, and naturally it was all love songs. The kids up front – the younger kids – lost interest, except when they sang “My Girl.” Even now, that song makes me smile because of that day.

When the bus finally quieted down, Jimmy and I fell back into quiet conversation. He had heard about my guitar playing, and wanted to know more about it. He was interested in what kind of music I played, how much I liked it, and if I had ever played in a band.

The only experience – if you could even call it that – had been the sessions with Lenny. Jimmy smiled as I told him about it. I left out the part about Lenny and Darnell.

“I’m afraid that’s the only group I’ve played with other than this one,” I said. And when he smiled, I felt his hand tighten a little on mine. I returned the squeeze.

And all I could think was, “He likes me he likes me he likes me he likes me…”

When we got back to school, I waited for the instruments to be unloaded from the baggage compartment under the bus. All of the older girls, as they passed me, said, “Good night” or “Bye, Erin”. No one said anything about Jimmy directly, but they all had knowing smiles.

“So, how was the parade?” Mom asked at the dinner table that night.

“Okay,” I said. I could feel my face breaking into a grin, but I didn’t want to say anything about Jimmy just yet, so I bit my lip to get it off. Mom caught it.

“What?” she pressed.

“Nothing,” I assured her.

“I saw you for a minute on TV,” Dad said. “You sounded great, as usual.”

“Thanks.”

After dinner, I helped Mom clean up, as always. After Dad settled in to watch something on television, it was just the two of us in the kitchen.

“Is it okay if I call Terri?” I asked when we’d finished. She indicated that it was, poured herself a cup of coffee, and went inside to watch television with Dad.

But as I talked to Terri, I realized that I couldn’t tell her what I was bursting to tell her, for fear of being overheard. And when Mom came into the kitchen for a little dessert, I clammed up completely.

“What is going on with you?” Terri asked me.

“Uh huh,” I replied.

“You’re not making any sense at all,” she said, a little irritated. “You sound like you don’t want to be overheard or something.”

“Yep!” I replied brightly.

“You have boy news!”

“I’d say that’s pretty much the idea,” I replied.

“Is it that Richie guy you’ve been in love with for, like, your whole life?”

“Uh uh.”

“Well, who, then?”

“We can talk about that before class tomorrow.”

“Erin!!”

“There’ll be plenty of time. It’s not like you have to hand it in.”

“It’s somebody in the drum corps, though, right?”

“Yes.”

“Seventh grader or eighth?”

“The higher one.”

“What instrument does he play?”

“I don’t think that’s the right answer.”

“Drums?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I don’t know any of the drummers!” she groaned.

“That’s why we can go over it tomorrow.”

“You know,” she said, “I really would prefer the next time we have a phone conversation, if we could actually have a phone conversation!”

“I would, too,” I said with a laugh, and we hung up. When I turned around, Mom was staring at me with her hands on her hips.

“It’s about a boy, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and tried very hard not to break into a silly grin. She walked over so she was right next to me and said in a very quiet tone of voice, “You have a boyfriend. Or think you do.”

“No,” I insisted. But the corners of my mouth were turning up, eager to betray me.


Terri grabbed me on the way into the schoolyard the next morning.

“Tell me everything!” she demanded without prelude. I told her what had happened on the bus, including all the reactions, and had just about finished when I saw Jimmy come into the schoolyard. He saw me, waved, and came right over to our line.

“See ya,” Terri said to me and then quickly walked away.

“Hi,” Jimmy said, softly.

“Hi,” I replied. We both knew that we were just as conspicuous in the schoolyard as we had been on the bus.

“Can I see you after school?” he asked. When I nodded, he said, “How about if I meet you outside the gate, on the corner by the mailbox?”

“Okay.”

He was there before me, looking anxiously at everyone coming out of the gate, and he broke into a grin when he saw me. I gave him my warmest smile in return. He turned and fell in beside me as we walked down to Hollis Avenue.

“Carry your books?” he offered, and I laughed. Even at twelve, I knew that was corny.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, and gave him my books. We started talking about music, and he again brought up my guitar-playing. I assumed he was just being nice, but it soon became evident that he had more than just a passing interest.

“Ever play with a band?” he asked.

“I only have an acoustic guitar, and I can’t really afford an electric, or an amp.”

“My brother and I are putting a band together,” he said as we got to my house. We walked through the gate and back to the side door. With no one home, I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed for a while. “I’d really like to have you with us; I mean, I think it would be fun.”

“Yes, but…”

“My brother recently got a new Fender, really nice. He has his old electric, kind of a cheap imitation of a Fender Stratocaster. It’s not worth much, but it would be good to break in with, and he’d let you have it if it meant your joining our band.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Jimmy, and of him,” I said. “But why is it so important to you for me to be in this band of yours?”

He looked right into my eyes.

“I…I just want to be with you.”

I felt myself melting. He was still looking into my eyes, and I could sense him getting closer to me. I was certain he was going to kiss me, and I wanted him to so very much. But just then I heard the wooden gate out front slam shut, and I was sure I heard footsteps approaching. I leaned around Jimmy to look up the path and saw…

“Hi, Dad,” I said brightly as Jimmy pulled back from me. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be home?”

“I needed one of my tools,” he said as he eyed Jimmy suspiciously. “I had to come home for it. It means I’ll be late tonight. Who’s this?”

I introduced him to Jimmy.

“Very nice to meet you, sir,” Jimmy said.

“Well,” Dad replied, impressed by the formality. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You’re a friend of Erin’s from school?”

“Actually, from drum corps, Dad,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. You were part of that Memorial Day ceremony at the VFW. That was good work.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve also invited Erin to play in a band that we’re putting together.”

Dad said that was nice, then excused himself and went upstairs. When I got up there a few minutes later, he was smirking.

“So,” he said, “I take it he’s the one you’ve been mooning over for two days?”

“I haven’t been mooning.”

“Whatever you say. I have to go.”

Jimmy and I agreed that we’d get together one day after school. We walked to his house together, and again he carried my books. When we got there, he introduced me to his mom, who smiled indulgently and said I was more than welcome.

“Looks like she likes you,” he whispered to me when we got down to his basement. His brother, Mark, who was my age, presented me with the cheap knock-off of a Fender, and I thought I had never seen anything so nice in all my life. It was already plugged into an amp and I played some chords and notes on it.

“Hey,” I said, “This has terrific action.”

“Actually,” Mark said, “It’s not nearly as good as a real Fender, but it’s good to learn on.”

“Can you play some leads?” Jimmy asked.

“I’ll be glad to try,” I said.

We were waiting for one more member to arrive – Tony, the bass player. Mark went upstairs to wait for him, leaving Jimmy and me alone. He came right over to me, having until now been fidgeting with his drum set, a nice Slingerland set in blue sparkle.

He took my hands in his and looked into my eyes.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to do since Monday night on the bus,” he said, softly. And then he kissed me gently, briefly. We kissed again, and then we wrapped ourselves in each other’s arms and remained so until we heard steps on the stairs.

“Better get to work,” he said.

We tried a few standards, and I mostly played rhythm guitar. Jimmy encouraged me to take a short lead on a couple of songs, and I was surprised at how smoothly they went. All in all, I liked the way we sounded.

“Okay,” Jimmy said at the end of our session. “Whaddaya think?”

We all agreed that it had sounded good enough to get together in a few days and try it again. Mark and Tony went back upstairs, leaving us alone. We drifted over to the old sofa that sat on one side of the finished basement, and then into each other’s arms.

“Hey!” Jimmy’s mom called from upstairs. “Aren’t you kids packed up, yet?”

We broke our kiss.

“Be right there, Mom,” he called.

“I thought Erin might like a ride home.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

We shared one more intense kiss and then reluctantly trudged upstairs.
“Sorry to break things up so soon,” she said with a smirk. “But I’ve got to get dinner on.”

Spring, 1966...


There were more changes in store. Sr. Anne announced that there would be a voluntary series of sex education classes for anyone who wanted to take them. All we needed to do was to get parental permission.

All of us agreed it would be a good thing. We compared notes on what our mothers had told us, and we could tell there were a lot of details missing. Terri’s had been the most informative, but even she had withheld a lot.
I asked Mom about it while I was helping her with dinner that night. She immediately dropped a spoon into a pot of stew.

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” I asked. Mom chuckled in spite of herself.

“Well,” she replied. “I take it that you want to do this?”

“Yes, Mom, I do.”

“Do what?” Dad asked, barging into the conversation. Mom told him.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “Nuns are going to teach you about sex?”

“Dad, Sr. Anne is really nice, and is great to talk to. My friends are all taking it, and it will be good to go through it with them.”

“Why not just make it part of science class?” Dad asked.

“Because there are probably some parents out there who don’t want their children to be taught this material by nuns,” Mom replied.

“Why would that matter?” I asked, and Mom immediately got uncomfortable.

“Lack of first-hand experience,” Dad said, putting it with uncharacteristic tact.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” I said. Mom smiled.

“You might be right, honey.”

She signed the permission slip. Then I told her that boys would be in the same sessions as the girls.

The classes were good, but not great. I mean, we got a lot of good information, and some pretty good advice – although we got some pretty lame advice, too. Like the story of the girl who, when she felt that things were getting a little out of hand, would gently stroke a cross on the boy’s cheek. Unfortunately, she never explained what it meant for things to be getting out of hand, or how we were supposed to know that they were.

“I just wish she’d have told us some practical things,” I said to the other girls, “like signs to look for that you might be getting your first period.”

“Why?” Diane asked. “Do you think you’re getting yours?”

“No, although I have got a growing patch of hair – down there – and I’ve got more hair under my arms than I used to. But I know I will at some point, and I’m afraid that I’ll just suddenly…”

Terri laughed, then told me to relax. Her older sister had explained a few things.

“When it’s getting close,” she said softly, “you’ll notice a light, yellowish stain in your panties.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Yeah, well she said that shortly before your first period, there’s a light discharge that you probably don’t even notice, until you see this stain…oh, my God!” she blurted, seeing the look on my face. “How long ago?”

I swallowed hard.

“A few weeks,” I said.



One morning in late March, I woke up feeling awful. My stomach felt bloated and a little cramped, and my breasts bothered me when I put my bra on. Mom had said that my A-cup might start to feel tight and that I’d graduate at that point to a B, but we both thought that wouldn’t be for a while, yet.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I had a little cereal for breakfast. “You seem out of sorts this morning.”

I decided not to mention my sore breasts, and told her that I just didn’t feel that great – maybe I was coming down with a bug or something. She felt my cheeks and forehead, pronounced me fever-free and kissed me on the head.

I left for school at my normal time; it was a grey, overcast day, which didn’t help my mood, any. But I was anxious to get to school and talk to Terri. I was glad to see she was already on line when I got there.

“Hey,” she said softly. “You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel so good, either,” I told her. She asked me what was up, but then we were joined by a group of girls, and some of the boys drifted within earshot, so I just said, “Later.”

We went upstairs, and the morning seemed to just grind along. It was just before recess that I happened to shift in my seat, and thought I felt wetness in my panties. I raised my hand and asked to be excused and walked quickly to the girls’ bathroom, where I confirmed that my first period was under way.

I had a sanitary napkin in my shoulder bag, and Mom had shown me how to use it “just in case”. Then I went to the nurse’s office, just to make sure there wasn’t anything else I was supposed to do.

“Do you need an aspirin, honey?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ve got some cramps, but they aren’t too bad. I just feel kinda bloated.”

She smiled sympathetically.

“You’ll get used to it. If you start having real bad cramps, just tell Sr. Anne you need to see the nurse. I’ll talk to her at recess and let her know you were here.”

I nodded.

“Chin up, sweetie,” she said with real warmth. “This isn’t the glorious part of growing into womanhood, but it’s a necessary part.”

“Kind of early, isn’t it?”

“Kind of. But I’ve seen earlier. Some girls have a really difficult time of it, but I have a hunch you’re gonna do just fine.”

The class was already outside for recess when I left, so I got my coat and went out and joined them. Terri, Diane and Joanne were all waiting for me. Terri was smiling knowingly.

“I know what you got,” she said.

“You okay?” Diane asked. I said that I was. They all wanted to know the details, so they’d know what to expect.

I felt lousy the rest of the morning, and sometimes it was difficult to concentrate. I was glad to break for lunch, but when we got down to the cafeteria, absolutely nothing appealed to me. Finally Terri chose for me.
“Chicken soup,” she said, noting that they were serving that as one of the two soup selections. “My grandmother swears by it for just about anything.”

When we got to the table, I could see the girls all wanted to ask questions, but they refrained. I concentrated on getting the soup down. After I finished, I told Terri that her grandmother had been right – I did feel a little better.

When we got back out to the schoolyard, I saw Jimmy.

“You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”

“I just don’t feel so good today,” I said. He pressed, asking me what it was, and for the first time since we had become boyfriend and girlfriend, I had a doubt. Would he respect my feelings, or would he make some kind of crass joke? Finally, I told him that I thought it might be something I’d eaten.



In May, I made my Confirmation. I took Teresa as my Confirmation name, which made Terri cry when I told her. She, in turn, took Anne, which is my middle name. I had a new dress and wore stockings and heels, and even a little make-up. Outside the church, Terri’s mom took a picture of the five of us, and then one of just Terri, Diane and me.

We had the family over, and for the first time, I felt more like an adult than a kid. I was allowed a glass of wine with dinner, and for the first time, it seemed like people wanted my opinion about more than just what I wanted to be when I grew up. The next morning in the schoolyard, I told Terri and Diane that I felt like I was in a place I didn’t ever want to leave.



That was not to be. Later in May, I came home from a corps rehearsal, looking forward to a sleepover that night at Terri’s. I saw my grandfather’s car in front of the house, and thought that strange, because Mom hadn’t mentioned going shopping with grandma. Then I saw him coming toward the gate alone.

“Hey, there, Erin!” he called cheerfully, and I gave him a hug and a kiss. “You’d best get on upstairs; your mom and dad have some news for you.”

I climbed the stairs and found Dad sitting at the kitchen table drinking a beer while Mom was at the stove, getting dinner started. They both greeted me cheerfully.

“I saw Grandpa leaving,” I said. “He said you had some kind of news.”

Mom looked like she was going to say something, but Dad beat her to it.

“Sure do,” he said. “We found a nice apartment, and we’re moving as soon as your school year ends.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, you knew we were looking,” he said. “I was starting to think we might not find a nice place. But this is just off Jericho Turnpike, a nice two-family house. You’re going to have a room about twice the size of this one, and no one will ever go through it to get to the bathroom.”

“But…what about school?”

“I told you, we’ll move right after your school year ends, probably July 1st.”

“I don’t mean that,” I said, still feeling like I’d been hit in the head. “I…I’m not going to graduate from St. Anne’s?”

“No, honey,” Mom said, trying to be soothing.

“You’ll go to my old school for eighth grade,” Dad said.

“But you hated it!” I snapped. Dad had told me countless stories over the years of his agonies in parochial elementary school. Now he was pitching it like it was a bonus or something.

“That was years ago,” he said, shrugging off my concern. “Besides, you’re a much better student than I ever was.”

“But my friends…”

“You’ll make new ones, honey,” Mom said. “Besides, it’s only three miles away. You’ll remain close to Terri and the other girls.”

“But why do we have to move, now?!” I demanded. “What’s the rush?!”

“The neighborhood is changing, Erin,” Dad said. “It’s getting more dangerous every year. Pretty soon, it won’t be safe, and I’m not placing my wife and daughter at risk, and that’s the end of the story.”

“I have to pack my things,” I said. “I’m staying at Terri’s tonight."

I waited until I was at Terri’s before I let myself cry, and then I had myself a good one. Terri and her mom hugged me, and Terri swore we’d always be friends. I knew we would, but this was killing me, anyway.
A few nights later, Dad went downstairs to pay the rent, and told Mrs. Madden we’d be moving at the end of the month.

“She was shocked,” he told Mom, with not a little pleasure. He’d had a number of minor battles with our landlady over the years. “I think she just assumed that we would wait until Erin graduated.”

“Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “We’d never want to do that!”

It was pretty clear that they hadn’t counted on my opposition, but it was also clear that my opposition wasn’t going to change anything. I was in a miserable state of mind as the school year wound down.

[Robyn Katie]

Early daylight glows whitely in at my window. I am sitting up in bed, my thin legs muffled in the pink taffeta stuffed puff of eiderdown, long blonde hair tumbling down my back. The pale pink nightgown’s scarlet ribbon sleeves are tight at my thin forearms. In the mirror opposite is my image, pale skinny girl in that lovely pink with red roses.

I regard myself with reservations. The white is nice, I almost look like the princess I secretly know I am (but I got switched in the cradle and had to grow up with this ordinary family instead of in that beautiful faraway palace I daydream about), however in my opinion my pale, nondescript, completely un-dazzling face leaves a good deal to be desired. While as for this hair …

Gathering it in a big bunch over my shoulder, I flip it down my front. There’s a lot of it. But it’s sort of like hay, and its color is dishwater blonde. I have a scary feeling that girls cursed with hair my color will never come to anything.

Spring air comes stealing in through the open sash, shade high, drapes wide. Alacrity strikes. I slip out of bed, pad to the window, hands on sill. Seeing as I will never come to anything, maybe it’s okay if I enjoy endlessy staring like a goof out into the mist rising from the stream valley below the mill race without a thought in my head—

That absence of thinking worries me. Supposedly everybody thinks! But what if I’m an exception? Because I have tried looking inside myself at my thoughts, but every time I do I don’t find any. I’m wondering if my brain doesn’t work right, or possibly they left out the brain altogether when they made me. “Use your imagination,” they tell you, but I’ve never been able to find any imagination inside my head either. It’s like an empty room in there. This could be a very bad sign. I wish there was somebody I trusted who I could ask about it.

I don’t know what I will do today. Ride my bike like mad in some direction or other? But it’s very lonely this far out in the country and I’m not sure where I would go. Time seems empty if I have nothing to do with myself. Usually I am swarming with ideas what to do, but now and then, like today, I have no plans, except to avoid giving Mom or Daddy an excuse to find things for me to do.

Even so I prefer weekends ‘cause my time is my own.

Weekdays I would be having to jump out of bed and put on one of my school dresses of course, walking nearly two miles along the back roads to get to Union School, the one-room schoolhouse where I go. Mrs. Richards stuffs us with arithmetic, spelling, geography, history—who cares what somebody did a million years ago? She is a slave driver. She makes us take tests and quizzes when all I want to do is run out for recess, panting with eagerness, and skip rope with the other girls my age while the boys run hooting away. I even had to do a book report, which I was no good at.

I hate school and I hate walking there, which I have to do ‘cause the bus only runs way up on Broad Street and not down here on the farm roads. I especially hate walking with the boys, who pester me and pull on my hair ribbons.

“What an odd little girl you are.” That’s what Mrs. Richards said when she sent me out to clap erasers for talking in class. It’s not me that’s odd! Even though in secret I am a beautiful lost princess, I’m a perfectly ordinary person as far as she knows. I’ve never said a thing to her about magic, or fear, or discovering pirate treasure. I was only feeling contrary that day when I did what I did, which I’m not going to tell ‘cause it was stupid. School is stupid. I’d much rather be walking around outdoors exploring and peering and prying at things—for instance, that new house they were building last year but stopped work and never finished, which you can get in at the empty doors and windows of.

I do like recess though. Me hot, happy, playing among the other girls, skinny-legged in my little yellow skirt. Mom says I always come home with my dress stained but it isn’t true, I’m very careful not to get dirt on it, only sometimes I can’t help it. And as for my shiny black patent leather shoes, anything within sight gets them scuffed. I don’t try to ruin them! Like my hair—I do comb it straight, it tangles itself. And if I come in the house laughing, dancing, soaking wet, my pigtails whacking my cheeks and neck ‘cause got caught in a rainstorm walking home, was it my fault?

Being Mom and Daddy’s daughter is not so easy sometimes. I will tell about that after a while, when I can. But there’s way too much to tell about.

I wouldn’t write this, only, see, nobody ever writes how it really is, being a girl. And who else would know anything about being me? That’s what I mean by truth. I do tell the truth, I don’t lie unless I must. All I try to do is tell the truth, or at least know what it is (sometimes telling it is one thing too many).

Girl with sun in my hair, mud on my dress hem, feet that run and slide and have a hard time staying next to each other long enough to stand still prettily. I don’t necessarily take good pictures, Mommy says. The Brownie box camera hates me. I come out looking skinny or blank-eyed. Maybe I’ll never be pretty?

Love, Robyn Katie

[Erin L]

Robyn Katie, I love your "in the moment" approach. You make me feel like I'm standing right next to you, listening to you.

Hugs,

Erin

[Robyn Katie]

Erin, thank you. But I am awed by yours. You handle so much I never thought of, and do it so well. It has the real flavor of life.

Love,

Robyn Katie

[Robyn Katie]

My mop of fluffy fair hair falls about my shoulders and face, tickling my nose and down around my neck and shoulders. I want to get it cut off, but Mom absolutely refuses to let me. “Your hair is so beautiful!” she tells me.

“Well, it’s in the way.”

“What a terrible shame it would be to lop it all off and look like a boy.”

“What’s wrong with looking like a boy?”

She does not answer this important question. Instead she says once again, “Every girl must make the most of her opportunities in life.

I smolder and plot ways to cut my hair short like a bowl—Faith Perrin at school has hers that way, and it is so neat. Also practical, because it doesn’t get caught in the twigs, for instance, when you’re climbing a tree. For the past several months I have been having a wonderful time, not just climbing trees, but running, jumping, turning somersaults (I am really good at this) and dashing around on my bike like crazy, just as boys do. I think boys have all the fun. They get to romp and be rowdy and get into fights and all kinds of stuff girls like me get criticized for even trying.

Like this nightie right here that isn’t even keeping me warm on this December night. Why does Mom insist on putting me in the same old girlish nighties when a T-shirt and underpants would do just as well. I have told her this.

“Don’t be such a tomboy!” That’s what she tells me. But she’s always saying stuff like this. “Don’t be like that!” is one of her favorite expressions. How am I supposed to not be like I am? Who else would I be like? See, it doesn’t mean anything. So why does she say it anyway? She makes me so mad sometimes.

Well I am a tomboy, so there. I’m a cowgirl like Dale Evans at the rodeo we went to see at that big arena in Philadelphia, not to mention the movies. There aren’t very many movie cowgirls of the sort I like—that Ann Baxter and Linda Darnell, Rhonda Fleming and so on are more window dressing than cowgirls. But I know there were girls ridin’, ropin’, shootin’ in the land of the purple sage, because what about Annie Oakley for instance? That’s the kind of girl I’d like to be.

Or else a baseball player. Sometimes I think baseball is my true ambition. I can pitch, I can run bases, and I can play the outfield. I could play great shortstop if they’d let me but they always pass me over ‘cause I’m lefthanded, as if that made some big difference. When I was nine the Red Sox won the pennant, though they lost the darn World Series. Since then they have been a bunch of shmoes, so why wouldn’t it help if they had a girl playing? I know I can’t hit very well but I play catch every chance I get, and I get in games at school or around home whenever somebody doesn’t actually tell me no. I don’t throw like a girl, either, I have a great arm motion, I could pitch, and the times I’ve gotten to play shortstop I can peg them out at first like crazy, so really, what is the problem?

True, there aren’t any girls in the major leagues. But I could be the first!

Nobody supports me in this. They laugh and think I am cuckoo.

Mom says it is a phase. But I intend to be like this forever. Run and play in the woods at home or across the road from the school. Climb trees, steal apples, fight, row the rowboat in the creek. Not like those sissy crybaby girls that never dare do anything. I’ve got a penknife in my pocket and a yo-yo just like any boy does, I play good mumblety-peg, the knife point balanced on my scalp and allowed to drop. Marbles I’m not so good at, but the boys that play marbles are childish anyway, so what do I care. I’m growing up. I’m a whole inch and a quarter taller this year.

School is … well, school. You have to learn stuff, so I do. It’s not that hard. Some stuff I struggle with, like who can remember all the kings and so on; if it was runaway princesses I might be more interested. But our one-room school is in an interesting place where I love to explore. It’s all farmland around there, and woods, they harvest corn right up to the tiny plot where the schoolhouse is.

There are hardly any houses except for the Longfords a few hundred yards off. I go and visit Ginny Longford sometimes. She’s kind of silly though, it’s impossible to get her out of her little ruffle dress, the most she will do is wear a ruffle blouse with shorts in the hot weather, but she says she doesn’t feel as nice when she’s not wearing a dress. I cannot see how she can feel that way, and I wonder if she is fooling me.

We do go horse riding together, though, and for that she does wear jeans though she usually puts on a ruffled shirt, I don’t think she has any other kind.

Still horseback is fun. “We’re cowgirls!” I exclaim, turning about in my saddle to gaze at her in sheer happiness.

“No we’re not.” Ginny is very literal. But I don’t know why she denies it, seeing as she has a Dale Evans Stetson hat. I would love one just like it, but I haven’t any money, those Stetson hats are awfully expensive.

It is so super running and playing Prisoner’s Base and Hide and Seek in the thickets with the boys. Johnny Welch has model trains in his attic also, and he lets me play with them. ‘Course I also have a cap pistol, any girl worth her keep can shoot a cap pistol certainly, I don’t know why more girls don’t, instead of all that boring stuff like washing, ironing, serving tea … it seems to me a very dire future if you have to do that.

So of course that’s precisely what Mom insists on me learning to do. I have to wash and wring and hang clothes, for instance. I have to cook, even though the results are embarrassing. Then she spends oodles of time teaching me to sew, though I’m forever pricking my finger, alas this does not make me pass out like Sleeping Beauty and sleep a hundred years, sometimes I wish it would. Then everybody and everything pesty from the present would be kaput. But only on one condition: when the prince kisses me to wake me up and asks me to marry him, I definitely insist on the right to tell him No thank you just the same.

“What’s the matter with you?” he’d say. “Here you are a princess, and soft, and delicate, and luscious, and I don’t know what all.”
My lips in a firm line, I tell him, “I just want to do other stuff, thanks anyway. And I don’t want to argue about it, so could you go find some other princess?”

“Well, you aren’t a very nice princess, in my opinion.”

“Sorree! Can’t help it. Can’t talk now, I’m leaving for China in three minutes to investigate the rickshaw racket.”

Replies like this, however, never seem to do any good in the real world. How would you suggest I respond to Mom, for instance, when she gets into her Warnings to Be Careful? “Stay close to home. Keep your hair-ribbons securely fastened. Sit quietly with your knees together, ankles politely crossed. Be clean, neat, sweet.”

She always says stuff like this. When I was little she’d say, “Why do you forever come home looking like the wreck of the Hesperus with your pigtails half loose?”

Of course there is no answer to this. It all makes me so mad I burst into tears.

That makes her comfort me. “There, there,” she murmurs. That makes me even madder, because I realize tears were exactly the girlish sort of thing she wanted, so I got snookered.

The only escape is Out, and out I go in blue jeans or corduroy pants and a T-shirt or in chillier weather a plaid shirt. No sissy skirts for me, except at school—then I have to wear a dress. Or when guests come and there I am all redfaced in ringlets and bows and whatnot. Or to be taken somewhere. Like when we went to the rodeo to see Dale Evans (oh yes, Roy Rogers was there too, but he was boring), was I allowed to wear what little I have that might be considered cowgirl clothes? No. I was in a dress. I was so ashamed to go see Dale in a dress!

Well right now I will say this. I hate to wear dresses! Dresses are for little girls. I was such a simp to be so silly-happy with dressses up to now. Not any more! Not me!

Sometimes I wonder: do I wish I was a boy?

But no. I am much gladder to be me, it would be awful to be a boy. They’re rough and mean and won’t play gently, and they don’t care about quiet lonely places and gentle sweet loving things the way I do. Furthermore, as any idiot can see every time you turn around, we girls are smarter, and prettier, and more grown-up. Do you know kissing girls is fun? Ginny and I tried it, and it wasn’t so bad.

But I would never ever kiss a boy. That’s just crazy, I don’t know how grown-up girls stand it.

Love, Robyn Katie

[Robyn Katie]

Not to hog the thread (please, everyone, add more!), but here's a shortish bit more of me. (For those wondering when in the world I will grow up, don't worry, I will. But for the moment I'm still ten-going-on-eleven. However, there is an actual young woman of seventeen in this section, whoopee.)

Love, Robyn Katie

***

Girls are quite interesting, too, while boys are boring. On the road to Dublin lives somebody I like a lot, this girl Elizabeth Katz, even though she’s way older than me. Her darn brother Steve is my age, we’re in class together, but it’s Elizabeth that fascinates me. She doesn’t even have to go to school any more, she’s seventeen almost eighteen. She is tall, and darkhaired, and skinny, and beautiful, so her life ought to be perfect. But I found out it isn’t.

See, she has boyfriend trouble. We sit in her house at the kitchen table and she is so sad. She has been doing this thing called Dating, but I don’t know why, because it seems to be nonstop awful.

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “Why do you do it?”

Her thin delicate hands open like flowers. “Good question.” She sighed a big sigh. “I love him, you see. But all he ever wants is to feel me up.”

“’Feel you up?’” I’ve heard this term. It has to do with boys putting their hands various places on girls’ bodies. But why this is of concern I am not quite sure. On the playground there’s not an inch of me, I bet, that hasn’t been grabbed by some boy, and it never hurt me a bit (except when Barbara Crawford knocked me down and I wrestled her on the ground, and that was just a knee scrape, and anyway she was a girl, and frankly a lot more fun to wrestle than any of the boys). So I’m sorry if I’m retarded, but I don’t see what the big deal about “feeling up” is.

Of course Elizabeth does have breasts, narrow pointy ones that push out her dress top like clothespins. Do I correctly get the impression the “feeling up” business has something to do with those?

Breasts may seem like a nuisance, but funny thing, all the girls are wild to get them (except for the ones who say they hope they never do). Breasts are bumps that grow on your chest, but only in pairs. Well, really to start with they are not there at all. Then suddenly they grow somehow I haven’t figured out yet, and poke out the front of your shirt so everybody notices. This is part of growing up, I am told—just another of the countless reasons I will probably decide not to bother to grow up. I mean, what would I do with bumps on my chest?

The other day Elizabeth was in tears because of this boy, Jack somebody, who I guess was cruel to her in some awful way she doesn’t like to tell me about.

I took a wild guess. “Is it ‘cause you’re going to have a baby?”

She gives me this most peculiar look. “Dear God, I hope not.”

Aha. That was the connection. I knew it. I have heard something of this, though not enough to feel I have a sound grasp of the subject. Still I know one very important thing, something you don’t get babies unless you do first. Recklessly I ask, “But doesn’t that mean you have been Doing It with him?”

Elizabeth became really distraught for some reason. “Shush! How can you ask me that?”

“’Cause I want to know.” After all, it was just a straightforward question, nothing complicated about it. I really did think it deserved an answer. But she was still upset, though I couldn’t see why.

“Robyn, you’re only—how old are you? Eleven?”

“Um, I will be. Be eleven, I mean. In November I will.”

“So,” giving me this withering glance from her lofty altitude of seventeen, “you’re ten now.”

“I don’’t see what that has to do with it!”

'Cause even if I was eleven nobody would tell me anything. Or even twelve. See, that of course is the universal excuse why I can never learn anything real. This makes no sense.

Besides, I already know most of it. I know the father gives the mother a seed, and that’s what makes a baby. How this is done I’m not as clear on as I would like to be. For instance, it does not seem very fascinating. Therefore I would like to know why everybody makes such a fuss about it! If you believe them, it makes the world go round.

This I am sincerely doubtful of. I mean, if so, show me.

[Erin L]

Robyn Katie,

I haven't been posting lately because I've been so swamped at work and with other things as well. I've only just had a chance to get caught up tonight. But this is really coming along nicely.

I'll post another segment as soon as I get a chance.

Meanwhile, I hope others do the same.

Hugs,

Erin