I Hate Nature Part III

I’m Sure

It took two days for Jen and I to drive from Santa Monica to Arcata.  The yellow Tercel was laden with clothing, Top Ramen and twin bedding, every cubic inch put to use.  My dad wore the half smile he used to avoid crying while Judi looked visibly relieved.  Like the Joads of Santa Monica, we drove off in anticipation.  We broke up the drive midway by staying overnight with Jen’s aunt in an old Victorian home on Potrero Hill.

Jen and I alternated between mixed cassette tapes; our styles of music so different it inflicted mutual audible pain.  I cringed over Neil Young while she endured the Sex Pistols.

The Eagles.  Hurl!

Sham 69.  Help me.

Crosby Stills and Nash.  This hippy crap is making my ears bleed.

Siouxsee and the Banshees.  How can this possibly be music?

A measure of peace was achieved by our intersecting fondness of The GoGo’s, Quadrophenia and the Tubes.  Though Jen and I had run in the same circle at Samohi, she was decidedly an outdoor chick and had joined Humboldt’s Crew team.  She looked forward to getting up at 5:00am and rowing in the frigid bay.  I’d rather be tied to a chair and force fed my least favorite food, peas.

I had never driven farther north than Mendocino and what struck me about the drive was the way 101 transformed.  It became staggering in its beauty; much scarier than Sunset Boulevard.  There were so many enormous trees.  Passing the little Toyota were huge logging trucks stacked with enormous freshly chopped redwoods. With fernlike leaves swatting at the windshield, I hugged the road carefully, trying to see through the spitting rain. I was terrified of this type of vehicle next to mine.  I thought for sure, my little tin car would be swallowed whole.  With visibility at an all time low, I concentrated on the yellow lines of the road, windshield wipers on the fastest speed.

When we arrived, I drove Jen to her dorm, Sunset Hall.  Sunset Hall was closer to Founders Hall in another area of the campus.  It mirrored Redwood Hall, with a grassy quad in the middle.  It was a coed dorm that housed freshmen.  We could see other students carrying in their belongings.  I helped Jen unload and we met her roommate.  She was a small dark haired girl whose body was covered in burn scars.  She was upfront about her appearance, telling us that she had been in a house fire when she was three.  She was a nursing major, kind funny and upbeat. I admired her immediately.

I left there and drove to my apartment complex, the Colony.  Because the dorms were full, I was waitlisted for a room.  In the meantime, I lived with two upper classmen:  Paul and Bunyan.  Each had a full beard, wore flannel shirts and probably wielded axes or practiced logrolling in their spare time.  In the three months that we lived together we exchanged seventeen words.  I decorated my room with concert memorabilia and play lists that I had snagged off various stages in Los Angeles. It was there that I cooked my first meal by myself: a pan of Rice O Roni. It tasted like crap.

The first few days of class were uneventful; I have very little recollection.  I stayed in my little room at the Colony, writing letters to friends at home, frustrated that I was missing out on “The Scene”. Skies became grey with regular morning rain.  In vain, I carried an umbrella to shield my vertical coif from imminent hydration.  Walking to class, my feet were constantly damp.  I speculated about whether mold would grow between my toes.  Was that a scientific possibility?

One Saturday, I climbed to the third floor of Sunset Hall to look for Jen.  Knocking on her door, to no response, I remembered that she had an afternoon crew practice.  As I turned to leave I noticed Scott, the obnoxious guy from orientation, at the end of the hall. 

“Hey” we both said at the same time.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I didn’t know you lived on this floor.”

He nodded, thumb pointing to his room.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Jen but I don’t think she’ll be back for a while.   I’m gonna walk into town.  I need to buys some cloves.” I hesitated then asked, “Do you want to come?”

“Sure.” He said, and I saw the hint of a smile on his face.

Clouds did not part, but I see now that the universe had conspired to bring us together.  From that moment, Scott and I began a  deep friendship.  The love of clove cigarettes and all things Southern California bound us.  We had much in common: both raised in beach towns, both had divorced parents.  Both had younger brothers.  And both had an inordinate amount of insecurity that was alleviated by extreme sarcasm and the cultural sport of putting other people down.  Rapidly, I learned Scott’s favorite phrase:  I’m Sure.

“Jen and I hung out in the same group.  We called ourselves the Mickey Mouse Club” I told him.

 “Mickey Mouse Club?  I’m sure”.  Said Scott, laughing.

Returning to the dorm, we smoked a clove and Scott confided in me.

“There’s something wrong with my roommate”.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He doesn’t talk.  Like, I’m sure.  He won’t say a word.  Come look at this”:

We walked into Scott’s room where he showed me the corkboard over his roommate’s bed.  While most corkboards had photos of friends and bands, this board had only one sentence, written in large letters.

“The Lunatic is in My Head” I read aloud.

“I’m sure”, said Scott, falling into a fit of nervous laughter.

“What the hell does it mean?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“You think I have a clue?” he said.

“You’d better be careful.  He might try to smother you will a pillow.”

“I’m sure.”

Later, we found out that it was a lyric from a Pink Floyd song.  There was a lot of Pink Floyd music wafting through those halls, in conjunction with the skunk like smell of weed.  I was not a pot smoker.  It made me too paranoid.  Anyone could get a contact high most days though, just by walking through Sunset hall.  The potheads had different energy: slow, turtle like responses.  Most had long hair and glazed red eyes.  They were quiet.  We were not.

Mid Quarter, the Resident Advisors organized a social event: the Dead Celebrity Halloween party.  Scott and I started preparing our costumes immediately.  He would be Sid Vicious and I would be Edie Sedgwick, an obscure Andy Warhol Factory Model.  I helped Scott dye his hair ink black and using all of my best styling tools, gave him the spikiest "do" that his fine hair would allow.  I placed him in a trench coat and ripped T-shirt, wrapping a thin spiked belt around his neck.  I wore the white go-go boots that my grandma had given me, combined with a black mini skirt with zippers on the sides. I added large plastic mod earrings and painted exaggerated cat eyes on my lids. Getting dressed was half of the fun.

The Dead Celebrity Party was our unofficial coming out party.  We got obnoxiously drunk on Mickey’s Big Mouth malt liquor, racing through the halls, dominating the turntable at the party where we protested what we deemed as deplorable pop music. Asia and Loverboy didn’t stand a chance.  Forcing our will upon the partygoers we put on the Clashes Combat Rock album where we did lip sync to the song, “Know Your Rights” on the dance floor.  We terrorized most of the kids by our extreme behavior.  But we ingratiated ourselves to many.  We bonded to a sweet girl from Walnut Creek named Katie, who was the first person I knew who used snuff.  We became friends because we both avoided the football games.  She put Scott and I in her student film.  In the film, I strutted down Sunset Hall like it was a catwalk to the music of Funboy Three.  It was an imaginary ad for jeans.  Katie captured a close up of Scott, who on the reverse angle looks at me, feigning surprise over the designer jeans, and drops the clove cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the dimple poignant on his chin.

I’m sure, Scott said as we filmed.

Having an inborn flair for the dramatic, I could make Scott double over in fits of laughter by doing a hammed up pretend music video to Christopher Cross’s song Sailing.  Jen had that cheesy song among her mixed tapes and we teased her about it.  When things got too serious and we all needed a study break I’d say,

“I can do Sailing”.  All I had to do was look over at him and we’d die over what we discerned as the song’s ridiculous sentimentality. Even Jen couldn’t resist the hilarity and it cracked her up.

We made fun of people because we were insecure.  We teased Jen and her friends for their choice of Tie Dye shirts.  We called them Trail Mixers.  We made up songs about them.  Despite Scott’s academic probationary status, he was very clever at making up lyrics to our songs.  We were badass legends in our own minds.

Scott had been accepted to HSU with a one point something GPA. 

“I’m on Academic probation, I’m sure!”  He’d say but with a note of worry in his voice.  Winter quarter, we signed up for, and finally passed, Algebra II.  It was a class we had both failed in high school.  We worked hard over the equations and felt good about our comprehension of the subject.  It was my one and only mathematics class in six years of college and I earned an A.

That Winter I watched on television as the Santa Monica Pier collapsed into the ocean.  It was a symbolic gesture on the Pier’s behalf; the crumbling of my childhood and the tumultuous emotions I felt as I grappled with my new surroundings.

One Friday evening, Scott and I were scoring our weekend’s provisions of alcohol through Carmen, who, at the ancient age of 22, could legally enter Redwood Liquors.  Jen and some of the Trail Mixers stopped us in the hall.  They were heading to the beach to watch the sunset and asked if we wanted to come along.

“Go and watch the sunset?  Um, no thank you.” I said

“Come on, why not?”  Jen asked.

“I hate Nature!” I said emphatically.

The trail mixing hippy chicks looked at me and gasped.

“You hate nature?” one of them asked bug eyed.

“I do.  Plus, it’s stupid to get all gooey.  Oh, look at the sunset.  How beautiful…” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Besides, I wearing heels” I added.

“You hate nature? I’m sure.”  Scott said, practically falling to the ground and rolling with laughter.

But I could tell that he wanted to go.  And maybe he did go.  I can’t remember.  Maybe this was when Scott and Jen became a couple.  It didn’t last long.  Over Spring Break he cheated on her and it wasn’t with another girl.  He felt awkward about it and I was the only person that he told.  I guarded his secret to the detriment of my friendship with Jen.  Some things were too confusing to laugh about.

 I could not have expressed why I hated nature back then except to say that it made me feel too much and at that point in my life I didn’t want to feel anything.  I preferred numbness.  Nature reminded me of that subterranean spring of emotions which ran beneath my tough exterior.  It could collapse at any time, just like the pier.  I had a great sense of sadness in my life: my parent’s divorce, my grandmother’s cancer and my deep sense of unworthiness.  One could say these are typical trials of the teenage experience but mine felt especially tough.  I was incredibly self-destructive.  Looking back, I understand how pivotal friendships were during those years.  Each of us had struggles, but we connected through a web of caring that, though it was fragile, contained enough strength to hold us within the bounds of sanity.  In spite of Scott’s insecurities, I saw in him goodness, intelligence and the yearnings of a writer’s soul.  I admired Jen for her work ethic and mental toughness; traits that I never could have achieved.  And Katie oozed such naïve vulnerability that being around her always softened one’s heart.  There are many more stories of the shenanigans of Sunset Hall, but these are the most dear to me.  For all of us it was a year of growth.  Freshman year is always a baptism of sorts and I understand now, that there is no way around the woods, only through them.  My emotional growth, unlike the Redwood trees was a slow, slow process that was only beginning.

Last year, wrapped in the warm water of the springs at Esalen I was naked, among strangers, bathing in the light of a full moon.  The ocean was so close and looking down through the crags of the cliffs I watched the waves as they smashed against the earth.  Like they always have.  Like they always will.  Stripped of everything I am humbled by the natural, grateful for the steady heartbeat of this earth.  

All I have left is awe and reverence.

The End

I Hate Nature - Part II

 Orienteering

In Sweden, there is a competitive sport called Orienteering that calls for participants to navigate unknown terrain using only a compass and a map.  If you have been raised in a natural environment and have good sense of direction you may have an advantage.  To the 17 year old me, whose only navigational skills included timing the fastest driving route from Santa Monica to the Beverly Center, the campus of Humboldt State was like an orienteering competition on Mars.

“Welcome to Orientation Weekend; a crash course in this small challenge called life.  You are being forced to attend by your parents”, said the voice in my head.  I rolled my eyes in disdain.  I was still ambivalent over this recent development.

My plane arrived on the tarmac of the Eureka airport before my brain did.  That happens when you are a creature of the night, not used to waking up until the midway point of All My Children.  Bleary eyed, wearing Ray Bans to cover my lack of makeup, I exited the plane.  With only three weeks to go before fall quarter started, I was still in the throws of summer clubbing.  I had spent the prior night, heart rate going 220 beats per minute "dancing with myself" to Billy Idol at my favorite club, the Odyssey.  I was not in good form.  Pulling a red beret across my eyes to shield them from the glare of daylight, I was met by a tubby blonde counselor whose name has escaped me though I feel compelled to call him Thumper.  He was proudly wearing an HSU sweatshirt and had pasty white skin that accentuated the yellow of his slightly bucked teeth.  He guided me, along with a few other strange looking pale children, into a van where we were shuttled to Arcata, the college town that is the home of Humboldt State University.

It was a sunny day in august, something that I would later find out is/was as rare as the Northern Spotted Owl.  Had the admissions office conspired with the Weather Gods to make us believe that it always looked this lovely?  The billowing clouds and azure skies were tainted however, by a smell in the air; a distinct odor of egg sandwiches left forgotten in a heated car.  Later, I found out that the local pulp mill was the cause of this fetid odor.  In a town with a bad economy, residents tolerated the production of paper, allowing a putrid blanket of old Easter Eggs stench to cover Humboldt Bay.  It reached Arcata occasionally, depending on how the wind shifted.

Both towns being traditional logging towns, they looked similar to any town along highways One and 101 in Northern California.  Tiny dilapidated Victorians, that must have been beautiful once, were nestled next to "large tool" equipment rental stores and truck stops with blinking neon lights.  As we reached the exit for the university the first thing I noticed was how much greenery there was.  Stepping off the shuttle, I was assaulted by giant redwood trees, the sight causing me to catch my breath in dread as I remembered my one and only stint at Girl Scout Camp.  The outdoors was a dangerous place.  I knew that from watching the news.  Weren’t people always disappearing in the Angeles National forest?  Grabbing my duffle bag, I looked around cautiously.  At least the air was better at the campus.  And with the briny scent of the nearby bay, it reminded me of Mendocino, where my mom lived. 

The campus was etched into the mouth of a hilly redwood forest.  I could see signs for hiking trails. (As if, I would hike, I thought to myself).  The dorms were constructed along the escarpments of the forested canyon and had weird names:  Hemlock, Madrone, Chinquapin, Alder, and Cypress, among others.  It was quaint but I couldn’t have identified the differences between a Chinquapin and a ground squirrel under the best of circumstances.  If we had been talking record labels or tracing the nuances and migrations of punk, mod and rockabilly music from the UK to the US I was your girl, but tree names were beyond my sphere of influence.  Climbing what felt like 8000 steps to my dorm room in Madrone, I was nervous.  I didn’t know anyone, of course and so I was my usual silent self.  I saw kids with parents, mostly moms, who walked around with those smiling confident faces that adults usually wore and felt a sting of envy.  As lame as parents were, I wished mine had come with me. Both said they needed to work.  Being no fool to their ways, I knew that they were cohorts who had joined forces to kick me out of my feathered LA nest.  The downy comforts of a concrete jungle: traffic, smog and the cocoon of my car were of no use here.  I stood in front of the guest room suite and opened the door.

“Hi” said a freckle-faced girl with short auburn hair.  She too was from LA.  Her name was Nancy and we had a common friend in the nightclub scene, which put me at ease.  She was hip with an air of confidence and she had... records!  She was a sophomore who had moved in early.  Immediately I flipped through her vinyl collection and we began listening to the Dance Craze album, discussing the superiority of the B-side while she offered me a clove cigarette.

How strange, I thought to myself.  What a small world. I put my things down on the crude bunk bed and looked out of the window.  Redwoods encircled the building, while shards of early afternoon sunlight lit the room.  I had dressed somewhat conservatively on the plane and needed to up my game.  Purple Guess Jeans and a striped t-shirt from Flip of Hollywood would not dress to impress.  Putting on my plaid bondage pants, I mused, would be edgier.  I also added a vintage man’s sweater vest for a touch of androgyny.  In truth, the clothing I wore was armor that I used as a distraction to hide my slightly chubby physique.  Ripping off the red beret I began a typical 80’s hair routine:  wet hair, add just the right amount of Dippity Do, and blow dry upside down.  Using teasing comb, tease hair vertically and apply Aqua Net hairspray, until hair won’t budge.  This coif added a good three inches to my 5’3” frame.  The dyed platinum color would hopefully draw the eye upward.  For makeup, I added some Maybelline black cat eyeliner and some frosted pink lipstick.  I thought I looked fabulous.  Since I was 17, I probably did.

Checking myself in the mirror, I did my best pout and nodded in approval.  I picked up the Xerox copy of the day’s events and saw that I need to be at a group orientation in Founder’s Hall in five short minutes! Shit!  I thought to myself.  Throwing on my Ray Bans, I quickly dashed out of the building, wondering how long it would take to walk there.  I was no good at calculating foot time, only driving time.  As fast as I was going, clomping along in uncomfortable vintage heels, by the time I reached the top stairs at the opposite end of the parking lot I was 3 minutes late and had started to sweat.  Where the hell was Founder’s Hall?  I saw a few people streaming in one direction so I followed along.  Eventually I came upon Founders.  It was a beautiful old building, but my god, there were even more steps to climb.  This place was the freaking Alps! Blisters were starting to form on the backs of my feet. I entered the building.  High heels clicking along the tiled floor, I glanced at my wristwatch.  I was almost 15 minutes late.  Damn!  I found the room number but the door was already closed.  I would have to open that door. I would have to disturb the professor.  I would have to be mortified. 

Steeling my nerve, I swung the door open with a bit too much force causing it to bang against the wall.  Everyone in the room turned to look at me.  The professor stopped talking.  Sorry, I said, as I scanned the room for an empty desk.  I could feel eyes upon me and was flushed with embarrassment. I sat down and took a note pad out of my plastic Fiorucci purse.  Years later, my college boyfriend admitted to me that he had been in that room when I’d walked in late had been impressed by the oddity of my appearance.  I was a creature from the L.A. Zoo, a different kind of wild animal; something he’d never seen before and it had intrigued him.

The rest of the weekend was spent, walking around the campus, and visiting the cafeteria and common areas.  I was grateful that I had brought a pair of Keds.  My legs were sore from all of the walking.  Although I kept to myself, I found out that most of the kids at the orientation were from the Bay Area, which explained their pastiness.  More than a few were on the earthy side of the fashion spectrum.  The Grateful Dead skeleton logo emblazed many shirts.  Lots of them were in tie-dye clothing and wore Birkenstock sandals.  Birkenstocks made Ducks rainboots look like Guccis.  Seriously, they were; and still are, the most ugly shoes ever constructed and to this day I have never refuted my staunch aversion to those stinky leather excuses for foot cover.  But I digress…

Sunday graced us with more sunshine and a final event: the family picnic.  I attended though it was optional and I had no family.  I had failed to connect with anyone so I wandered the food line alone and picked up a hot dog and some chips.  I settled myself on the damp grass and after eating, leaned back, letting the warm sunshine caress my cheeks.  Eyes closed, I sighed.  At least I had the sun to warm my spirits.

“I like your nail polish” a female voice said from behind me.

I opened my eyes and turned around.  It was one of the moms.  She was pretty, with a poodle perm and a warm smile.

“Thanks.  It’s Factory Fuchsia”, I told her.

“I’m Penny”, she said.

We started talking and I learned that she was from Manhattan Beach.   She was there with her son Scott, who had just graduated from Mira Coast High School. 

A few minutes into our conversation Scott made his appearance.

“Here Mom, I couldn’t find any chocolate ones”, he said as he handed her an oatmeal cookie.

“Scott, this is Dru.  She says she goes dancing in Hollywood too”.

Scott was slight of frame, with chestnut colored hair and an adorable dimple in the middle of his chin.  He had on Levis, cuffed at the hems.  He wore a vintage 1960’s plaid shirt but more outstanding was the large smirk he wore on his face as he surveyed me.  What a jerk, I thought to myself.

“Oh yeah, which clubs?” he asked in a snotty voice.

I smirked back, lowering my Ray Bans and said, just as rudely,

“Unless I’m going to a live show, pretty much the Odyssey”.

Again Scott checked me up and down assessing my choice of dress. Narrowing his eyes he said,

“Well I go there all the time. I’ve never seen you there”

I gave him my most dramatic eye roll and shrugged,

“Well I’ve never seen you there”.

“Well maybe you will both see each other here when classes begin” offered Penny.

"Maybe" we answered in unison.

End

I Hate Nature - Part I

 Admissions

During my senior year at Santa Monica High School I was the epitome of cluelessness.  That fall, most of my friends were filling out college applications. I was barely eking through Algebra Two, falling only second to last with a handsome football player named D’John.  When Homecoming week was over and all the celebrations had run their course I figured that I ought to apply somewhere. 

“It’s too late” my best friend, Kim told me.  "You missed the deadline".

I was part of a She Pack of girls that was enthusiastic, well known and motivated. Our pack walked a line between wildness and adoration; engaged enough to pacify the adults at the school, we got away with things like dressing up as babies on Halloween and putting vodka and orange juice in the bottles.  We created the Mickey Mouse Club which we claimed promoted school spirit.  On Fridays, we wore mouse ears and Disney themed clothing.  We never discussed trivial matters like our future.  But most of the Mickey Mouse Club had gone through the college application process.  Many of them also had older siblings or parents who had herded them through.  Kim, being the straight a, honors, first chair orchestra, cheerleading self-proclaimed over achieving Asian that she was, had been accepted to UCLA.  She would live at home just like her four older brothers had done and make the drive in to Westwood from Malibu. Maria, the feisty Chilean had been accepted to USC as a potential dental student, if not hygienist.   Molly, whose mother was Nancy Reagan’s personal secretary, had remained in California her last two years of high school, while her mom lived near the White House.  She would be headed to Georgetown in September.  And Jen had been accepted to Humboldt State following in the footsteps of her brother, a Forestry Major.

And then there was me.  

At one time, after taking the one and only science class of my life, Human Physiology, I thought it would be fun to be a nurse.  Looking back, it makes sense because I was obsessed with a soap opera called General Hospital.  Nurses walked around, flirting with handsome doctors and solving the personal problems of patients, didn’t they? That sounded like a job perfectly suited for me.  During College Day in the gym I had picked up a brochure from San Francisco State that listed the requirements of a nursing degree.   I looked it over with my Dad and Judi and saw that I had a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming a nurse.  Too much math and science required.

Because my dad worked, on average 12 hours a day and traveled 2/3’s of every month he had next to zero interaction with anyone at Samohi, as our high school was affectionately called. I forged my own Sick Notes because he told me,

“They’ll recognize your signature better than mine”

To be fair, my dad had been to the High School once.  This was when I was in a Shakespeare play called Much Ado About Nothing.  Opening night, in the dressing room where I was made up as “the Fair Hero”, the stage manager came rushing in, moments before curtain to exclaim,

“There’s a guy out there with a decanter and he’s passing drinks to his friends!  There’s no alcohol allowed on school premises!”

Naturally, I knew this was my grandfather Woody, who was simply passing gin and tonics to Nana, Dad and Judi.  How else were they to endure 3 hours of High School Shakespeare?

I didn’t know what I wanted to "be" after high school so I blocked the whole college application problem out of my mind

And that’s when I started clubbing. 

Ok, there is no such verb as clubbing.  In proper English it means becoming a participant of the nightclub scene.  It was early 1980’s and disco was dead.  Although I still remained faithful to my beloved poet, Jim Morrison, I now listened to KROQ – the rock of the 80’s.  I loved The Clash, The Specials, The English Beat, Adam and the Ants, and Bow Wow Wow.   I adored Duran Duran whose hit song “Girls on Film” the Mickey Mouse club had lovingly renamed, “Girls on Shrooms”.   I also loved hardcore punk too and blasted Agent Orange and the Dead Kennedys.  Driving up and down Wilshire Boulevard, blowing clove cigarette smoke out of the window of my Toyota Tercel, I sang along to the lyrics of anger and rebellion, dodging traffic.  Punk Rock helped channel the frustrations I had about life.  Powerlessness, hopelessness and the sadness of my unrealized dreams; dreams that I was too asleep to know that I even had.

By the Spring of Senior year I had shaved the side of my head and began wearing bondage pants and black leather boots to school.

“You look like a cancer patient”, dad told me.

I would stay out late dancing in Hollywood clubs.  At 3:00 am I’d be eating Oki Dogs on Fairfax Avenue with friends, in denial about the current day’s tests or quizzes. I went to see live bands and watching the Tubes perform was a regular scenario. One night, driving down the 405 I almost flipped my car with the entire Mickey Mouse club inside.  Oops.

I was a not-so-adorable train wreck.

Graduation was exciting but when High school was finally finished I was too obsessed with Martin, a drummer in the Mod band I followed to even care about college.  That summer was great.  After the shows we’d stay up watching Quadrophenia and getting drunk.  I lived in the moment and it was all a blast.

At some point, I had been cajoled over to Santa Monica City College to pick up an application.  But, it remained blank, unfilled, and buried in the shit pile that was my bedroom.

Mid summer, after a long day of combing through record stores and thrift shops on Melrose Avenue I came home and found my dad on the phone with his nemesis: my mother.

“I don’t know.  Dru, how do you get copies of high school transcript?” he queried.

“Hmmm…go down to Samohi, I guess”

“Well go now because your mother is filling out a college application for you.  You’re going to Humboldt”.

What?  I knew I didn’t have the grades to get into any school. At least that’s what I thought, what my friends had implied.  But my mother had been on the phone with the admission’s office at HSU.  (Had she begged, or tried to sell her soul?)  It turned out that they would consider a late application, and a person with a poxy 2.87 G.P.A. like me.

When the formal letter of acceptance arrived in late July I was secretly thrilled.  I didn’t know anything about Humboldt, where was it again?  Somewhere.  Oh, a forest.  I knew my friend Jen would be going there so I called her.   When I told her I was going too she said,

“Great.  You can drive us”. 

After much herding and prodding from Dad and Judi, I started to pack: miniskirts, vintage go-go boots, my 1960’s mod jewelry, and my black and white suede heels.  Jen came over and watching me hurl things into a large cardboard box remarked,

"Not sure you are gonna need any of that. You’d better get some ducks”.

“Ducks?  You mean those ugly waterproof boots?  No way.  I will never wear those.  They are fashion suicide:  hideous, preppy and gross”.  I lamented

“It rains a lot there.  You’re gonna want them”.

“No way!  Never!”  I said, tossing a vintage leather jacket into the pile.

End of Part I.