Somehow I survived junior high relatively scathed. My haven was still across the street. I learned more about girl stuff from Callie than from my mom. She taught how to shave my legs without dying. She was and still is one of the women who just has a knack for hair and make-up. We spent hours applying make-up, washing it off and reapplying. Callie was amazing with hair. She could roll my hair and make it do something. She could give me the perfect Marlo Thomas flip or Faye Dunaway bob. OK, we had a few accidents. We decided we simply had to save our money and buy Frost and Tip kits for our hair. She did my hair first. We had a small problem with cap leakage and I had streaked and polka dot hair for a while. Didn't matter she was my idol.
Jeff and I had a brother/sister relationship that made up for not having one with my own brother. Brother never enjoyed having a sibling. He didn't torture me and smack me around like some brothers but he found ways to torment me. When I was tiny he would spell insults at me. "Mommy, bother is spelling at me!" Not very threatening. He did put a snake in my bed once. As he explained in his defense it was dead and he had washed it. When he started reading Mark Twain I was his patsy for all sorts of tricks but mainly he ignored me. Jeff and Callie were close and I was the other sister. We had secrets and private jokes. We knew each other's dreams and desires. We were family.
The Macs had family discussions. Nothing was off the table. Sex, drugs, rock and roll, social injustice, current events, there was nothing you couldn't ask or say. The Mac's not only tolerated our love of music they applauded it. Miz Mac would listen to Jeff and me play the same tunes over and over and be thrilled every time. Callie and I sang Oh Holy Night for her because, "it just isn't Christmas until you girls sing". How did I not belong here?
I would go home to the same quiet house, rigid rules of propriety, constant reminders of fear and death. Constant reminders that dad should be treated with kid gloves as depression was taking it's grip again. I took solace in my room. Me and my guitar. I would sing, wail even every song I could learn or fake. One night the door of my room opened and there stood my dad. "Please, please do not do that". "What?", I asked. "Sing like that, it sounds like finger nails on a black board. You have no style. That sliding from note to note is terrible. Please stop".
The one thing I thought I might have left with my dad was gone. I was crushed. I had failed on all levels. This man that I had adored as a little girl, this brilliant talented man hated me. I could see disappointment on his face everyday. I wanted to die.
Shortly thereafter boys, make that boy and a college man, appeared on my porch. January 1, 1969 changed my life. I met him. Paul. The man I would love forever. He would change me in ways that still effect me today. In a period of just a few short months he would take me on quite a journey. He would set a standard that no man could meet for many years. I was a goner.
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