DRAWING FROM THE WELL

For Inspirational GuidanceHow the Power of Prayer and God’s Guiding

Hand Has

Brought Physical and Mental Healing to MeRuth W. Shults

Smashwords Edition

DRAWING FROM THE WELL

For Inspirational GuidanceHow the Power of Prayer and God’s Guiding

Hand Has

Brought Physical and Mental Healing to MeRuth W. Shults

Copyright © 2007 Ruth Shults. All rights reserved.

Mill City Press, Inc.

Mill City Press, Inc.

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ISBN 13 - 9781934248805

ISBN 10 - 1934248800

LCCN

Cover Design by Alan Pranke

Interior Design by Peggy LeTrent

Photos taken by Sue Logston

Printed in the United States of America

In memory of

My grandmother, Johanne,

my mother, Marie,

and

my father, Bill.

My sincere thanks to

Lucy Colson,

Edward Moulton,

Sue Logston

and

Sherrie Quillen

for always being there when I needed them.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Part One: My First Awakening

Chapter One: My Early Life in Northern New Jersey

Chapter Two: My Early Revelations

Chapter Three: Grandmother Buesing’s Strength

Part Two: State Of Opportunity

Chapter Four: Working in New York City

Chapter Five: Marriage and Moving to California

Chapter Six: Sports Cars Racing

Part Three: Through the Curtain

Chapter Seven: The Mobil Gas Economy

Chapter Eight: A Paradigm Shift

Chapter Nine: The Curtain Opens

Chapter Ten: Divorce and My Own Apartment

Part Four: Thirty Years Of Discovery

Chapter Eleven: Thirty Years with TRW

Chapter Twelve: Affirmative Action

Chapter Thirteen: Creating My Second Position

Chapter Fourteen: The Party Is Over

Chapter Fifteen: Summation Part Five: Throwing My Hat Back In The Ring

Chapter Sixteen: What Makes Ruthie Run

Chapter Seventeen: Romance

Chapter Eighteen: Marriage

Part Six: A New Family

Chapter Nineteen: The Torrance House

Chapter Twenty: Divorce

Chapter Twenty-One: Another Door Opens

Chapter Twenty-Two: Special Gifts

Part Seven: Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Three: Mother Dies

Chapter Twenty-Four: Resolving Issues with Dad

Chapter Twenty-Five: Reciprocal World

Part Eight: Return To Judaism

Chapter Twenty-Six: Spiritual Search

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Summation

Part Nine: Call It Divine Intervention

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Overview

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Have Mercy on My Soul

Chapter Thirty: Through the Curtain

Chapter Thirty-One: Doctor’s Misdiagnosis

Chapter Thirty-Two: Self-Pity

Chapter Thirty-Three: Be Still In Spirit

Chapter Thirty-Four: Was I That Boy?

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Divorce Settlement

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Words “I Love You”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Not on My List of Things To Do

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Redondo Beach House

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Giving Back to the Community

Part Ten: Power Of Prayer

Chapter Forty: Spiritual Intuitive Guidance

Chapter Forty-One: My Approach to Prayer

Part Eleven: Cutting Out The Past

Chapter Forty-Two: Cancer

Chapter Forty-Three: Message From Joshua

Chapter Forty-Four: Success of All Successes

Part Twelve: Moving To Arizona

Chapter Forty-Five: My Unexpected Move

Conclusion

About the Author

Foreword

When Ruth asked me to write the foreword to her book, I was both honored and humbled. After all, I am no scholar. I’ve never written a book, nor in any formal sense commented or critiqued anyone’s work. Why me, I thought? As a therapist, I developed a deep respect for the richness of peoples’ life narratives and always felt privileged to help them examine the many intricate twists and turns that life inevitably takes. Were life’s events, the joys, the sorrows, the travails, decisions and frustrations merely a random and mundane sequence of events, or could they be purposeful? In a psychological context, purpose and meaning often provide comfort and healing. In a more universal sense, it may lead to the question of

what role God may play in the equation. As I read the work that Ruth had put forth, I was highly attracted to what appeared to be her premise of the importance of “spiritually connecting the dots” to understand life’s purpose and how we can work with God to create that fulfilling and healing sense of connection. So frequently we succumb to the temptation to ponder the possibility of God in our lives in such a “spectacular” way, with stories and promises of miraculous deeds and events. People coming from hopeless circumstances against unspeakable odds, rising to meet challenges of Herculean proportion, which can best be explained by God working in our lives. While we may enjoy such tales of striving, in our more reflective moments we are probably moved to say, “I have not experienced God in such a miraculous way.” Perhaps our lives have been filled with the mundane: pursuing education, making a living, trying to form meaningful bonds and relationships, raising families, managing careers, appreciating the good times and coping with the sorrows. This is life for most of us and this is what I most cherished in Ruth’s book. There is a concept in Judaism about finding the sacred in the mundane, and this is one of the central premises of Ruth’s work that so moved me. How do we invite God into our lives and from the context of living what would appear to be an average, conformist existence, walk in His light and feel sustained. Frequently God’s presence in our lives is seen in reflection upon past experiences, but to be able to recognize it and utilize it in the present as we navigate the twists and turns in the river is true spiritual fulfillment. How do we partner with God, how do we pray to God, how do we react when life doesn’t seem to play out as we would hope. Indeed God is a 24/7 partner, and through Ruth’s experiences I drew inspiration and wisdom that I hope I can apply to my daily, mundane activities. Thank you, Ruth, for chronicling your experiences and giving us a fuller sense of how to walk the path and recognize the sacred that is all around.

– Jeff Paris, MS, LPC

Scottsdale, Arizona

Introduction

I had a profound experience during my seventieth year that I could not have survived if not for the guiding hand of a higher

power. For some time I have felt that an invisible hand has guided my life’s journey. I have a strong belief in God as a force in my life and I interpreted this invisible hand to be His. I validated my belief in God’s involvement in my life when I retraced my life’s journey and when I compared those peak intervals during my life to where I felt God’s hand was active. However, to understand my journey I re-alized I needed to incorporate some of my grandmother and mother’s experiences as well. Some of the tribulations they had with my grandfather and father became part of my emotional heritage – my taproot.

In my grandmother’s case, a betrayal by my grandfather made her fear damnation from her church. I believe my mother’s view of men was greatly affected by my grandmother’s trials with her husband; I feel my mother projected this on dad, which I felt was not totally justified. In a dream dad said to me, “But you don’t know my side,” which was true. In my mother’s desire to guide and protect me, she passed on her mistrust and fear. I, on the other hand, attracted two husbands who played into this stereotype. If I had had a daughter, might I have followed my mother’s example?

In my mother’s mind she was preparing me for a man’s world and in that I believe she succeeded. I bless her for that. The discovery I made in writing this memoir, however, is that the influence of the alienation from my father did not affect my life to the extent that mother’s influence did in trying to protect me from a man’s world. This discovery indeed was a double healing. Even though I fully utilized my free will throughout my life, I was always aware of my parents’ voices in my head.

This is an unusual story. You might believe it, or you might not. In some cases it is hard for me to believe these events really happened. Nonetheless, they took place. You could interpret the events here differently. Great! My truth is not necessarily your truth. That you have reached a different conclusion means that while reading my story you revisited your own beliefs, which is partly what this book intends. It is important to inventory and evaluate our own beliefs periodically and to chronicle our life’s journey.

I am not telling the whole story of my life, only those incidents that I feel led to my revelations in 2001 or those I credit with building my character. The people I have included are those who directly contributed to the story I am chronicling. I have changed names, with the exception of members of my mother’s family and the professionals I sought for guidance.

Midway through my life I was exposed to the possibility of

reincarnation. It makes sense to me. Why would God create man with an incomplete soul and not give that soul the opportunity to perfect itself? I visualized that during each lifetime we have the opportunity to place apiece or pieces of the puzzle into a frame that has an image – a blueprint – of our completely developed souls. I believe God knows how our completely developed souls should look and, to that end, He has provided the blueprint. The finished puzzle, then, is our personal master plan. We still have free will to direct our lives, but within the plan’s parameters. As I visualize this, we may indeed miss an opportunity during one lifetime, but we will have a chance to rectify it in another lifetime. On the other hand, we might have the good fortune to fit multiple pieces into the puzzle in one lifetime, thereby accelerating the fulfillment of the soul’s destiny. If this all sounds strange, I ask you to stay with me. I think you will find my story compelling.

I first awoke to my evolving soul’s journey in 1940 when I was not quite ten years old. I did not understand the significance of that experience until 1974 when I was forty-three. Then when I was seventy, I discovered my story really started a year before I was born.

In my twenties, I married. In my thirties, I divorced. In my forties, I married again. In my early fifties, my second union ended in divorce. The chapters of this book are not in chronological order. The subjects in some chapters overlap and further develop incidents already touched upon. These subjects are included to support the purpose of the new chapters, which focus on certain subjects to fully develop each storyline. A lifetime does not evolve in a linear fashion, but contains various levels, that unfold to some degree concurrently. I have arranged this book by subject rather than by chronology.

In the spring of 1935, my father taught me to draw water from a well. This became a metaphor for my experiences and spiritual development. I have not completed seventy-six years of my life on my own terms. I have gone many, many times to the well of consciousness for divine guidance, protection, insight, and nudging. The following chapters will show how this was revealed. They will show how God has played a vital part in my life.

When I began to race sports cars, I learned to mentally plan for accidents so when one did happen, my reflexes would draw upon the programming to help me either avoid the mishap or reduce the damage. For me, religion and prayer offered similar preparation. My mother instilled in me a good, solid religious belief, for which I am eternally grateful. When I was confronted with the possibility of death in 1951, I called upon God. His response became the foundation for my faith in

answered prayers.

A spiritual teacher once told me a story that reinforced my belief in answered prayer. She was climbing the stairs to her bedroom when she reached the landing, a man threw a bedspread over her head. She was terrified but had the presence of mind to start reciting the Lord’s Prayer. The man released his hold on her and said softly, “Lady, don’t scream. Just let me leave.” He did, and he left behind everything that he had gathered in a pillowcase. I wonder how this experience affected the man’s life? I only hope it had a positive effect.

Although I feel fortunate that I spent my early years in New Jersey and New York, I feel equally fortunate to have moved as a young adult to California – the state that offered endless opportunities. There as I matured I built upon my experiences from the Northeast.

What awaited me in California was fertile ground that supported my search for a fuller, more meaningful life. I believe this would not have happened to me if I had remained in New Jersey, as much as I loved the state. Just as moving to a farm provided me with character-building experiences during the 1930s, I strongly believe moving to California in the 1950s provided an opportunity for distinct intellectual and spiritual growth that would not have occurred elsewhere. Although my parents were very conservative in their personal, religious and political beliefs, mother’s admonishment – “dare to be different” – gave me permission to break free from those constraints.

In California during the 1960s and 1970s I benefited from the women’s movement and the teaching related to holistic health and new thought, first as a student and later as a lay practitioner. My twenty-two years of spiritual searching ultimately led me to Judaism.

Working for a major aerospace corporation in the early stages of the race to put a man on the moon, I was promoted into a management position at a time when engineering companies were male bastions. When I was in my fifties, the company paid for me to continue my formal education and obtain a master’s degree.

The aspects of my story that are worth telling are the influence my mother had on my life before I was born and the connection I made with my father after he died. The primary reason for sharing this narrative, however, is my interaction with God throughout my life, both when I was unaware of His presence and when I asked for His intervention.

In my first book, Moonlight Over The Canal – Stories From a Girl’s Life in Historical Morris County, New Jersey (to which this book is a sequel), I cited Bernhardt Crystal who wrote: “We are only

temporary custodians of whatever we have stored in our brain. It’s not going to stay there all the time. You have to pass it on so somebody else can pick it up and go on.” I share these episodes with humility. If readers benefit from some of what I have written, I am indeed blessed.

Part One

My First Awakening

Chapter One

My Early Life Living In

Northern New Jersey

I lived in the lake area of northern New Jersey for the first twenty-two years of my life. This area is as well known for its Revolutionary War history, the homes from that time, the rolling hills dotted with forests of lush trees, as well as for, in more recent years, the horse farms owned by some of the rich and famous, such as Jackie Kennedy. These farms are located in the northwestern section of the state. My parents lived in the northeastern portion. I chronicled these twenty-two years in Moonlight Over the Canal, Stories From a Girl’s Life in Historical Morris County, New Jersey, a book published in early 2007. The following is but a brief overview of my life at that time.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

On December 23, 1930, I was born to George Adam (he called himself Bill) and Marie Theodora Reif. Growing up, I lived in two different houses dad built in Lincoln Park. Dad had a successful construction company before he was forced into bankruptcy in 1933 when his bank failed. When I was four-and-a-half-years old, he moved us to the Martin J. Van Duyne Dutch-American stone farmhouse, built in 1789, located in Montville, a small rural community six miles northwest of Lincoln Park. When I saw the large fields around the house and the old barn, I thought this was a great move, but as we walked through the old house I sensed mother’s apprehension. She had just come from the suburbs, living in a new house with all the modern conveniences, and was being thrust into living on a farm and in what was less than her dream house. Miss Sarah Virginia Van Duyne (whom we called Miss Jennie) owned the house that we shared. She lived in the oldest part, and dad modernized our half as much as he could. Miss Jennie was sixty-nine when we moved into the house.

As a young child, the house, its old barn, the dormant Morris Canal directly behind the house, the farmland and the animals that my parents raised provided an education filled with adventure that built character that I feel would not have developed if we had remained in Lincoln Park. I could wander through the woods behind the house or along the railroad tracks for hours – unsupervised hours. But it was watching my parents take control during times of adversity that provided the unconscious lessons that would later benefit me. They became my model for living my life.

The Morris Canal provided endless pleasure. In the summer I would lay on the once-busy towpath to look for objects in the clouds or just fantasize with my imaginary friends. As an only child living on a farm a distance from other children, I had to find things to amuse myself. With my budding sense of independence and imagination, this was not hard. Summers were also spent playing in Richy Wood’s barn, swinging across a hayloft, going on Camp Fire Girls outings in local woods, swimming in the brook that dad

dammed or staying at a relative’s lakeside cabin.

In the winter my classmates joined me at the canal, which became the venue for hours of enjoyable skating. We skated until it was dark, very cold, and our extremities were nearly frozen. When I walked into the house, mother would put my feet and hands in lukewarm water. She kept asking me the same silly question, “Why do you play so hard?”

The highlight every winter was mother taking me into New York City to celebrate my birthday. We would see a seasonal movie at Radio City Music Hall, have lunch at the Horn and Hardarts automat and tour one of the many museums and points of interest the city offered.

Dad and mother raised chickens and goats, which provided us eggs, meat and milk. Using the milk, mother made butter and pot cheese, which was used to make her famous cheesecake. A large vegetable garden that was planted at the side of the house consumed almost a full acre. Vegetables, fruit and even goat meat were canned and stored in the cellar under the house; other fruits and vegetables were stored in a root cellar built into the towpath of the Morris Canal. I once remember sitting down to dinner and mother pointing out that everything but the coffee and spices had come from our labors. Although most of what they raised was for our consumption, she sold some of the goat’s milk to families with children who had difficulty in digesting cow’s milk, and a few baby goats were sold in the spring to Italian families for their Easter celebration.

Mother modeled for me the joy of giving comfort to the stranger. She pointed out that as financially strapped as we were, there were still others who needed our help. During the Great Depression, many men left their homes and families to travel from town to town looking for work. Homes were marked to indicate either a helpful or hostile owner. One such marking was a sleeping cat. Often, these men would stop at our house and ask to do some work in return for breakfast. Mother did not put them to work, but she always gave them a wholesome farm breakfast. The standard meal was several pancakes with homemade syrup, three eggs sunny side up, homemade goat sausage, fried potatoes, bread, and as much coffee as they wanted. I had the pleasure of serving them in our backyard.

I started school in a two-room schoolhouse in January 1936 after I turned five the month before. Since I only spent a half-year in first grade, I sensed I was going to be held back when we all transferred to a fully functional schoolhouse that September. Mother fought that battle and I graduated to second grade with my classmates when we moved. Mother was also determined that I have

a sound religious education. Although I was baptized Lutheran, I attended a Dutch Reformed Sunday school, because at that time there was no Lutheran church in Montville.

In 1941, my world and our country changed when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Sixteen of my cousins entered the service, and we thanked God they all returned. The country’s complete focus was on winning the war. Food was rationed, as was gasoline. Cars had different lettered stickers affixed to their windshields identifying their weekly allotment. Everything needed for the war effort was rationed, but no one was upset by the inconvenience. Even children had their projects, such as collecting used foil and empty tin cans. Black shades, replacing the normal white, were pulled over windows at night, and black paint was put over the top half of the automobiles’ headlights. These precautions were to prevent excessive illumination, which could guide enemy planes at night and illuminate the horizon for German submarines. Mother joined a first aid volunteer group to learn how to treat injured persons if the country was invaded. Often I was recruited as a pretend casualty. We bought victory bonds, and everyone who had a bit of land was encouraged to have a victory garden – of course we were already doing that. Men and women were alert all night watching for enemy aircraft. Women entered the factories to build war equipment while men fought overseas

Dad used his carpentry skills to work the graveyard shift at the Kearny shipyard near Newark. During the day, he built a temporary house on the five acres my parents had just bought in Boonton, northwest of our Montville home. A permanent house was built when the war ended and building supplies became available. We moved to Boonton when I entered high school.

The property my parents bought was between two old houses, part of what once was the Miller-Kingsland farm. Johannes Miller built the original house in 1740, which, after Isaac Kingsland bought it, became known as the Miller-Kingsland house. In 1870 the Kingsland brothers – Phineas, Edmund and Isaac Harrison – built another house called the “big house” just east of the old house. However, Phineas and Edmund lived in New York City, where they were both successful lawyers. In the 1880s Phineas was the city’s comptroller.

General George Washington’s army crossed through Morris County many times, but on one occasion his army, plus that of Count Rochambeau, crossed the Rockaway River using the Miller Bridge (under which my friends

and I would later make our swimming hole) in front of the Miller-Kingsland house. It was reported to have taken three days to complete this passage.

I was an average student in high school. However, I did receive a National Honor Society award for civic studies in my freshman year. Intense discussions at our dinner table about politics, the way the government ran our lives and the day-to-day progress of the war prepared me for the award.

After graduation I knew I would go to work instead of attending college, which waited until I was in my fifties. Thinking I might become a model, I entered Barbizon Modeling School, but as thrilling as it was to contemplate the career, I soon realized it was not for me. For one thing, the pay was not reliable.

I worked in New York City for five years – first for Equitable Life Insurance in Midtown, then for Home Insurance in lower Manhattan. This was an exciting time. On the practical side, the money I made gave me a degree of independence, filled my hope chest, and ultimately provided the finances to buy my own car – a four cylinder English Morris Minor. In 1953, I married Alex, and the following year we moved to Torrance, California, in the South Bay area of Los Angeles. The wedding and the move will be discussed in chapter five.

Chapter Two

My Early

Revelations

There were three incidents in my childhood that foreshadowed my development as an adult. The first was when I was four years old. I stood on the top step of a flight of narrow, steep wood stairs in the home of my parent’s friend. I put my hands against my body and leaned forward thinking, “I wonder how far I can go?” Of course, gravity took over, and my parents gathered their screaming daughter at the foot of the stairs. It was a miracle that I did not break a bone. Many years later, in a college session designed for students to share their earliest recollections, a professor commented on my story. He asked, “And how often do you say that now, Ruth?” This was revealing. I was always pushing on my boundaries and never stayed within a prescribed box.

My second definitive experience, and the most influential, came when I was nine years old, but the full story was not revealed until I was seventy. For years I had said to mother “I wish I had an older brother.” Against dad’s advice, mother told me during her first pregnancy a baby boy was stillborn. She had lost a baby boy through uremic poisoning, from which she almost died herself. She said she was found unconscious in the living room just two days after her doctor told her she was in good condition. Dad blamed the doctors for not giving her proper care. I sobbed when I heard of the loss. She was shocked at my response. Regardless of what she said, I could not be consoled. Mother was sorry she told me, but even with the initial sadness I was glad she had.

The third incident happened when I was in high school. Mother did not want me to smoke cigarettes and admonished me by saying, “Dare to be different.” This mantra not only applied to my not smoking, but in later years it became a way of life. It gave me permission not to follow the crowd. As it turned out, my friends who smoked complimented me for not smoking.

I had always been closer to mother than to dad, and the incident of the lost baby boy made me ever closer to her. I really felt her pain. She went on to tell me that after losing the baby, she was fitted with an intrauterine device (IUD) and was told she should not try to have another child, because her life would be in jeopardy. Then she be-came pregnant with me. She described her pregnancy as relatively easy and said the day before I was born she scrubbed the kitchen floor. This may indeed be true, but it could also be that she was pacifying me because of my initial shock.

Mother told me that she had a different doctor for her second pregnancy. His office was in Jersey City, about thirty-five miles southeast of Lincoln Park. Mother felt he did not believe the story of her first pregnancy, since just before the delivery he asked her to recount it. When she finished, his response was that she would not have a problem with this birth and he prepared her for the delivery. As the doctor predicted, she did not have any physical problems – she had a normal delivery. But from what I found out in my 2001 sessions with Dr. Morris Netherton, whose practice is in past lives, the second doctor reinforced the fears she had from the first pregnancy. The details of this can be found in chapters forty-two and forty-three.

As I stated earlier, I entertained the possibility of reincarnation in my thirties, including the concept of choosing my own parents. The idea became plausible when I reflected on mother’s story that she became pregnant with me, even though she was using an IUD. It would appear I truly wanted to use these parents to reenter this world.

I have never used reincarnation as a reason or excuse for my current situation. My interest was only why a relationship worked or did not work and to help me accept responsibility for my actions in this life. Through my past life sessions with Dr. Netherton, I became more open to understanding my alienation with my father. This will also be discussed in more detail in chapter forty-three.

After thinking about this story and reflecting on my father’s interaction with me, I now feel that he would rather have had a son. When I attended a lecture by the author of a book on being a second child, I realized I was indeed a second child. I was competing with someone who did not exist in my world, and thus I could not fully win the favor of my father. In hindsight, I feel in my father’s mind there was a fine line that separated the boy who died and the girl who lived. But I needed to be accepted as a girl and not live in the shadow of what might have been.

As I said, my relationship with mother was always close. Dad did not have much time for me; he was either working outside of the house or on the farm. Although he was caring, I don’t remember him ever telling me he loved me. As an adult, I realized he had no model for being a father, as he grew up in a Catholic orphanage. Furthermore, during the 1930s and 1940s, not showing affection was typical of men’s behavior. Then again, he showed the greatest love for his family when he provided for us during the Great Depression, even after he lost his lucrative construction business. This was a devastating time in American history. Knowing something intellectually, however, is no substitute for hearing the words.

When I was forty-seven, I was fortunate enough to hear dad say the words, “I love you.”

Chapter Three

Grandmother

Buesing’s Strength

To understand something of my socialization, one needs to know the background of my grandmother and how her life influenced my mother’s parenting skills. I believe mother and I inherited grandmother’s organization skills, her inner strength, and her determination to overcome unexpected adversities. But I also believe our mistrust in men stemmed from grandmother as well.

My grandparents, Anton Gerhard Büsing and Johanne Katherine Grafeld were married in Quakenbrück, Germany, in 1881. Grandfather was twenty-two and Lutheran, and grandmother sixteen and Catholic. Before they got married, grandfather received a special dispensation from the local priest, monsignor and bishop based on him agreeing grandmother could continue in her Catholic faith and baptize and rear any children they had as Catholics, even though grandfather would not convert. He broke his pledge and personally carried his three children, Helene Marie Antoinette, Karl Friedrich and Anna Elise Henriette, to the Lutheran pastor for their baptisms. This broke grandmother’s heart. The bishop was furious. He told grandmother that none of her daughters would survive and that they would never be interred in consecrated ground. According to grandfather’s story, the bishop proclaimed from his pulpit, “Büsing gets no business.” Because of this edict, grandfather was forced by religious and economic reasons to emigrate to America with his family.

In 1886, grandfather left Germany for the United States. His port of entry was Governor’s Island, the immigration depot before Ellis Island was constructed. He continued to Fort Williams, where his immigration papers were processed and his name was changed from Büsing to Buesing. His brother met him there and found him living quarters on 16th Street near Avenue D in the German village in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. This area was referred to as Alphabet City, and it is where the vast Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village housing projects now stand. Grandfather was cautioned to stay east of Second Avenue so as to stay safely among German-speaking people. Italians, Poles and Irish who lived on the west side were also trying to make a living. He found work as a cabinetmaker, having papers to prove he reached this guild status. He worked long hours, six days a week, to earn enough money to bring his family to America.

Every week he sent money to grandmother, who put it in a bank in Quakenbrück, unbeknownst to her sister-in-law, with whom she

was living. In March 1889, she booked passage for four to America on a ship from Bemerhaven, northeast of her hometown. She was twenty-five years old, Helene was six, Fredrick was four and Anna was two.

Grandmother planned to reach Bemerhaven a few days before their departure. She pulled a cart (the typical means of transportation) carrying her luggage with little Anna riding on top; the two older children walked alongside. When they reached the seaport, Friedrich wandered too close to the edge of a canal and slipped into the icy water when the bank gave way. Helene jumped in the water to push her young brother up the bank to safety. A block of ice hit Helene and carried her downstream where her lifeless body was later recovered.

I can just imagine grandmother rushing back to Quakenbrück, with the two small children and Helene’s dead body, which was to be buried in the Lutheran cemetery. There she had to face the judgment of her priest and her Catholic family. What guilt they must have placed on her. After the burial, the three of them had to race back to catch their ship and sail to America. I can imagine how distraught the children must have been and the guilt and sadness four-year-old Friedrich must have felt. With all that grandmother was coping with, I wonder if she had the time, or the insight, to help young Friedrich deal with his guilt. I doubt it. She was probably rehearsing in her mind what she would tell grandfather when she arrived with only two children. I become limp when I think of the grief that she must have borne all alone while crossing the Atlantic Ocean, in steerage, in what must have been extremely rough seas in March.

The family settled into a larger apartment in the same German quarter, staying in what was called a cold-water flat. These apartments were built like railroad cars, long and narrow with no hallway – just rooms separated by doors. There was no central heat or hot water; each tenant provided this.

There was no time to mourn Helene’s tragic death or recover from the trip across the Atlantic before what the family referred to as “the curse” struck again. Anna died of diphtheria, an epidemic that passed through lower Manhattan that year. The losses were so staggering that bodies were put outside houses and collected daily and then interred in common graves, according to religion. Anna was buried in this manner in a Lutheran cemetery in Brooklyn. Grandmother knew she had to get her family out of the city, but this took several more years. In the meantime, she scoured the neighborhood looking for ways to earn money to supplement

grandfather’s wages.

Grandmother then had four boys. Willie and Henry were born in New York City. In 1893 the family moved to Jersey City, where George and Justus were born. My mother, Marie Theodora, was born on December 4, 1898 and was given Helene’s middle name, Marie. In the following years three more girls were born – Wilhelmina (Mina), Johanna (Hannie) and Josephine (Josie).

The curse struck a third time when my mother developed rheumatic fever. She was very ill with a high fever, requiring grandmother’s constant care. Fortunately, my mother recovered with no lasting effects. The curse struck but did not win.

In 1908, they moved to Secaucus, New Jersey, where grandmother’s last child, Karl (Charlie), was born. After nineteen years in America, grandmother’s dream was fulfilled. In Secaucus her children could breathe fresh air, and the younger ones could go to a good school. Being in the country, they had ample space to raise animals and grow food.

The curse struck again in 1912 when diphtheria of epidemic proportion infected Mina. The house was quarantined; my grandparents, Justus, Marie, Hannie, Josie and Charlie remained inside. Each day, Fred placed food from his butcher and grocery store on their front porch; the doctor did the same thing with medications. The family would kneel around the dining room table each day and my grandparents would lead them in prayer. Imagine the anguish they must have felt, believing their misfortune was the result of grandfather’s broken pledge to grandmother and the Catholic Church.

After two weeks of the quarantine, the doctor told them the authorities were lifting the restrictions. Mina had survived the crisis. All the family’s bedding was washed and disinfected. Health officers placed a large yellow candle in each room to burn for twenty-four hours, after that the windows could be opened. The family lived in the barn another week waiting for the fumes to dissipate so they could again occupy the house. Grandfather, Justus and Marie returned to work and the two younger girls returned to school. Mina was still recuperating.

My mother and Mina survived the curse and so did grandmother. It no longer had the power over her, for which I know she thanked God. I hope she also forgave her husband; his betrayal must have been a heavy weight on their marriage during those twenty-one years. None of grandmother’s other children died during the seventy-one years following Anna’s death.

In the twenty-first century, we know curses have no intrinsic

powers – only the powers that we give them. However, grandmother was twenty-five when Helene died and lived in a time when the clergy’s words held a great deal of power. God must have cried for Helene’s and Anna’s untimely deaths, for the anguish my grandparents endured, and for the way the bishop abused his authority by cursing grandmother in the first place.

In 1922, my grandparents and five of their youngest children moved to a five-acre property in Towaco, New Jersey. The family likely moved there because grandmother wanted more space for her farming. Secaucus was becoming residential, and undoubtedly there would have been restrictions against keeping a cow, pigs and chickens. Mina, Hannie and Josie soon married and moved from the house. Grandfather and Marie continued to commute into New York City by train.

My mother met my father in 1927, the same year my grandmother became ill with kidney disease. She died two years later, at age sixty-four. Mother and dad married on August 26, 1928 and moved to Lincoln Park into a house that dad had built.

The stories mother told me of grandfather were not as complimentary as those she told about grandmother. The stories about grandfather added to my growing mistrust of men, which played out in my adulthood years. If she had told different stories, and if my personal experiences with my own father were different – if he was not as aloof – would the way I recount my history differ? I will never know. Our test in life is how we deal with the experiences we face.

Mother and her siblings began working to support the family as soon as they met the basic legal requirements related to education. Mother had worked more than twenty years before she married dad at age thirty. After marrying, she did not work, and she led a comfortable life for a short time. But the Great Depression destroyed that existence, and she was tossed back into living a hard farm life. No wonder I felt her apprehension when we stood together in the living room of the Martin J. Van Duyne Dutch-American stone farmhouse in Montville.

Part Two

State Of Opportunity

Chapter Four

Working In

New York City

Before I graduated from Boonton High School in 1948, I trained at Barbizon Modeling School with the goal to become a fashion model, but I soon realized modeling would not provide me with sustained employment. I had borrowed money from dad to take the class, and I wanted to pay him back promptly to be free of debt. Therefore, I needed to find steady employment. As I was walking south along 7th Avenue in New York City on my way to the subway station, I found myself in front of the Equitable Life Insurance building. I gathered up my courage and knowing that I did well in my high school business classes, I entered the building to apply for a bookkeeping position. Equitable didn’t have the position I was looking for, but they hired and trained me to be a keypunch operator (the precursor to the computer data entry operator). My basic pay was about $60.00 a week, but I frequently worked overtime to save as much money as I could. I worked for Equitable for two years.

Dad drove me to and from the railroad station in Boonton every day. The terminal was Hoboken on the Hudson River, and from there I took the Hudson Tubes to the 34th Street station. I wore a hat, gloves and dark clothes. I could not afford to buy my work clothes so I made them: dresses, blouses, suits, jackets, coats and hats. I enjoyed designing my own wardrobe and making my own fashion statement. I loved working in Manhattan. I took advantage of shopping for sale items at the large department stores and later when I could afford it, I attended

Broadway shows. At Christmas, R. H. Macy’s on 34th Street and Saks Fifth Avenue, Lord and Taylor’s, and other expensive stores along 5th Avenue all had beautifully decorated holiday windows with moving displays.

My salary was not going to dramatically increase in the near term by staying at Equitable, so I found another position at Home Insurance Company on Maiden Lane in the Financial District in lower Manhattan. I worked in the midst of history. Both Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr once lived on Maiden Lane. Furthermore, when Manhattan was first colonized, the northernmost part of the settlement was protected by a wall, ergo the name Wall Street. Beyond the wall, young women tended the cattle, ergo the name Maiden Lane. The route I now took to work changed. When I reached Hoboken, I had the option of taking the Hudson Tubes or the Hudson Ferry to Fulton Street. The ferry was my first choice.

Working in lower Manhattan was an experience in itself, as it was the site of early American history. Across the bay was Ellis Island, where between 1892 and 1954 seventeen million immigrants came to America. The area was also the place where returning dignitaries were honored with ticker-tape parades. In 1951, I was in the crowd gathered for General Douglas MacArthur’s parade after President Harry Truman recalled him from duty during the Korean conflict. It was customary for all companies in lower Manhattan to allow their employees to leave work and form the crowd welcoming the honoree. Paper was thrown from the open office windows onto the crowd and the honoree below. The day the general addressed Congress and gave his memorable “old soldiers” speech, his address was piped through the speaker system at Home Insurance.

Commuting from downtown New York was also a unique experience. At 5:00 PM, the offices closed, and as employees left the skyscrapers they converted the city’s narrow streets into one wide sidewalk. Like ants, the commuters disappeared into the ground headed to the various subway stations and the trains that would eventually take them home.

I, on the other hand, would walk one of two routes to catch the ferry to Hoboken, where I could take the Delaware Lackawanna & Western Railroad (DL&W) home. My preference was to walk west down Maiden Lane, north on South Broadway and west on Fulton Street to the Hudson Ferry Terminal. During the winter, making the

Fulton Street turn was often an impossible maneuver. The street would become a funnel for the cold winter wind that was so strong it often stopped me in my tracks; sometimes I had to walk backwards, combating the strong wind that would go right through my clothes. My other option was to take a shortcut through Washington Market that occupied a full block in a warehouse-type building. Merchants rented individual stalls to sell all kinds of foods – fruits, vegetables, meats, cheese, coffee, and more. Commuters often bought freshly ground coffee and for forty-five minutes I would smell that enticing aroma.

It was a stimulating time. I had the best of both worlds, working in a major city while enjoying the peacefulness of nature when I returned to my

family home in Boonton. (This must have been the same feeling the Kingsland brothers felt in the late 1800s.) For an independent young person, this was pure heaven.

When the cost of the commuting became prohibitive, I found a job at a computer service bureau ten miles from my parents’ home. But before I started working there, I bought a prior-owned four-cylinder Morris Minor. We called it a gutless wonder, but it provided affordable transportation. Having my own car gave me total freedom.

Chapter Five

Marriage And

Moving To California

I met Alex at Boonton High School in the fall of 1947 when my senior class was putting on a play. I was the assistant stage manager and was in the hall when Alex and a few of his male friends, all from a neighboring high school, walked by. I believe it was love at first sight. Alex was slightly taller than me, with light brown hair and a great smile. He was good looking and charismatic. We immediately started to date and found that we had similar interests. Even our differences complemented one another; he was

the extrovert to my introvert.

Alex’s family lived in a commuter community west of Boonton. Through Alex and his family, I was introduced to a way of life I had not been exposed to before. Alex’s parents both came from a modest background, but his father had a college degree, which allowed him to develop a formidable business. My parents were not as fortunate, but they modeled good moral and ethical behavior. Alex’s father understood that; his mother saw that I was not going to have a college education and that my parents did not have money. She wanted her son to marry someone better connected and I understood her desire. However, her lack of approval added to the insecurity I already had about my background. I had not yet learned to appreciate the character qualities my parents had. I was only aware of their lack of formal education and their financial limitations after I found myself in a much different social gathering. If the bankruptcy had not happened, I believe I would not have had these feelings.

In 1949, Alex attended Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The college social life was exciting yet the superficial motivation of achieving this level of gaiety – chiefly getting drunk – was not my idea of a good time. (I can trace back to this period when Alex’s excessive drinking started.)

Life with Alex was fun, unpredictable, sometimes glamorous, and always exciting. He had a winning personality and could always talk his way out of a problem or persuade people to do what he wanted. Initially, his behavior was charming, but later it wore thin. I had second thoughts about our exclusive relationship, and for a short period I dated a man I worked with. Eventually we resumed the courtship, and we got married on June 12, 1953, shortly after Alex graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business. National Supply Company, an oil well equipment manufacturer, headquartered in Pittsburgh, hired Alex. Before Alex was assigned to one of the company’s manufacturing locations, he had to complete a nine-month training program. One of the attractions of this company was the possibility of living in California.

Our wedding was a simple one. The ceremony was in the Boonton Lutheran church, and the reception was at my parents’ home. My maid of honor was his sister, Mary, as my close girl friend Celeste had died six months before. Alex’s best man, Harry, was his college fraternity roommate. We spent the first night of our

honeymoon in New York City’s Plaza Hotel, a total surprise for me. Alex had remembered how I yearned to ride in one of the Hansom cabs parked in front of the hotel. It was and still is a grand hotel of the first order. We took a ride through Central Park that night; it was like a scene from a movie.

The rest of our honeymoon was spent driving a roundabout way to Alex’s first work assignment in Robinson, Illinois. We drove my new Morris Minor north along the Hudson River through New York State passing West Point to Albany, Saratoga Springs, Lake George and Lake Champlain before reaching Montreal, Canada. After a two-day stay, we continued west along the St. Lawrence River, stopping to see the canal locks at critical points, until we reached Toronto. Then we doubled back to the United States and crossed the Rainbow Bridge, proceeding through customs at Niagara Falls. It always gives me a special thrill and brings tears to my eyes when a customs agent says, “Welcome home.”

From there we drove southwest to Robinson, Illinois, where Alex worked for three months in the company’s field office. We rented a large one-room apartment in a private home, where I learned how to cook. Because we did not have much money, I frequently prepared macaroni and cheese, which I have not eaten since. The people in the town were friendly and we enjoyed those three months getting to know one another better and adjusting to married life. We considered the time as part of our honeymoon. One of the high points for me was driving to St. Louis to see the Cardinals play the Brooklyn Dodgers. Dad and I followed the Cardinals; Alex was a Dodger fan.

When the three-month assignment was completed, we took a southern route back to Boonton, passing through Louisville, Kentucky, where we toured the site of the Kentucky Derby. I had never seen such lush green grass or so many white-fenced horse corrals. I stayed with my parents in Boonton until Alex’s training program was over. I returned to the company I had worked for, and Alex spent the remaining six months of his training program working at plants in Odessa, Texas and Torrance, California. He was ultimately assigned to the Torrance office.

The company moved our meager amount of furniture, including wedding gifts and all the items that became my hope chest. I packed the car with clothes and the basic items for our anticipated apartment while we waited for the moving van to arrive. Mother and I drove to Pittsburgh where I met Alex. This was the last time that mother and I

had exclusive time for so many hours. We enjoyed ourselves, talking and talking as two adult women, and then she took a Greyhound bus back to Boonton. I knew she was sad, but I was overcome with my excitement and didn’t acknowledge her sadness.

The 2,200-mile drive from Pittsburgh to Manhattan Beach, California, was a new experience for the two of us – kids who had not been farther west than St Louis. One of the trip’s highlights came when we stopped at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Alex asked if we could drive on the track. The man at the gate looked at our little four-cylinder car and gave us the OK, provided we did not drive faster than forty-five miles per hour. I could thereafter say, “I drove on the Indianapolis race track.” We had fallen in love with sports car racing while we were living on the East Coast, attending races in upper New York State and on Long Island. This was an exciting pit stop for us.

What I thought I knew about the United States drastically changed in our five-day trip across the country. First, I thought the Southwest was desert, and to me desert meant sand. Wrong. Route 66 through central New Mexico ran parallel with an endless row of red-rock mesas. In the northwest part of Arizona we drove through forests in Flagstaff. From there we drove north and spent a full day at the Grand Canyon.

When we entered California, we were approximately 280 miles from Manhattan Beach and the Pacific Ocean and I was eager to reach our destination. According to all that I saw in travel books, California had beautiful palm trees and flowers. But we had car trouble in San Bernardino and lost daylight while the car was being repaired. We left just before sunset, and for the last seventy miles of our trip I had my nose pressed to the window looking for the promised greenery.

In 1954, there was no freeway system connecting San Bernardino to the South Bay area of Los Angeles, so we drove on surface roads. Even though we were losing the light, we could see and smell that we were driving through orange groves and dairy cow territory. This was a vast improvement from the desert, but I still didn’t see the flowers and palm trees I was anticipating.

The South Bay section of Los Angeles was a disappointment and a complete culture shock. In the morning, I looked out of the window of our motel in Manhattan Beach to see television antennas on buildings so close they looked like they were connected. The sky was overcast. I later discovered the cloud cover was typical for April but at the time I thought, “Oh my god, I came three thousand miles

for this?” I had expected trees and blue skies. I also learned that it was typical for beach communities to have houses built close together because of the value of this choice property. Once we walked along the beach, we could see how beautiful the small houses were with flowers thriving on the small piece of land.

We found a second-floor apartment in Redondo Beach, a block from the ocean. This area had more trees and open space between buildings than in Manhattan Beach. After the moving van delivered our furniture, we quickly unpacked the basics and headed north to see a sports car race in Pebble Beach. The trip north did more for me than any consoling words Alex used to allay my disap-pointment with the South Bay. I saw beautifully manicured rolling green hills dotted with California oaks. We passed miles of grape vines and wineries. There were cattle grazing and occasionally we saw oil derricks. There was the open space that I had grown accustomed to in Montville and Boonton.

A month later my perspective on living there changed when the overcast lifted. From our back porch I could see the majestic Pacific Ocean and the beautiful Santa Monica Mountains across the bay. I squealed with delight at seeing the mountains and their breathtaking beauty, which provided a backdrop for the early morning surfers. I thought there could be nothing more beautiful than that scene.

In July of that year, we flew back to New Jersey when Alex’s best man Harry married Cindy. (Cindy now lives in Northern California, and we marveled at how our respective spiritual journeys have paralleled one another.) I looked at the houses and saw how they lacked color and their spacious yards seemed devoid of character. I did not realize that I was in the process of making the transition from the east to the west. The transition was not complete until that fall when I came home from work and conjured up the smell of the season – burning leaves. I sat down and cried. After that I never felt homesick again. It was as though the last remnants of the East Coast had burned out of my psyche.

Chapter Six

Sports Car

Racing

The year after we arrived in California we bought our first racecar, a 1955 MG-TF-1500, which we drove to work in addition to racing events. From 1955 to 1960, Alex and I explored the world of sports car racing in Southern California. He drove with the men, and I drove with the women. Our sports cars were all English. After the MG-TF-1500, we had an MG-A, a Triumph and – the car we loved the most – a Morgan. This was the first time I did something so risky by myself, and it offered me a chance to be something more than just being Alex’s wife. Winning my share of trophies gave me a feeling of accomplishment.

Almost all of our races took place near Los Angeles on courses laid out to resemble country roads. We raced at Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara, on part of the airport runway. We raced on the Pomona Fairgrounds parking lot, on the professional racecourse in Riverside north of March Air Force Base and at Torrey Pines before the University of California at San Diego campus was built. Our only out-of-state race was somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona.

I was fortunate not to have any major accidents or injuries. Once I had a fender bender with another car on a turn. She wanted to be in the same space I already occupied. Another time, I lost control on a turn, winding up in some hay bales. One of my fondest recollections is the competition I had with Barbara, one of my good friends, who also drove a Morgan. Unless one knew the color of our cars or the color of the scarf that trailed from under our helmets, it was hard to distinguish us. Our physical stature and driving style were similar and each of us received congratulations for the accomplishments of the other. The competition between us on the track often provided the most excitement for the audience, even as we were far behind the leading cars. Our cars and driving skills were evenly matched; winning was often the result of luck or how much we were willing to extend our cars and ourselves. In one race, I won by a nose because I stayed in third gear longer than she did as we accelerated from the last turn to the finish line at Santa Barbara. It was not until 1960 at a race in Pomona, when Barbara overtook me flat out on the outside and kept her car under control through the next

turn, that I realized I was not willing to extend myself that much to stay competitive. I knew it was time to quit.

During this period I served a year as president of a volunteer service group called the Women’s Sports Car Club. We helped the organizers of the races with the necessary administrative tasks. In this position I had the opportunity to meet and sometime interact with some of the leading international sports car drivers like Phil Hill, Dan Gurney, Sterling Moss, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen and James Dean – total gentlemen, all down-to-earth and very focused on their driving. I did have my picture taken with Sterling Moss, who was a player.

This was the beginning of creating a world for myself, where I stepped out from behind Alex to express myself.

Part Three

Through The Curtain

Chapter Seven

The Mobil Gas

Economy Run

From 1958 to 1961, I drove Ford cars in four Mobil Gas Economy Runs. These events were co-sponsored by Mobil and the

United States Auto Club (USAC) to promote Mobil Oil and Detroit-manufactured cars. The cars came directly from the factories, with no modifications, and were subject to various security measures to ensure it. The gas economy was achieved primarily through the skill of the drivers who followed the USAC rules by observing all posted speeds, driving the designated route, and reaching the day’s destination within the designated time. The team that accomplished this and used the least amount of fuel became the winner within the different classes. Sometime good-old-fashioned luck played a deciding role in the outcome.

The first Economy Run was in 1937 – a one-day 300-mile event from Los Angeles to Yosemite, California. In subsequent runs, the distance traveled increased to more than two thousand miles, and participants drove twelve hours a day for about five days. In 1957, women began participating, mainly due to marketing studies that showed women often determined what cars their families bought.

My first run was the following year, when I completed a four-and-a-half day, 1,883-mile drive to Galveston, Texas. Next was a five-day, 2,000-mile run to Kansas City, Missouri. My third run was to Minneapolis, Minnesota, more than 2,100 miles in five days. My final run, to Chicago, Illinois, took five days and 2,500 miles. Most drivers had racing experience and I believe my own enabled me to maneuver through city traffic at the posted speed and pick up any lost time that might be logged to me as I entered the city.

Each car carried four people – the driver, the navigator (who sat behind the driver) and two observers. The observers ensured the drivers adhered to the speed limits and that no one tampered with the car. During my first year the observers were students from California Institute of Technology (Caltech) in Pasadena. They were pleasant boys but other than telling us their names and career objectives, there was little else to talk about during the long hours in the car. The following years the observers were professional drivers, which allowed us to have stimulating conversations.

The most challenging run for me was on the third and fourth days to Kansas City, Missouri. We left Grand Junction, Colorado at 3:00 AM and headed for Loveland Pass on our way to Denver. Each hour it got colder and when we reached our first stop for brunch and refueling, we were advised to make our rest time short to ensure we could cross Loveland Pass before ice covered the road surface. If this happened, we would put on chains – the time for installing would be

included in our overall driving time. I stayed with the car during the refueling, and then I bolted to the rest room, picked up food and drink, and jumped back in the car in no time flat. My other three passengers did the same. We crossed the pass without incident, end-ing the day in Denver.

That night, as every night, the cars were impounded for security purpose. The next morning at 2:00 AM we found our cars covered with snow as we left Denver for Lincoln, Nebraska in a blinding snowstorm. I was glad I could rely on my experience of driving during New Jersey winters. My first objective was to reach our next stop in one piece, and the second was to drive economically.

Although I never won a trophy on a run, I did beat my male counterpart (the leader of our Ford team) on our trip to Minneapolis. That gave my team a special feeling of accomplishment. We were congratulated, and the boss was teased because a women’s team had beaten him.

After the run to Chicago, I realized I was no longer having fun. Although we were paid, it was important to enjoy participating, considering the long hours devoted to the training and the disruption to our personal lives. Since I no longer felt the initial joy and excitement, I ended my association with Ford and the Mobil Gas Economy Run.

I look back on this time with fond memories. The event introduced me to some great people who opened new doors for me. The economy runs also gave me a better appreciation of cars and the skill of driving long distances without getting fatigued. I also bought a Mustang in 1964, the first year it was manufactured. What a joy that was.

I drove many miles, crisscrossing the United States. Twice I drove alone to visit my parents back in New Jersey. In total, I have driven through forty-eight of the fifty states; I’ve missed only Alaska and North Dakota.

Chapter Eight

A Paradigm Shift

Our marriage was turning into something I could not have predicted. Alex did not want children; he wanted his life to continue as it was with minimal responsibility. Recently I heard a talk show host explain, “If you have a child, you can’t be the child.” My desire to have a family and a home created many arguments. Our differences were becoming more and more obvious and we were growing apart.

Participating in my second Mobil Gas Economy Run in the spring of 1959 opened a door to liberation that I had no way of

anticipating. After reaching the destination and observing the victory ceremonies, the drivers and navigators were obligated to drive their cars back to Los Angeles. This was a good way to unwind as well as to see some of our beautiful country. The drive home on this occasion had a profound influence on the direction my life would take.

It was not uncommon for various team members to develop friendships during the run and in some cases they lasted beyond the run. Ellen, my navigator, became friendly with the driver of another Ford car, and since he wanted to spend more time with her, he suggested we caravan back to Los Angeles. The men drove the cars, and Ellen and I became the passengers. My driver’s name was Joe and we struck up a friendship during the hours and miles that we were together. Through our conversations, I discovered a type of man who differed from the one I married.

Over breakfast on our last day, we decided to stop at the Grand Canyon. On the road to the canyon, Joe stopped the car, embraced me, and then kissed me. This was our only intimate encounter on the trip, but that kiss was the spark that ultimately changed my life. I was light-headed and felt ten years younger – like an eighteen-year-old. We spent several hours enjoying the Grand Canyon. The beauty I saw around me and the joy I felt inside converged.

Joe and I saw one another as often as we could over the next several months, and these encounters sustained me during a major crossroad in my life. I began feeling better and better about myself as I related to men. This started me on a path of taking back my personal power and standing up for myself. The genesis of healing my deflated self-esteem was realizing that someone thought I was special. We were both married, and although the relationship was progressing I can honestly say I was not looking for it to last. All I could think of was getting through each day; I needed what Joe had to offer. I realized soon after meeting him (although we never discussed the subject) that I needed to be out of my marriage. I had thought of this before, but meeting Joe was the slight touch on the shoulder that propelled me into action. He was the vehicle for me to realize I needed to make a drastic change.

When Alex and I fought, he would threaten, “I want a divorce” as means of controlling me. This always frightened me. And when I suggested we see a counselor, his response was that we could resolve our difficulties ourselves. In June of that year, my response changed. I said, “Yes, I also want a divorce.” It shocked him, as this was something he was not prepared for. Nor was he prepared for the beginning of my emergence as a new woman. Now Alex took some action.

First he suggested that we have a baby then suggested that we see a counselor. To prove to myself and to others that I tried everything to save the marriage, I agreed to counseling after Alex set up an appointment. In my heart I knew it was over. I just needed the confidence and encouragement to end the marriage.

Upon entering the therapist’s room I was terrified and didn’t know what to expect. The therapist was a pleasant middle-aged man, and his room was decorated in soothing colors, but my fears remained. I cannot recall the exact words he used, but he was interested in understanding what I wanted. I could not respond to him coherently. The floodgates opened and I sobbed the whole first session. For the first time in my life a person of authority – a man – was not telling me what I should do, but asking me what I wanted to do. At age twenty-nine, I had to plan my own future.

When I released all the bottled-up emotions, we progressed by analyzing my dreams. My most common dream was of the embarrassment my parents would feel when I told them I was getting a divorce. In 1959, only one of my twenty-five cousins had been divorced. I would have the distasteful distinction of being the second divorcee, although many more would follow. When I announced to my parents and friends that I was getting a divorce, they were very supportive. Their most typical comment was, “What took you so long?” We think we have our family secrets well concealed, but friends can often see through all that.

Chapter Nine

The Curtain Opens

After our second month of counseling, Alex suggested I take the month of September to visit my family in Boonton. He hoped the trip would change my mind about a divorce. The plan was for me to drive his sister’s MG-A across country; his sister, Mary, would fly to the East Coast to meet me for the return trip.

An MG-A is a two-seat sports car with a trunk that holds the spare tire and whatever small soft items that could be placed around it. We put a luggage rack on the trunk lid to hold two suitcases. On

the drive east, I arranged the passenger side to hold a small ice chest for water, drinks and some food. I had nuts, cookies and candies (heaven forbid that I should get hungry), a clipboard for writing notes while driving, many auto club maps and, of course, my camera.

I liked driving alone. My mind is free to wander, and I found I could often solve problems that had seemed insurmountable. This trip was different from previous ones; it was my first solo trip of this distance, almost 2,800 miles one-way. My favorite part of any trip is the planning, and this trip was doubly challenging because I was going to be both driver and navigator. I planned only the route and did not factor in overnight stops; I carried a pillow and blanket tucked behind the seats, so I could take catnaps whenever I felt fatigued. I only slept in a motel when my body said I needed to. My Economy Run training taught me how to pace myself.

The route I laid out was through Las Vegas, over the Rocky Mountains, across Vail Pass (El. 10,603 ft.), Berthoud Pass (El. 11,314 ft.), and through the Rocky Mountain National Park to Estes Park in Colorado. From there I planned to drive east through Kansas City, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Columbus, and Pittsburgh. Then at Harrisburg, I would head northeast for Boonton.

Sports cars then did not have air conditioning and I knew I would have to endure the dry heat of the desert west of the Rockies and the humidity through the Great Plains east of the Rockies. I planned to keep the cloth top up and the side curtains off. To avoid as much of the heat of the California and Nevada desert as I could, I left Redondo Beach at 2:00 AM, reminiscent of my Mobil Gas Economy Run.

North of Las Vegas, the highway was smooth and passed through miles of desert. The grade of the road was gradual and without much effort, I had reached 5,000 feet at the turnoff to Grand Junction. From there the scenery and the road changed. The steep twisting roads were lined with pines and aspens. It was the perfect road for a sports car; I shifted gears down and up to master the road condition. At that elevation the temperature dropped significantly. The air was crisp, clean and invigorating.

The road crossed the Continental Divide several times as I followed it above the tree line in the Rockies, where there were patches of snow on the ground that delighted some small children who made snowballs to throw at each other and their parents. Each time I stepped out of the car to take a picture of a breathtaking view, I was overwhelmed by the utter silence. The only sound was the wind blowing around my ears.

I stopped for lunch at one of the passes. Across the road from the coffee shop was a chairlift, which seemed like a perfect diversion from my steady driving. I paid and hopped on. From the top I had a commanding view of the never-ending range of mountains. The snow-covered peaks of the taller mountains stood out. When I looked down, the MG-A was the size of an ant.

Now I ran into a bit of trouble. I had miscalculated the distance to Estes Park, as well as the availability of gas stations along the way. Earlier I passed up an opportunity to fill the tank because the station did not accept my gas credit card and I thought I could soon find one that would. Wrong! I ran out of gas in the Rocky Mountain National Park. I wasn’t too concerned about my predicament, and I certainly didn’t allow it to interfere with my absorption of the beauty surrounding me as I coasted down the mountain in my stick-shift car. When I reached Estes Park, I found the right gas station, which was a relief. Estes Park is a small town – an old artist community catering to tourists and naturalists. After I took care of the MG-A’s needs, I had a lovely dinner. I walked along the shops and found a motel for the night.

The next day I left very early to start the drive across the Great Plains. The terrain between the Rockies and the Mississippi River consisted of low, rolling hills dotted with grazing cattle then turned into rather flat farmland of wheat and cornfields. The highway was straight and well maintained, making the drive easy. Driving through some major Midwest cities reduced my overall miles per hour, but it did provide mental and visual stimulus. When I entered the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the road conditions changed as the road twisted its way through the Allegheny Mountains. I needed to be even more alert. The median between the eastbound and the westbound traffic was reduced to a low guardrail.

Near Harrisburg, I called my parents to let them know my status and that I had decided to drive on to Boonton since I was so close to home. When I reached home early that morning, I was happy to see my parents. I was especially happy to see my dog Duffy, and the feeling was mutual. Mother told Duffy I was coming and he waited for me all night on the front porch. I was thankful to have ended my drive across country and looked forward to a few weeks’ rest. The house and the property surrounded by green trees were beautiful. I loved living in California, but the nostalgia for life in northern New

Jersey tugged on my heart.

During the first few days home, I talked nonstop with my parents. When that energy subsided, I started to visit friends and relatives in the area and in Tonawanda, New York. While visiting some of my cousins, I observed their interactions with their spouses. I wanted to know how happy they really were and understand what made their marriages work – if indeed their marriages were working. Of course, I did not ask them, nor did I talk to my mother about my quandary. I was too embarrassed to discuss my situation with anyone. Besides, I knew I needed to work my problem out myself, with my therapist’s help. During the time I spent with my parents and relatives, I felt like an outsider. I did not belong there, but I did not know what I wanted when I returned to Redondo Beach. I was adrift.

On the drive from Redondo Beach to Boonton, I was filled with expectations about seeing my parents, relatives and friends. I enjoyed driving alone, because it gave me time to think. The return trip would be different. I realized I needed to have a plan for action, and I was frightened that none was in sight. Having Mary along was a blessing. She and I had similar personalities, and she made the travel bearable. We did not discuss my marital problems, but just about everything else.

In preparation for our return trip, we fastened our suitcases on the luggage rack and covered them with heavy plastic to protect them from any rain. This was fortuitous since we experienced a heavy downpour along the Blue Ridge Parkway. From Boonton, we drove southwest to Atlanta, then through Alabama along the Gulf of Mexico and on to New Orleans. We did not take time to visit any of the historic sites along the way because our time was limited.

Although that was unfortunate, the beauty of the trees, brooks and lakes more than compensated for the manmade sites. Every time I drive through this diverse, beautiful country, I thank God for living in America.

The French Quarter of New Orleans is enchanting and picturesque. Unfortunately, we only had one day to see the sights, so we just visited the obvious places. We walked through Jackson Square to the French Market, where we had coffee and their famous beignets (crullers with powdered sugar). Then we walked back through the Quarter and marveled at the Victorian and Georgian homes, as well as the famed buildings with railings that looked like iron embroidery. We visited the Old Absinthe House, the St. Louis Cathedral, and walked through one of the many old cemeteries with the tombs built above ground. At night we walked along Bourbon Street, splurged on dinner at Antoine’s Restaurant and stopped at different jazz clubs. The next day we started back through the Southwest, back to Redondo Beach.

Time was running out. We were more than halfway home, and I was not close to a decision. Although I was apprehensive about returning home, I was looking forward to sleeping in my own bed and using my own bathroom after being away for a month,

Then, without warning, the solution appeared. Somewhere between Shreveport and Dallas, I visualized a large white curtain opening up, welcoming me to pass through it. In a spiritual way, it was reminiscent of the Exodus story when the Sea of Reeds parted to allow the Israelites to pass through to the other side and to freedom. The image of the curtains parting said it all. I had my answer. I felt as if a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders I knew where I belonged, and I no longer felt alone. I knew when I returned home I would put into motion all I needed to do to get a divorce. Ahead of me were newness, growth, opportunity and happiness. What was behind me could no longer drag me down. This experience was truly an epiphany and my world now felt full of promise.

During dinner in Gallup, New Mexico, Mary and I counted our combined money and realized it was sufficient for a motel and food if we drove straight through to Redondo Beach. The gasoline credit cards would pay for the gas and oil. I offered Mary the option of staying in a motel our last night or spending another day to visit the

Grand Canyon. If we did the latter, we would have to sleep in the car. I had already seen the Grand Canyon twice, but since Mary had not, I urged her to consider the change in plans. Mary said she would think about it. Shortly before reaching the turnoff, she decided to see the Canyon.

Mary was driving as we turned off Route 66, so the steering wheel had to be factored into her sleeping arrangements. She parked the car behind a building along the road, and we prepared for the night. It was dusk, and the weather was already brisk at 7,000 feet. We unpacked our suitcases and layered as many garments as was comfortable. I removed the passenger seat and turned it around so the slant was toward the floorboards. I put a pillow on the seat for my head and crunched my 5 foot 7 1/2 inch body down on the floorboards. My bent legs were up with the electrical wires under the dashboard. After squeezing into this position, there was no turning over. Once we got ourselves settled, we started to laugh. We laughed so hard that the car shook, which intensified the laughter. Pure exhaustion took over, and we soon fell fast asleep.

Early that morning we were jolted awake by a loud sound. I thought I was in the middle of a freeway, and it was difficult orienting myself. After I cleared my head, I wondered how I was going to unravel my body to get out of the car; I realized I urgently needed to relieve myself. When I was out of the car, I discovered we were parked next to an airplane hangar. The noise was an airplane engine being started. How blessed we were that there was no unpleasant incident.

Once we composed ourselves, we drove to Bright Angel Lodge at the Grand Canyon to wash up, have breakfast and then feast our eyes on this magnificent hole in the ground with the sun coming up over the horizon. We spent a few hours there, and after an early lunch, we left and drove the remaining five hundred miles to Redondo Beach. Alex met us with questions in his eyes, but we did not discuss any conclusions I might have reached.

Chapter Ten

The Divorce And

My Own Apartment

The trip to and from Boonton was exhilarating and essential for reconnecting with my roots and rediscovering who I was. When I returned to California I resumed my interrupted schedule. I continued with my counseling sessions and went back to work. The counseling sessions were now helping to prepare me for the divorce. When things were in order, I told Alex I still wanted a divorce. He was furious, but he realized there was no changing my mind. I found a one-bedroom apartment in an eight-unit building a half-block from the Pacific Ocean. I felt this would be a perfect place for me to grow spiritually, emotionally, economically and socially. I also loved the apartment’s layout.

I moved some small items myself and set up the kitchen, my closet and the bathroom. Alex and two friends helped move larger items. The bedroom furniture was the first to arrive, and I immediately made the bed with fresh linens. The next load brought the living room furniture. Before Alex and his friends came back, I had the living room in order, though nothing was unpacked. I had made a large pot of chili at the old apartment, reheated it on the apartment stove and I had it ready before their last move. When the dining table and chairs arrived, we all sat down to dinner.

I contacted a lawyer and, among other things, I discussed the merits of asking for alimony. He gave me excellent advice. His observation was that I was more than capable of providing for myself and that receiving alimony would only tie me to Alex. He suggested a clean severance of the relationship. Before I could serve Alex with divorce papers, however, he left the area. I believe he felt that if he did not receive the papers, the divorce process would not continue. He grossly underestimated me.

Because I could not serve the divorce papers, I had to post the divorce notice in the newspapers and wait another year before going to court. In 1962, my marriage to Alex officially ended. When Alex returned to Redondo Beach from Alaska where he had been working on the DEW Line (Defense Early Warning), he was angry that I had continued with the divorce proceedings.

After I knew I would be getting a divorce, the personal contact with Joe ended. We both knew the relationship would not last. Joe was a beautiful gift from my guardian angels. He helped me to see that I had an inner strength, a vibrant personality, and a healthy sex drive. With his help, I also learned that I must not allow anyone to put a basket over my light. Joe would occasionally call me over the

next few years when he said I came to his mind; how sweet he was. I hope he has had a good life, because he certainly deserved it.

Eight years after our divorce, in 1970, Alex and I had a lovely dinner. It was upbeat, and we shared what had happened to us in the intervening years. He had joined Alcoholics Anonymous and learned what I had put into practice through the teachings of Religious Science. I am glad we had the opportunity to meet again as two evolving adults instead of two dysfunctional adolescents. We could finally see in each other the ingredient that originally ignited our spark in 1948. Since that dinner, I have had many pleasant thoughts of Alex. I hope life has been good to him. He was a decent man, but neither of us was mature enough to marry when we did. Both Alex and I married again.

In summary, my seven-and a-half-year marriage to Alex fell apart because of his excessive drinking and his inability to grow up. The last few years of our marriage were far from happy, but overall we had some beautiful experiences, for which I have many fond memories. The most important gift Alex gave to me was the move to California. I strongly believe the personal growth I experienced in the succeeding fifty years could not have happened anywhere else.

Part Four

Thirty Years Of Discovery

Chapter Eleven

Thirty Years

With TRW

While preparing for my divorce from Alex, I started searching the job market. In the process I found work at a data entry service bureau not far from home. After four months, however, the company went out of business. I was notified that my employment was terminated just before I left work. Since I could not afford the loss of even a day’s pay, I immediately applied for a position at another service bureau where some of my co-workers had found employment. I was hired and started working there the next day. Unfortunately, it was located in downtown Los Angeles, a thirty-two-mile round-trip drive on the Harbor Freeway with heavy commuter traffic, even in 1960. It did not take long before I knew I could not deal with those conditions. I asked if I could adjust my working hours to 5:00 AM to 2:00 PM, to avoid the commuter traffic; about three months later I realized I needed to find work closer to home.

Ellen, my navigator on the Mobil Gas Economy Runs, gave my résumé to the appropriate people at Space Technology Laboratories (STL), a research-and-develop-ment aerospace company just five miles from my apartment. I was applying for a data entry operator position in their scientific computing center. In my past interviews, I had always known whether I would be hired before I left the interview – at most a few days later. Not so with this company. I had six interviews over three weeks, and then I had to wait a month before I knew that I would be hired. Unbeknownst to me, the department did not have an open position at the time. The interviewers saw some potential in me and had to justify opening a new employment requisition; also they were conducting a government security check. Knowing what I do now, I realize that it was critical for my future development that I work for STL, later called Thompson Ramo Wooldridge (TRW) and now part of Northrop-Grumman. My guardian angels were again looking out for me.

The 1960s were a coming of age decade for me. The first third of my employment at STL/TRW was preparing me for greater opportunities in the remaining twenty yeas. But while I was in this preparation stage for the corporate world, the growth in my private life was also significant. Both tracks will unfold in the following chapters. From here on, my guardian angels were working fulltime, but I was also leaning how to ask God to partner with me.

My first day with STL was June 28, 1960. I was not planning to

work there very long; my goal was to pay off my debts and establish a sound financial base. Then I would meet and marry a desirable man, start a family, and acquire that house with the white picket fence that I did not have with Alex. I worked all the overtime I could, and it did not take long until my finances were again in order. Am I not my father’s daughter?

I thought that dream might be fulfilled when I started to date Frank, who also worked at STL. Frank swept me off my feet and for the next two years we had an exciting romance. Frank had many good qualities, and we had fun. But I also needed more time to develop as an individual, something I did not appreciate at the time. The two years I had to wait for my divorce to become final were indeed a blessing; during that time, I realized that Frank was not the type of person I should marry. Our romance was reminiscent of my relationship with Joe; it would seem that I was given a caring man both before and after my divorce to help me establish my footing as a single person. At the age of thirty-two, for the first time I was living without a male figure to give me direction. How novel!

Working for a research-and-development company when the United States was competing with the Soviet Union to put the first man on the moon was a thrill for me. We provided systems engineering and overall technical direction for the various launches from Cape Canaveral, later renamed Kennedy Space Center. In the early 1960s, the time of these launches, data would be relayed to our computing center, keyed by our data entry operators, processed on our computers and the answers relayed back to the Cape. Failures plagued the early launches and it took many attempts before a rocket was successfully launched, a precursor to the country’s astronauts ultimately landing on the moon. I was always part of a data entry team scheduled to work third shift, and because of these failures, this shift of employees never had data to process.

Several years later, on July 20, 1969, history was made when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon in an area called the Sea of Tranquility. I found it hard to believe that the images I saw on television were real and not a Hollywood movie; this was a thrill for the world and for me. Then, less than a year later, on April 12, 1970, the astronauts of Apollo 13 (Fred Haise, Jack Swigert, and Flight Commander Jim Lovell) gave the world another reason to become glued to the television screen. In the controlled and understated manner of speaking common to astronauts, Commander Jim Lovell called back to Mission Control saying, “Houston, we have a problem.” A damaged coil inside the shuttle’s oxygen tanks

had caused an explosion and the moon landing was aborted. The focus shifted to getting the astronauts home.

TRW had built the LEM-D (descent) engine and played a major role in getting the astronauts home. The LEM-D was designed to enable the lunar module to hover over the moon’s surface, looking for a safe place to land. Now, TRW engineers (and engineers from other companies) were working around the clock in a frenzy of creative thinking and experimentation to find a way to alter the LEM-D so it would thrust the lunar module into a correct orbit back to Earth. Once other problems were corrected, the LEM-D was fired-up, and to the satisfaction of all, the lunar module was on a trajectory for the South Pacific. The next cliffhanger for those at Mission Control and around the world was praying that the module could reenter the Earth’s atmosphere. On April 17,1969, after seven days in space, Apollo 13 made a successful landing, to the cheers of everyone involved. I was told that on the road to the Johnson Space Center in Houston, there was a TRW billboard that read, “The last ten miles are on us,” referring to the distance from the mother space craft to the surface of the moon. Little did we all know how fortuitous that would be.

A few months later, the astronauts came to Los Angeles to thank the thousands of people at different aerospace companies who worked furiously to bring them safely home. When they stopped at TRW, the astronauts moved along a line of employees waiting to shake their hands; I was lucky to be in a picture doing just that. These were exciting times! But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was offered the opportunity to work on the second shift as the acting shift leader. I agreed to take the role until a replacement was found. The following year, I became a shift leader on the first shift. Three months later, I was promoted to group leader when my supervisor left to raise her children. I had never planned or expected to become a supervisor.

Much later I discovered that some of the engineers that I worked with told my laboratory manager I had potential that should be developed. My group leader, though, did not train me to take her place and left no documentation. I soon found out how unprepared I was to assume my new position. I was shocked when I was told I needed to conduct a performance ranking of my employees in order to recommend the amount of their salary increases. I still remember the overwhelming feeling when I realized the responsibility that I

faced. Once I survived the experience, I swore that no one replacing me would be as unprepared. I then started to write procedures and developed a training program for potential shift leaders.

My first step into middle management was in 1967 after my mentor, the operations manager, asked me if I would also be willing to assume responsibility for the data entry operators from the business computing center. I said yes, and with this added responsibility I was promoted to section head. Since my training program had been in place for four years, I had a cadre of candidates to draw from when replacing myself in the scientific data entry organization and promoting another employee in the business data entry operations. I now oversaw employees in two locations, each with three shifts. As the section’s workload increased, I had the opportunity to justify and promote another capable woman to become a group leader.

With workload increasing, I had to assess the latest data entry technology on the market. The new generation equipment had terminals connected to a mini-computer that generated a magnetic tape. This significantly improved the throughput of what it took the old IBM cardpunch machines. Some of the experienced employees were mounting a rebellion against the equipment change. I told them I understood their feelings – they were hired under one set of working conditions and now that had changed. If they really did not want to participate in the change, I would give them a good reference, but there would be an equipment upgrade. No one left.

This solved only half of my problem. I needed to hire more operators, yet experienced employees were not available. The only alternative was to start a data entry-training program. My operations manager was not in favor of hiring inexperienced employees and paying them while they trained. However, my justification was so persuasive that the operations manager and the division vice presi-dent approved my proposal. I hired a training manager and under her tutelage, fifty employees went through the program. This ended in 1971 when the bottom fell out of the aerospace industry in Los Angeles.

The data entry area employed about one hundred women in six different locations before TRW’s 1971 layoffs. With the immediate need to downsize, my assignment was to determine how my section could provide service to our in-house

customers with a reduced workforce. One of the considerations was to farm out a portion of the work. Some of the non-classified work did go to Asia, but that wasn’t the complete solution. Layoffs were inevitable. The majority of the women I laid off, however, were trainees.

In order to determine who would be laid off, employees were ranked by performance, not tenure. The trainees were not skilled enough to compete with my senior employees, although one or two of them were retained. The trainees were sympathetic to my dilemma; at least they now had some work experience when interviewing at another company. The stress of making these decisions had a debilitating physical effect on me.

The trainees were sympathetic to my dilemma; at least they now had some work experience when interviewing at another company. The stress of making these decisions had a debilitating physical effect on me. I had put a senior employee on the layoff list, though, and she responded by filing a grievance against me. I always felt she had potential and had wanted to groom her for advancement, but something changed. She gave all indications that she no longer wanted to be a data entry operator, but she also did not want to be laid of. I could understand that. Her change in performance was well documented, and the grievance was put aside.

A few years later she wrote a beautiful letter telling me that laying her off was the best thing I could have done for her. Her mother talked her into going to college and offered to pay her tuition. She enrolled in the University of Colorado and studied to become a psychologist. I heard from her four years later saying she had received her degree and was marrying a man who was graduating at the same time; they were going to have twin couches. This was just one of many wonderful experiences I had with my employees.

In 1972, I had an opportunity to transfer within my department to another section supervising mostly men. The comments were, “She could supervise women, but could she supervise men?” I can only laugh at this gender-biased statement, which would not be tolerated today. My operations manager, who continued to mentor me, supported the transfer to give me a chance to prove myself. Despite any doubts about my ability to manage men, I proved my equal-opportunity leadership skills.

My next hurdle was being promoted to department manager and breaking through what is called the glass ceiling. This position became available when a new laboratory manager transferred into the computing center and my current department manager took a staff position. I felt I was qualified for the position since the

department consisted of the two sections I had already supervised. So I applied.

There were rumors that the new laboratory manager had difficulty dealing with women. I was not sure this was true, but he would not consider me for the position, even though I had successfully supervised both sections. The operations manager could not insist that I be promoted, but he did not approve anyone else to fill the position. Eventually I got the position, but I learned another big lesson. Up to that time, the pattern was that I would work hard and those whom I worked for would reward me with promotions or generous salary increases. Now I was entering a more rarefied stratum in the corporate structure, where I had to stand up and claim what I wanted. From here on it was not going to be given to me. I was not going to be asked if I wanted to be a department manager, as I was once asked if I wanted to become a section head. I also learned to be clear about what I was asking for. I wanted to become a department manager but I did not visualize or affirm a salary increase commensurate with the promotion. I got the position but a very small salary increase, which was his payback.

After being a department manager for several years, and with the transfer of still another new laboratory manager, I asked to be given another assignment because I had become bored doing the same thing. Some of my friends told me I was out of my mind. As a department manager in the male-dominated engineering company, I had it made. So why would I want to give it up? My desire for a change, though, was perfect for my new boss, whom I respected and trusted. With the opening that I would create, he could reorganize his laboratory the way he wanted to, and I found a new challenge by becoming the laboratory-training manager.

During the 1960s, IBM had no equal in the development of computers. In the late 1960s and the 1970s, however, with the emergence of other computer manufacturers, the cost of computers dropped, making them more accessible to smaller companies. This also increased the need for data entry operators, computer operators and computer programmers. Banks and insurance companies were hiring our skilled workers, because one of the stipulations in our government contracts was a wage-freeze clause; our competitors did not have such constraints.

The justification for establishing a laboratory-training program, with me as the manager was based on the difficulties of replacing these employees. The training program took clerks who had good employment records and trained them to be computer operators, and then trained qualified computer operators to be supervisors. My transfer to the staff position took place in 1977 and it was the first new position I created for myself, although I had greatly expanded the data entry section head position I previously held.

Chapter Twelve

Affirmative

Action

When affirmative action became a way of life for companies with federal contracts, I volunteered in many related activities. My most prestigious work was as the president of the Opportunities for Women’s Committee, which advised TRW’s president on women’s issues and suggested how the company’s statistics could be improved. In this position I met and worked directly with many vice presidents.

In the mid-to-late 1960s, management training related to affirmative action focused on sensitivity sessions. This method was thought to be necessary to change the managers’ attitudes and behaviors about minorities and women, after which progress could be made in hiring and promotions. Then a behavioral scientist changed the focus. Although attitude modification was of value, the new theory was to measure the manager’s job performance. The engineering managers already had many factors tied to their incentive compensation; affirmative action would be one more.

One laboratory manager told me that he and his colleagues had been motivated to earn top grades since kindergarten; he felt this change of focus would ultimately achieve what the company wanted, and indeed it did. These goals were

not arbitrarily placed on managers but rather were negotiated. The goals were something the managers felt were achievable, given their organization’s type of work and the availability of women and minorities having those skills

Goals are not quotas. At that time, courts were setting quotas for a company when that company consistently did not show good faith in hiring and promoting minorities and women. Goals are established by the companies themselves based on national and regional census data for the number of people claiming to have certain skills, i.e., engineers and scientist. Data on the academic disciplines of college graduates are also available. Statistics for secretaries and clerks were obtained from the local area since that was the hiring radius. Goals for promotions were derived from the number of minorities and women already employed in the feeder groups, with the added qualifier of how many years of experience were required before anyone would be considered for promotion. Generally, our practice was not to hire into the company at department manager or higher position; the exception to this was military retirees who already had the necessary security clearances.

It upset me when the Republican administrations of Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, and George W. Bush stated affirmative action was a system of quotas and deemphasized the program. This was far from the truth. The word quota became a code word that stigmatized hiring minorities and women to preserve the old boy status; it also implied that minorities were not as qualified as white males and needed quotas to advance. To a certain extent this could be true, because it was only forty-some years prior to that time that minorities were allowed to enter qualified colleges. Using the term “quota” was a way to make those who benefited from affirmative action feel guilty and perhaps even talk against the pro-gram to deflect attention from them. The sad part of this charade is that everyone – white males included – needs help along the way. We all need mentors.

Another aspect of our program focused on working in the community. Our minority and women engineers visited local high schools to talk about careers in the fields of engineering, mathematics and computer science. They also tutored high school students. TRW adopted two high schools – one in the South Bay and one in East Los Angeles. One of our vice presidents used his discretionary money to start a scholarship program for minorities and

girls to encourage them to go on to college, assuring them of summer employment until they graduated from high school. This could be extended during their enrollment in college. These were just some of the wonderful programs the company sponsored.

Chapter Thirteen

Creating My

Second Position

During my tenure at TRW, I attended many in-house management development classes, which helped me obtain invaluable skills. (In the beginning I was the only woman in these classes.) I soon knew, however, that I needed to obtain a college degree if I ever wanted to leave the company. Going out onto the job market without a college degree is much different than staying in a company where your talents are recognized. Before becoming laboratory-training manager, I could not imagine what my major would be. I certainly did not want a business degree; I had the skills to manage my department, and any further education in the business field would not be beneficial. Once I took the laboratory training position, I chose a degree in organizational development and psy-chology, but I had a hard time getting the human relations department to sign off on my education package, though my laboratory manager approved. HR did not want to pay for a degree from a nontraditional school – in this case, Antioch University, in Culver City.

I took my case to my division vice president. I had very positive interactions with him on affirmative action, and I felt he would listen to my petition without prejudice. Essentially I was planning to call in some favors. I pointed out that because of my leadership as a volunteer in affirmative action, the company received high marks from the Office of Federal Compliance Commission (OFCC), and that furthering my education would benefit the company and serve as a small reward for my past accomplishments with TRW. He thought about this for a second and said he would take

care of it. I learned in the process of being promoted to department manager that I had to stand up and claim what I felt was rightfully mine. The company paid 75 percent of the cost of my undergraduate and graduate classes between 1975 and 1981. I continued to work full time while I was going to school. Ultimately I received an MA in organization development and psychology. However, the stress of working full time, going to school at night, and being married took its toll on my health.

It seemed that every other year the company went through a major reorganization exercise. In 1980 there was a significant one. For twenty years I had been secure in the computing center, but this one affected me. I took advantage of the opportunity and parlayed my experience and successes related to affirmative action to transfer to HR as the first full-time paid affirmative action manager at the group level. (There was already an affirmative action manager at the sector level.)

I was nervous about the transfer, though I was looking forward to the new challenge. I was moving from a secure environment, where some people said I had it made, to an area in which I would have to prove myself again. There were mixed feeing about someone who had been a line manager transferring into HR. Also, I had gone over the heads of my immediate HR manager and the HR vice president to get my education package approved. Although my new boss may not have initially welcomed my transfer, he did not interfere with my work. Having an affirmative action manager at a group level was new, so we were both traveling on uncharted ground. This was the second position that I created for myself.

Having to fight for my promotion to department manager was a low point in my tenure at TRW. But I garnered all my prior training from science of mind and positive thinking to reinforce my resolve that the department manager position was rightfully mine. Once I received the promotion I developed an inner strength that stood well for the remainder of my employment at the company and elsewhere. I learned that having faith in God was only part of what I needed in order to succeed. I needed to claim my good fortune.

At the end of each fiscal year, the Opportunity For Women’s Committee and the Minority Advisory Committee would evaluate the progress that each group made toward its affirmative action goals. The year before my transfer, my group’s evaluation had been quite poor. I remember how the group vice president stormed into our affirmative action meeting, slammed the report on the desk, and said, “This is the last time this will happen.” (Management was serious about the grades they received as that laboratory manager had

said.) After my first year in the position, my group received the highest grade, which pleased my boss and the group vice president. After that, each group said they needed their own Ruth Shults.

One of my tasks as the affirmative action manager for the group was reviewing the plans from the group’s eight sites. I visited sites at San Bernardino and Sunnyvale, California; Colorado Springs and Denver, Colorado; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Huntsville, Alabama; Dayton, Ohio; and Washington, D.C.

I periodically traveled to these locations, to conduct management training classes, help develop their affirmative action plans, and review progress against their objectives. If sites fell short of their goals, we tried to develop scenarios acceptable to the OFCC. When the sites were being audited, I interacted with the OFCC agent. I loved this position because I felt I made a difference at my Redondo Beach site as well as the smaller sites. My objective was to help them develop realistic quantifiable goals for hiring and promoting women and minorities to satisfy a compliance audit. Additionally, I encouraged site managers to take unwritten goals that would be a stretch but something we felt they could live with. I was involved in several audits and fortunately did not lose any.

In my role at Redondo Beach, I was also the advocate for women and minorities who filed grievances against management. Just as I enjoyed negotiating with the OFCC agent, I liked being involved in the grievance process. When I was in management, two internal grievances were filed against me and one was filed through the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC). All these were put aside, but the experience made me sensitive to both the employees’ and the managers’ positions. As a former line manager, I insisted that employee performances were well documented. In almost all cases while I was in this advocacy position, the managers I dealt with could not substantiate their actions against the employee because there was no history of poor job performance in the employee file. It was well known that engineers were not the best in dealing with personal conflicts on the job; they also found it difficult to write poor performance reviews. Knowing most of the managers, I was reasonably sure in most situations that the action taken was probably justified, but the records did not reflect the situation. In these cases I walked a fine line. My function was to represent the employee while trying to keep the company out of trouble by

reaching an agreement that would avoid any EEOC action. After this, we helped the manager to become a better supervisor.

I accomplished a great deal during my years focused on affirmative action, first as a volunteer and then in a paid position. The program that I am most proud of was a career development program for minorities and women. I hired an outside consultant to develop and conduct a program that would focus on their developmental needs. The key to the program’s success was that the manager of each participant also attended a workshop to learn how to be a mentor; this allowed both managers and potential managers to undergo training. The managers likely had not written their own career development plan or if they had, no one in the company reviewed it. This workshop was an approved and safe vehicle for doing just that. Our motto was taken from the title of David Campbell’s 1974 book, If You Don’t Know Where You Are Going, You’ll Probably End Up Somewhere Else.

The program had a self-fulfilling component to it. First, managers conducted informal rankings to choose individuals they felt would benefit from the workshop. This exercise alone was beneficial to the employee, because they became more visible in the manager’s eyes. Next, the attendees felt special, because they were chosen to attend a prestigious workshop. The program itself merely opened doors to the employees and introduced them to some management tools – it was up to the individual to parlay the experience into advancement. As a result of this program, several women and minorities started moving up the management ladder. One of the program’s successes was that a black man became a vice president for the TRW Group on the East Coast; he had the skills for the position, but he needed the visibility the management development program gave him. Subsequent workshops were open to white males as well. The Group’s Affirmative Action Office funded the entire career development program.

The participants in these workshops had to evaluate their attitudes and sometimes their appearances in the process of preparing themselves for advancement. Dress for Success, John T. Molloy’s popular book, became our bible.

A concern that TRW had with promoting women into project manager positions was that our largest customer was the U.S. military. At that time, many of the branches of the armed forces had not yet been sensitized to

minorities, let alone women.

While I was working with outside consultants in designing workshops for women and minorities, I was also validating my own career objectives. I often felt the presence of my guardian angels during the times of uncertainty as I was planning my career direction.

Chapter Fourteen

The Party

Is Over

I worked for TRW for thirty years. I have had no other rela-tionship that lasted that long. When I received a five-year pin from Space Technology Laboratories, I was shocked. I never worked for a company longer than three years. From that time on, the years flew. I was fortunate to have worked for a company that provided me the opportunity to create two positions for myself and introduced many creative new programs that made a difference to the employees and the company. It was a relationship that benefited both TRW and me.

In 1989, I was caught up in my second and last major reorganization. Two Groups were going to merge. The vice president on the East Coast was absorbing the group on the West Coast, causing the 120 of us on group staff to review our options: either transfer to another TRW organization, take full retirement, take early retirement, or choose to be laid off. A placement manager was hired to help work through these issues. In October, my HR manager asked me if I would be interested in early retirement, as I had some good numbers – I had worked for TRW for thirty years and was almost sixty years old. I responded that I had so many balls in the air that I could not consider retiring. One major consideration was I had just bought a new house that August. I had planned to work until age sixty-five, so there certainly was a financial aspect to consider. Since I was facing some stressful personal issues, I was not emotionally ready to deal with retirement. I soon found another position and thus had at least a year’s reprieve.

Several incidents in my life during the previous five years had been very stressful: I completed the course work to receive my master’s; I became sick; I

divorced my second husband; I converted to Judaism; I totaled my Mustang; I sold a house and bought a new one; I and four other people were involved in a malpractice lawsuit, which we won; and I had to put my fourteen-year-old cat to sleep. (I will discuss all this later.) My stress level had been running high for some time, and taking early retirement was not something I wanted to add to that list.

The company closed down for the last week of each year. By that point, some of my problems were solved or had become less pressing. This week gave me time to reflect on my future, with or without TRW. It was also a time of intense prayer asking God for His guidance. I soon realized I was ready to leave the company; the party was over. The company had changed, and I was ready to move on. If I was home and not fighting traffic to and from work, and if I was not dealing with work-related stress, I could better deal with the tension in my personal life. In January, I negotiated my retirement package, which became effective May 30, 1990.

On paper, the decision to take early retirement sounds as if it was easy to reach; it was not. TRW was home to me for thirty years and I loved the company. During my first twenty years as a supervisor, my employees were like family. I respected and trusted the integrity of management. The company was a playground for me to experiment and have fun. How could I reach such a major decision in one week? Well, the unthinkable happened. I remember after my birthday on December 23, I felt as if a switch inside my head turned off. It was like driving through the curtain on the return to California after visiting my family. With the revelation, I knew taking early retirement would open a series of new doors for me. Again, I felt full of promise and certain my guardian angels were with me.

I returned to work in January 1990, and after I negotiated my retirement package I had a meeting with the sector-level affirmative action manager to inform him of my decision. He was a friend, and I just wanted to talk with him. In our conversation he asked if I would be interested in being assigned to California State University, at their Long Beach headquarters, as a loaned executive. The university and industry were working jointly on a mathematics and science project and could use my administrative skills. For the next five months I drove to Long Beach or worked at home while receiving my TRW salary. Those months helped me mentally adjust to full retirement. This assignment was a gift and I believe my guardian angel was in action again.

My retirement party was festive and uplifting, and many of my past employees attended it. Kind words of recognition and appreciation were expressed for my thirty years of service. Still, the

party was anticlimactic; I had already made the transition to retirement. A major period in my life had ended. I closed the TRW door behind me and walked into the unknown, confident that I was equipped to face my future. Yes, there was going to be life after TRW.

I look back in utter amazement that I left TRW after thirty years with no pangs of remorse; the company had been such a large part of my life. Severing myself from the company was not hard, but severing myself from work patterns was. I immediately got involved in several projects and conducted my life as though I was still working. It would be years before I felt it was acceptable for me to read a book, watch television, or see a movie on a weekday – these were all things you did after work. I eventually did make the transition, and I am now enjoying my new life to the fullest.

Chapter Fifteen

Summation

My thirty years of discovery at TRW set the framework for my personal development in many aspects of my life. In the first seven years, I learned that if I worked hard I would be rewarded by promotions and significant salary increases. In the next ten years, I learned how to compete in a man’s world, climb the corporate ladder, and retain my femininity. In my last thirteen years, I looked beyond both my immediate organization and the company to make a difference in people’s lives.

I also made some major personal breakthroughs during this time. I found I did not need a man in my life to find stability and security. This period, from age thirty to sixty, was essential to my personal growth. I was fortunate to have worked for a company that offered financial stability and satisfied my need to be creative – to step outside the box.

My thirty years working at TRW was indeed a laboratory for me to learn many lessons: for one, how to interact with men in authority and not lose my personhood. There were many men in positions of power who supported me, but my finale exam came from one who refused to recognize my qualities when filling a department manager position and who was ready to block me from consideration. That

was something I refused to allow to happen.

As I beseeched God to partner with me, I grew in stature and became a mentor to other women in my organization as well as to women and minorities when I was involved in affirmative action.

Part Five

Throwing My

Hat Back In The Ring

Chapter Sixteen

What Makes

Ruthie Run

Before continuing with my narrative, I want to review my history as it related to men. I lived with my parents for twenty-two years and had a mixed relationship with my father. When I started expressing myself as a teenager, and until I got married, we had trouble. Mother’s response to the fighting was that I should not argue with him; this would be hard since he and I were too much alike. Mother tried to prepare me for a man’s world, which caused me subconsciously to develop a negative view towards men.

I met Alex, my first husband while we were both in high school. We married on June 12, 1953, and the following April we moved to Redondo Beach, California, where we lived together for the next five years. In 1959, the last year of our marriage, I met Joe but that

relationship ended when my divorce from Alex became official. When I joined STL in 1960, I met Frank. Joe and Frank were the two men who helped give me self-confidence where men were concerned and brought some joy and adventure into my life before and after my divorce. Then I realized I needed to take control and responsibility for the direction my life was taking.

Sometime during 1964, when I was thirty-three, I was sitting in the middle of my bed and had just concluded an unpleasant conversation with a man. I do not recall who he was or what we talked about, which is not important but the image is clear. The conversation ended in an unsatisfactory manner, and I realized I needed to make some drastic changes in my life. I needed to learn “what makes Ruthie run,” to paraphrase Budd Schulberg’s 1941 book, What Makes Sammy Run. I called a woman who had spoken at TRW to inquire about a personal development class she had taught based on the principles from William R. Parker’s 1957 book, Prayer Can Change Your Life. I wanted to know when her next class would start and how much it would cost. She told me the cost and said the class started that night and would continue for ten weeks; it was fine to come the following week. Well, there is nothing like being pushed to the wall. I thought to myself that I was just exploring the possibility of taking the class; I was not ready to make a commitment. Instead of telling her the real reason, I said I was not sure I could afford the class. Her response was she knew that TRW women made good money, and she was sure I could afford the class. I was then forced to put my money where my mouth was, as the saying goes. I attended her class, and my willingness to make changes in my life started a lifetime quest for spiritual meaning. During the period I focused on discovering my personal myth and preparing myself to meet a desirable man to marry. Eight years later, I did remarry. Before that happened, though, many interesting things took place in my life

Chapter Seventeen

Romance

In 1967, I met Edmund and my relationship with him had a profound effect on my life. I first saw him during a Sunday service at my Lutheran church, as he passed the collection plate. When I saw

him, I said to myself, “There is a man I would like to know.” That week I attended a meeting of unmarried members of the church, thinking of starting a single’s group. He was there and I melted on the spot. Our eyes met and locked for a few minutes; my heart started to race. When we introduced ourselves to the group, I discovered he worked as a project engineer at a local aerospace company. His natural leadership ability surfaced, and he was nominated to be the coordinator for the church group. Our first event was a weekend ski trip to Mammoth Mountain on the east side of California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. Three of us rode with Edmund for the six-hour trip, which sparked our friendship.

The second evening there, Edmund and I walked along a country road and talked. It was cold, but we were dressed for it. We stopped; he turned me towards him, and then embraced me and said he loved me. It was a total shock, but a welcome one. If I had been thinking with my head and not my heart, I would have realized it was too early in our relationship for this declaration, but at that time I wanted romance in my life and took the statement at face value. He might have thought I needed to hear those words before the relationship could escalate to the next level. Our return trip home on Sunday was exceptionally long; when we arrived at my apartment, we became intimate. That started a roller-coaster love affair that al-ternated between being a healthy relationship and one plagued with problems.

Edmund had been in the Air Force and loved to fly. He took me up in his PT (primary trainer) Ryan World War II open cockpit low-wing airplane to perform acrobatics over the Pacific Ocean. Before take-off, he helped me climb on the wing and told me where to put my feet. Once in the tight front seat, he fastened the seatbelt over my shoulder, and I put on a leather helmet. The panel in front of me was full of dials and switches and the stick was between my legs, all of which I was instructed not to touch – as if I would.

This was my first time in an open-cockpit airplane and I loved feeling the wind around my face; it was such an adventure. Although Edmund told me what maneuvers he was going to put the airplane through, my body could not relate to what he was saying until I experienced the rolls and the dives myself. When he had finished his maneuvers, I thought I would throw up. Since the seatbelt prevented

me from leaning over the side of the cockpit, I would have to discharge my lunch on my lap, which was not a pleasant thought. I did everything I could to control myself, and when I put my feet on sold ground again, I felt better. I fully enjoyed the experience, and fortunately flying with him again caused no repeat discomfort.

On Veterans Day that year, Edmund entered an air show at Edwards Air Force Base. He flew the plane solo to the base; I drove there with two other people. When we arrived, we learned he had been in an accident. He had flown too close to a pylon and clipped the wing, causing the airplane to somersault and land upside down. The plane caught on fire from leaking fuel, but he was removed and the fire was quickly extinguished. We found him in the military hospital in shock, pain, but coherent. The military flew him to their hospital at March Air Force Base in Riverside, but after a few days he was transported by ambulance to a burn center in Los Angeles. There he received several skin grafts on his arm and the side of his face. He really had a traumatic ordeal; we all thanked God he was still alive.

This experience changed our relationship. Edmund turned inward. His priority was his recovery and our relationship became less important to him, which I found understandable. I visited him each day while he was in the hospital and was as supportive as I could be. When he returned to work, things changed even more. What started out as being an exclusive relationship turned out to be anything but that.

I took a trip to Mexico with the TRW travel club to sort things out while I was in a different setting. It was a two-week trip, but I flew home after one week. I realized our relationship was not going anywhere and was no longer satisfying. Edmund met me at the airport and on the drive to my apartment we talked and said our farewells.

Chapter Eighteen

Marriage

In 1971, the bottom fell out of the aerospace industry in the Los Angeles area, and I was forced to rank my 100 employees with the purpose of laying off about one-third of them. During that period, I developed a nearly debilitating backache. I went to see Ruben, my chiropractor friend, who had done wonders for me in the past, but this time I was not getting any lasting results.

Ruben invited me to a party, which I attended though I was in significant pain. As I walked in the door, my eyes met those of an attractive man. I felt we connected. He was sitting at Ruben’s bar and

it looked like he was with a woman, but this did not stop the positive vibrations that passed between us. There was an empty seat next to him, so I sat down. We all introduced ourselves. Mark owned a paint and craft store and had known Ruben for many years. We were both surprised we had not met before. Mark had a smile that could melt you on the spot. His hair had prematurely turned gray, accenting his blue eyes. His face and arms were pink from his weekend in the sun.

The condo was perfect for a small gathering, but for a party of this size it was too small. The noise and the wall-to-wall people overpowered my fragile physical and mental state. I had a few drinks, enjoyed the food, had a very pleasant conversation with Mark, and then I excused myself to leave. Mark offered to walk me to my car, and we continued our chat on the way.

A few days later, Ruben called and said Mark wanted to call me, if I didn’t mind. I thought this was sweet, though provincial. I agreed, and Mark called my home while I was at work. My answering service took his message, but when I returned the call, there was no way to leave my message. This scenario repeated itself three times. Since I was still dealing with the layoffs at TRW and I still had severe back pains, I decided I didn’t have time to play games. I later found out that the telephone number he left was from his store. For the next five months I was totally absorbed with the layoffs and did not think of Mark. But things were about to change.

When I was at a friend’s Christmas Eve party in 1971, I told the host, with firm convictions, that this was the last Christmas holiday I would spend alone. Then to myself, I affirmed that I had spent many hours and dollars on finding out what makes Ruthie run, but I would not know how far I had progressed until I threw my hat back in the ring. I had made two powerful affirmations. I had come to a crossroad, and I was proceeding, determined to make changes.

The first time I met Mark was in August of 1971, at Ruben’s party. The following January, I saw Mark at a Church of Religious Science singles event with the same woman from the party. I knew I would have to make the first move, because I was sure that in his mind I had rejected him. The singles group was planning a party, and I called Mark at his home to ask if he could provide some art supplies from his store and also to see if he would work with me on the subcommittee. I could hear that he was in the middle of a poker game because there was heckling in the background; he was torn between playing his hand and wanting to talk with me. Mark said he would call me back the next day at my office. The ice was broken.

We started to date shortly thereafter, and our relationship rapidly developed. It was uncanny how easily we fell into similar patterns of thinking and behavior. I met his parents, his two brothers and his sister, their respective spouses and their girls. I had already met Mark’s two daughters; Kay was nineteen and Nancy was sixteen, and we were well on our way to establishing a good relationship.

I found out that between our first and second meetings, Mark and his wife, Helen, had decided to divorce, but they still needed to settle the distribution of their property. When she found out that someone else was interested in him, however, she started blocking the progress towards an amiable settlement.

Mark was comfortable to be with, and I felt secure and safe with him. His family met me with open arms, adding color and depth to the picture I had of the happy family I was searching for. Mark proposed on Good Friday and we planned to get married on July 22, 1972. We were confident that by then a financial agreement would be reached and the divorce papers would be filed. Again, I learned to be careful what I asked for. I flippantly said, “All we need is enough time to mail the invitations.” That was all the time we had, although everything else was planned and ready to be put in motion.

Helen finally agreed to have a settlement meeting. Mark told me the time the meeting would take place. When that hour arrived, I shut my office door and prayed. I used all the power of positive thinking that I had learned from classes at the Church of Religious Science. I shut out all extraneous noise and meditated. I put white light around the four principles and prayed for divine right action to take place for the best outcome for all concerned. I stayed in this state for twenty minutes. About an hour later, Mark called me and said, “Mail the invitations!”

When we met that night, Mark told me that at the start of the meeting the air was thick with hostility. Then, at about the time I was meditating, Helen and her lawyer left the room. When they returned, her lawyer laid out a fair plan, and the divorce papers were signed. Our simple wedding was held at the Church of Religious Science, and was followed by a reception at his brother’s home. I designed my wedding dress.

We spent our honeymoon in Canada but flew in and out of Seattle. After arriving at the airport, we picked up a rental car and drove to the Seattle hotel our travel agent had arranged for us. The following morning we took a ferry across the Strait of Georgia to the sleepy seaside village of Victoria on Vancouver Island, the site of an

1843 Hudson’s Bay Company trading post. Victoria is the oldest city in western Canada and is now the capital of British Columbia. It is known for being the friendliest city in Northern America, for having the best weather in Canada, for its Victorian-era architecture, as well as for its meticulously groomed year-round gardens and hanging baskets. The Empress Hotel, built in 1908 by the Canadian Pacific Railroad, commands the waterfront as you sail into the small harbor. Among other things, the hotel is known for its daily high tea served in the Tea Lobby. Stepping off the ferry was like stepping back in time; the storefronts along the narrow streets and the shops themselves were reminiscent of Queen Victoria’s time. One of my pleasures is collecting English china teacups, so I was in heaven there.

That evening we had dinner in a large old converted house. The ambiance was old English, but the menu had a selection of exciting foods. When we finished our leisurely dinner and were walking back to the car, I noticed how the full moon was shining off some water. We walked in that direction and stood at the water’s edge, engulfed in the moon’s rays and our love. Our hotel reservation in town was for one night, since our travel agent felt once we arrived in Victoria we might find accommodations more to our liking. We decided to stay in a cabin adjacent to the pool of water we found so romantic.

The next day we transferred our belongings to a cabin closest to this pool. We walked in that direction, but in the daylight we were surprised by what we saw. What we thought was such a romantic location turned out to be a backwash filled with debris and old logs. We laughed, realizing how a full moon shining on two lovers can transform a scum pond into a romantic setting.

We left our unpacked clothes in the cabin and drove the thirteen miles to Butchart Gardens, owned by Robert and Jennie Butchart, where we witnessed how an old limestone quarry had been transformed into something of true beauty. In 1904, Jennie started converting the scarred hillsides into one of the world’s most famous formal gardens. When she finished her landscaping, the gardens covered nearly half of their 130-acre estate. The gardens were arranged in five distinct settings – the Italian Garden, the Japanese Garden, the Rose Garden, the Star Pond, and the Sunken Garden.

We timed our stay at Butchart so that we would have ample time to meander through the gardens, have an early dinner, and listen to the outdoor musical performance before watching the nightly light show. At night, lights shone throughout the flowerbeds, outlining the trees and illuminating a dancing

fountain in the center of a large pond. The gardens were by far the highlight of our time in Canada.

After five days in Victoria, we took a ferry to Vancouver. We decided to splurge by staying in an upscale hotel on the last night of our honeymoon. After paging through a tour book, I found two possible hotels. At the first, Mark checked out the room and came back to the car elated. When I saw the magnificent view over the Strait of Georgia, it took little urging to agree to stay another day and tour more of Vancouver. We changed our return flight and immediately left the hotel for dinner and the splendor of the city.

When we returned from our honeymoon, Mark and I settled into my one-bedroom apartment. It was a tight fit, especially sharing my small closet. Fortunately, we were there for only three months before we found a two-bedroom, second-floor apartment overlooking the South Bay coastline all the way to Malibu.

Shortly after our marriage Mark and I started to have problems. Mark had expectations of how I should behave as a wife that did not coincide with my ideas; nonetheless I reverted to the behavior I exhibited in my first marriage. When we got into arguments, he made me feel (and at first I accepted) that I was in the wrong. It was a shocking realization. After all the time and money I had spent in counseling, it appeared I had learned nothing.

Actually I had learned a great deal. I immediately saw what was happening. The pattern of behavior I exhibited in my first marriage was repeating itself. Recognizing this I enrolled us in a transactional analysis class for couples that TRW was sponsoring. We practiced using the same vocabulary to express our needs and wants without getting into a confrontation that would make the interaction personal and hurtful.

Mark was too possessive of me. However, after being on my own for twelve years, I had to learn to make myself more available to my husband’s desires. He, on the other hand, had to realize that my reason for not going on a walk with him, for example, was not a personal rejection.

After we moved to our Torrance house, where there was a room for Mark to do his painting, the possessiveness disappeared. During the next eleven years, Mark and I dealt with many challenges, but over time, the substance that first held the relationship together started to melt.

Part Six

A New Family

Chapter Nineteen

The Torrance House

Mark’s oldest daughter, Kay, was a bridesmaid at a wedding we attended in February 1975. During the reception, she surprised us by saying she would like to live with us. That evening we thought about the possibility, but before making a commitment Mark confirmed that she was indeed interested. We had a two-bedroom apartment, but I was not prepared to convert the den into a bedroom, even for a short time; if she did live with us, we’d have to find larger quarters. Kay restated her interests, which launched my search for larger accommodations.

I looked for a three-bedroom apartment or house to rent, but none was available. The next night after work, Mark and I drove around the area and saw an open house. We stopped and although we liked the layout, we decided the 1,800 square-foot house was too large for us and more than we could afford. The realtor showed us a smaller house in the same neighborhood that was more suitable, but our offer was not accepted. She told us that the owners of the first house we saw were living in Oregon and were eager to sell. They turned down an offer of $55,000, but there was no further interest;

she thought if we extended a firm $55,000 offer for the house they would accept it this time.

The asking price was still more than we thought we could afford, especially since only a week before we had no thoughts of buying a house. The realtor extended our firm offer the next day. She called me and said we had just bought a house and I went into total shock. We had to come up with the down payment, so I cashed in my TRW stock, we borrowed the small remainder from his parents and his brother, and awaited our income tax refund. A year later the value of the house had doubled.

The house was on a well-established street in Torrance. The previous owner had enlarged the house by doubling the size of the master bedroom and adding a formal dining room and a family room with a Palos Verdes stone fireplace. There were two other bedrooms and a very large living room in the front. The family and dining rooms each had a very large picture window looking out onto a small peaceful backyard that had two large trees. The kitchen had been modernized, and there was a separate laundry room. The garage was detached.

When we told Kay we had bought a house, she and her younger sister Nancy could not wait. They moved into our two-bedroom apartment along with Nancy’s cat. We asked for a thirty-day escrow, and I picked Good Friday for the closing date. Before we moved in, I wanted the inside of the kitchen cabinets painted, so I picked up the key two days before escrow closed. I sat on the floor and visualized how I would function in the kitchen and where dishes and kitchen supplies would be placed. We moved into our new house thirty-seven days after Kay’s request.

My expectation about having the girls living with us was not realistic, considering their ages. I envisioned a family, but they saw the situation as an interim solution before they moved to their own apartments. Kay had already lived on her own, but when she could no longer afford to, she moved back with her mother. Kay used our house as she would a motel. She came home late or she didn’t come home at all, never indicating her plans. I found this unnerving. Our concern was for her safety, and her actions disrupted our lifestyle. After she moved to her own apartment, Kay apologized to me for taking advantage of my kindness. All in all, Mark and I had many fun times with his two daughters and their boyfriends.

The house became a shelter for several people. In 1975 it was a temporary home for Mark’s two daughters. Kay left after a few months. Nancy moved in with her boyfriend when she turned eighteen. This left two people with a seven-room, 1,800 square-foot house. That situation did not last long.

In 1976, the front bedroom became dad’s home for three months, for reasons I shall lay out later. Before and after that, Mark used the room as his art studio. When he was working towards his Marriage, Family and Child Counseling (MFCC) license, he used the room to study. Years later, when Nancy divorced her husband and I had divorced Mark, she moved back to the house, and we had fun as two single adult women. Between 1986 and 1989, I rented the bedroom and the front room to three different people; in between occupants, this was the guest room.

Buying my first house at age 45, gave me a sense of being grounded that I would not have had being a renter. But much more than that, I now had a stake in the American dream of owning my own home. Having the extra space gave me an opportunity to follow mother’s example of giving to others during their time of need.

Chapter Twenty

Divorce

Mark and I were married for eleven years and, as was true in my marriage to Alex, the first several years were happy, exciting and fulfilling. There were minor issues, but we worked through them. In the last several years, however, we lost what made the marriage special and workable. We reached an impasse; we had irreconcilable differences. We were both in therapy and although this was beneficial to us individually, it did nothing to sustain the marriage.

My answer came in a dream. I was trying to go up a flight of stairs, but I couldn’t move. When my therapist asked me what was holding me back, I responded, “Mark is holding onto my leg.”

In the summer of 1982, we filed for divorce. Fortunately, an inheritance allowed me to buy Mark out of his half of the house. He had his own plans for the future and he essentially left the marriage with his clothes and personal items. Although it was a painful ending, we had many good times. One very important gift was meeting Mark’s caring family – his parents, his siblings, their spouses and their girls. His dad became my surrogate father. After his father died in 1976, Mark’s mother and I had many great times

together. I stayed in contact with her until the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s caused her to slip away from us. She died in April 2003.

Mark and I had also opened doors for one another. I enabled Mark to sell his retail store by becoming the sole breadwinner while he attended Antioch University to obtain an MFCC license. And Mark championed my father’s move to California. With him being physically closer, we were able to make peace before he died. I am eternally grateful to Mark for enabling this to happen.

Chapter Twenty-One

Another

Door Opens

In October 1999, I flew to Naples, Florida to visit my godson Ed, his wife Kathy, and their thirteen-year-old daughter, Ashley. The visit exceeded my expectations and led to a joyful new experience.

Ed was the first child of two of Alex’s high school friends and when he was born, Alex and I were named his godparents. I had kept in touch with Ed through notes on Christmas cards over the years, but this visit took the relationship to a higher level, and we have since visited one another several times. Now, thanks to e-mail, we are more involved in each other’s lives than we could ever have imagined. Ed and I have spawned a caring relationship that couldn’t have been closer if we were related.

In July 2005, Ed retired from the San Marcos Island Fire department after thirty years. His last position was battalion chief. He has been a leader in the fire department in many ways, over and above actual firefighting. I wanted to be at his retirement party but Hurricane Dennis prevented me from being there. I went later.

Kathy is a distinguished special education teacher and has made a difference in the lives of many of her students. She has a unique gift that will be hard for the school system to replace when she retires in four years. Kathy is a garage-sale maven for rest and relaxation; I enjoy seeing the treasures she buys and how she has incorporated them into the distinct charm of their home

As of this writing Ashley is a junior at Florida Gulf Coast University, where she is working on a degree in criminal forensics.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Special Gifts

One of the special gifts I received during the time Mark and I were married was a cat, which I got a few months after we bought the house. I had many farm cats when I was young, but I never had a domestic cat, though I had wanted one for some time. The gift came when my friend’s cat had kittens and I chose one similar to Nancy’s cat. When Mark and I went over to choose a kitten, Mark pointed out one that had a great deal of energy – the kitten was running up and down as if to say, “Pick me, pick me!” She had a wide streak of gold fur that extended from the top of her head down her back and tail. Her belly and legs were white. I chose her and on the way home I named her “Angel on my Shoulder,” because that was where she had climbed. I called her “Angel” for short.

This started a very long, close relationship. Angel would cry when I left the house, and when I returned, she would hear the car and be waiting at the door, meowing her head off. (This stopped after Angel taught me to tell her where I was going and when I would return. Simple, isn’t it?) She followed me around the house or rode on my shoulder. She slept on my pillow. She sensed what I needed. For example, although she usually woke up early and tried to get me

up, one morning she slept with me until 9:00, when the phone rang and I learned the news of a death in my family.

I contacted Lucy, the spiritual messenger with whom I had consulted for the past fifteen years, and Joshua, the entity who speaks through her. I asked him if Angel and I had had a past life together, as we have such a close bond. I was told that Angel had a past life with me as a black cat with white paws. “Midnight!” I thought. When I was living on the farm in Montville, a farm cat I called Midnight would walk into the woods with me as if she were a dog. I suspect this explained why Angel tried so hard to get my attention. How interesting! How spooky!

Angel was a great companion for fourteen-and-a-half years. I had to put her to sleep in September 1989 after she developed kidney failure; it was incredibly hard. We talked about her illness. I asked her if I should put her to sleep, and she turned her head to touch her noise to mine, which I took as an affirmative sign. The veterinarian gave her a shot, and immediately her body went limp. I stayed with her for a while and cried. What a loss!

After Angel died, I knew I wanted to get two cats so they could keep one another company when I was away from the house. On December 8, 1989, I found a notice in the office of my chiropractor about a totally black kitten available for adoption. When I went to the house, the kitten was running around like Angel had. As the owner and I walked into the kitchen to talk, the kitten followed us. I picked her up and asked her if she would like to come home with me; she turned her head and pressed her nose into my cheek. Well, that was that.

I called her “Magical Mistoffelees” after a character from T.S. Eliot’s, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (later made into a musical, Cats by Andrew Lloyd Webber). On May 24, 1990, a tabby I named “Jennie Anydots” joined us – also a name from Cats. The interesting thing is Magical bonded with me, but Jennie bonded with Magical, who groomed her constantly. They were very close and liked to play with one another. Once, when Jennie was having a sneezing fit, Magical jumped off my bed, ran over to Jennie and put her left front leg on Jennie’s back. What tenderness!

I thank God daily for the beautiful gifts He has given to me: first in the form of Angel, then Magical and Jennie. Animals cannot say “I love you,” but their actions speak those words in volumes.

Part Seven

Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mother Dies

Mother had a stroke in July 1964, and was in and out of the hospital until she died. Dad called me when she first went into the hospital, and I flew home to be with her. It was devastating to see her in that state. She was never sick, other than the occasional cold or flu. I asked her if she was getting out of bed and exercising. She said no. I questioned the nurse about mother’s comment. The nurse walked me back to mother’s room to give her a talking to. The nurse told mother, for my benefit, that everyday they came to take her down for physical therapy but she refused to go, saying to the nurse that the only person who could make her well was her husband. This must have made dad feel special, but his passivity was not in mother’s best interest. I am sure dad was frightened to the core that his partner for thirty-six years was so very ill and might leave him. When the nurse left, I thought I would approach this problem from the position that would get her attention – money. I told her that she

would remain in the hospital until she could walk and the longer that took the more it would cost dad. I went on to say that they both worked hard to have such a beautiful house and property, and it would be unthinkable that her lack of cooperation with the hospital staff would cause dad to lose all that. The next morning when we visited her, she had been to therapy; she continued to go until she left the hospital.

Mother’s youngest sibling, my Uncle Charlie, visited her while she was in the hospital. Afterward we talked, and he said it was hard seeing her in that condition. He remembered her as his independent, self-reliant sister. “My mother?” I thought to myself. I did not realize until after she died that she was the family’s real strength. My father made all the noise and had a temper, but she was the one who had the strength in the family.

When I returned home, I saw a psychic for the first time. He told me that mother was quite ill and would soon die. I did not know if I should believe him, but I mentally prepared – just in case – to make that trip home. The only thing I did not have was a black hat. I did not own one, nor did I buy one. Doing so meant that she would die, and I was not yet prepared for that. When I was told that she had died, I borrowed a black lace scarf from my neighbor.

The last night mother was alive, she and dad talked to each other. Dad told me she said, “I can’t live and I can’t die.” On the road back to their house, dad came to a particular crossroads. Going straight would take him home, but by turning left, the road took him through the center of Boonton. He turned left and stopped at a funeral home, where he explained that he wanted to arrange his wife’s funeral. He told the people that his wife was in the hospital and that he hoped she would get better, but he still wanted to make the arrangements. They reassured dad that the arrangements would be in place when he needed them. That night dad took their worn Bible, read parts of it, and prayed that if Marie was not going to get better, then it was alright for God to take her. That night, November 4, 1964, she died of a heart attack, a month to the day before her sixty-fifth birthday, a year older than grandmother when she died.

When dad told me that mother had died, I felt so empty. I wished I had more time with her to talk, woman to woman. This was my fantasy. I am not sure this was possible before her stroke, but it was even less likely after it. I longed so much to have known mother better.

Do we ever know our parents? While we are very young, we depend on them

for everything – the basics to survive and our emotional development. As teenagers, we strive for independence and insist that we’d rather do everything ourselves. As adults we might begin to understand them a little better based on our own experiences, but do we ever grasp the essence of our parents? When my mother was alive, I was not mature enough to have had an adult conversation with her. Even if I were able to articulate my feelings and ask my questions, would she have been able to bridge the gap between us?

Mother’s funeral was a simple one, and she was buried at the Montville Dutch Reformed Cemetery.

I sorted through mother’s things and selected some to ship home. She had newspaper clippings and other things she must have felt were important, though they had no meaning to me. This was an unnerving exercise. I felt as though I was trespassing in her private world. What I did take was later displayed in a shadow box that Mark made for me; he also made a shadow box to show keepsakes from my childhood. He titled these pieces “Mother” and “Daughter.”

Dad stayed in the family house for six years and then he sold the property to a developer who built seven more homes on the five acres. After that, dad moved into town and boarded with Josephine Robibero, the mother of Celeste, one of my best girlfriends in high school. He stayed with Josephine until he became ill in 1976. She reminded me that I was his daughter, and I needed to take responsibility for him.

When dad sold the property, I was not married, and lived in a one-bedroom apartment; having him live with me was out of the question, as was moving back to Boonton. Because of our strained relationship, the three thousand miles separating us was just fine. When Josephine agreed to have him board with her, she was doing me a gigantic favor that lasted until I was emotionally ready to deal with the situation.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Resolving

Issues with Dad

In July, 1976, I talked with dad several times to let him know that Mark and I were going to fly to Boonton to bring him to California to live with us. The morning of our departure I called again, and he angrily responded that he was not sure why I was coming because he would not leave New Jersey. This was upsetting; we could only speculate about the situation we would face once we arrived. At the same time, Mark’s father was gravely ill with lung cancer and was not expected to live long. Mark visited his dad just before we left, and while we were on our way to New Jersey, he died. We only had a few days to arrange to bring my dad to Torrance before we had to attend the funeral for Mark’s dad.

Those few days were extremely stressful. I knew I needed to bring dad home with me, even though he was not cooperating. Dad insisted he wanted to stay in Boonton because he was going to build another house.

We interviewed different nursing homes in the area, but didn’t like any of them. I talked to social services and to a doctor they recommended, who gave us tranquilizers to help keep dad calm during the trip. I went to a local moving company. I visited the bank to arrange transfer of his account to one I had set up for him in Torrance. We also talked to a local judge, who said that under the circumstances he could declare dad incompetent and award his custody to me. I left the judge’s office determined not to take any legal action; this would not be necessary.

That evening we had dinner at the Old Mill Inn in Basking Ridge, where I had a meal every time I visited home. Mark and I talked, and I cried on and off through dinner. Then I prayed, “Mother, wherever you are, I need you now!” That night at the motel, Mark and I made love tenderly. The next morning we prepared ourselves for the unpredictability of the day.

When we arrived at Josephine’s house, dad was very calm. Mother certainly was there helping us. Mark sat with dad and Josephine in the living room while I emptied drawers, taking his personal belongings and any financial papers I could find. Then we got into the car and started to implement all the plans that had been put on hold. I bought three airline tickets, transferred his financial ac-counts, and gave instructions to the movers. By this time our heads were pounding; we stopped for coffee and Mark and I took the tranquilizers since dad obviously did not need them.

We were to fly out of Kennedy Airport. Although the drive there would take us almost two hours, we had plenty of spare time. I drove around the area and found myself in front of the home of my former Camp Fire Girl leader, Madeline Mason, who was out in her

yard. Madeline was a friend with whom I really needed to talk. Leaving the men in the back seat, we went into her house, and I told her what was happening. My biggest worry was that if I pulled up dad’s roots in Boonton and moved him to Torrance, would I be causing his death? Her reply was simple. “Ruthie, if you surround his roots with love, he will be just fine.” After I had a good cry, we went out to fetch Mark and dad; we had coffee and cake and then headed to the airport. Mother was still on duty.

I dropped Mark, dad, and the luggage at curbside and then returned the car. We still had spare time before the flight so we relaxed as much as we could and snacked in the coffee shop. When our flight was called, we boarded the plane directly from the terminal, thereby not making it obvious what we were doing; but he knew. I did not explain our plans to dad, fearing he might cause problems for us. Although dad had never flown before, when we boarded the plane, he asked, “How high is up?”

The agreement that Mark and I had was that dad would live with us for three months while we evaluated his needs and tried to find adequate accommodations. In the meantime, we converted the front room into his bedroom after his furniture arrived. I found a woman who would sit with him during the week, give him lunch, and take him on walks. On weekends we supervised his care. One Saturday, dad was missing and I knew he had wandered off. I drove around the neighborhood and grew terrified when I could not find him. The phone rang; it was a family who lived across a busy four-lane street calling to say they had dad. Mother was still protecting him.

It was obvious I had to find a facility for dad so I began to scour the immediate area – he needed to be close. I found a wonderful place where dad could have his own room with his own furniture, but could eat in a community dining room. When some friends helped me move him into his new quarters, he looked at me with such hate in his eyes and said, “Ruthie I never thought you’d do this to me.” I felt like he had driven a knife into my gut and twisted it. The next day I visited him with much trepidation; he was calm and had settled in as if nothing had happened. I wanted to kill him on the spot. I knew that no jury that included people with parents who needed full-time care would convict me.

However, dad needed more supervision than the facility was equipped to provide. For example, he would not show up for meals, so an attendant would have

to bring him to the dining room. He also wandered off several times, and the police returned him to the facility. He was still trying to find his way back to Boonton to build one more house. The only other facility available was a convalescent hospital, which provided more care than he needed at that time. That facility was a few blocks away from our house, which made it easier to visit or to bring him home for occasional meals and for holidays.

Dad made a life for himself there. He thought the women in wheelchairs were actually midshipmen. (Dad was in the Navy during WW I.) He would walk up to them and cup their faces in his hands and look them straight in the eye. He would also walk behind them and untie the soft restraints that secured them in their wheelchairs, much to the chagrin of the nurses. The administrator told me dad would become furious when he was told he should not do that, and added that the only way around his anger was to follow behind him retying the restraints. She asked me if he was known to have a temper to which I replied, “Oh, yes!”

One winter, he became very ill with the flu that caused the death of several patients. We thought he might not pull through, but he was not ready – or perhaps, I was not ready – for his departure. However, this illness forced dad into a wheelchair.

I was in therapy during this time and relayed a dream to my therapist. He told me it was imperative to make peace with dad – and it needed to be done soon. The next time I visited dad, I asked him if he loved me and told him I loved him. He didn’t respond. I repeated it, “Dad, do you love me? Because I love you.” Again, no response. After I asked a third time, he changed the subject. I went home and told Mark, with a laugh, “Maybe in our next lifetime.”

A few days later I persisted. This time when I said, “Dad, do you love me? Because I love you.” He answered, “I love you very much.” We put our arms around each other and cried. It was an unbelievable achievement. First, I had stuck my neck out in spite of predictable results. Second, I did not take his silence personally and instead laughed about it. Third, I was persistent and went back for more. I wonder if mother boxed his ears.

This was the last time I talked to dad. Three days later he had a bizarre accident at the facility. An administrator told me he got behind an upright piano, pulled on it, and tipped it over on himself, fortunately breaking only his toe. Can you visualize a seventy-nine-year-old man in a wheelchair having the strength to do that? Dad was rushed to Little Company of Mary Hospital, which was next door, where they put his whole leg in a soft restraint so the toe would heal

naturally. But this minor accident left him in a coma that lasted from mid-September to mid-November. Knowing that at a subconscious level dad understood what I was saying, I told him that I loved him, that he had lived a remarkable life and when he was ready he could join mother who was waiting for him on the other side.

Dad died November 21, 1979, five days before his eightieth birthday. I had a memorial service for him at the Church of Religious Science. He was cremated here, and we took his remains back to Montville for burial.

Mark and I both felt his presence around us. Mark saw him walking down the hallway to our bedroom and then disappearing. The doorbell rang several different times. Each time I was in the back of the house and when I opened the door, no one was there. I looked in the bushes to see if a kid was hiding there. The last time this happened I was in the front room. I ran to the door, and again found no one there. This confirmed to me that dad was trying to make contact. I told him that I felt his presence and that I loved him, but that it was time for him to go on to the next dimension. Dad never rang the doorbell again.

In April 1980, Mark and I drove cross country in our van to take dad’s remains back to bury next to mother in the Montville Dutch Reform Church cemetery. We postponed the trip until April, when the weather would be sat-isfactory and I would be on semester break from Antioch University. Mark had sold his store in December so he was free to travel. I told my cousin, Dick Zapt, when we would arrive, and he made plans to have a family reunion, as we had missed earlier gatherings.

As usual, I planned the trip. We drove north through LasVegas, through Salt Lake City, then east through Cheyenne, and on to Chicago. From there we drove through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania on their turnpikes.

While on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, we saw a church in the distance, and since it was Easter Sunday and close to 11:00 AM, we made an abrupt turn and headed for the church. We were not dressed for the service, but knowing God would not care, we entered the old white wooden building. Towards the end of the service the minister acknowledged the visitors, which made us feel welcomed. We had coffee and cake then continued on to Gettysburg. We toured the battlefield, saw the national cemetery, found a motel, and had a lovely dinner.

Our next stop was Washington, D.C. I had been there several times, but this was my first visit when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. We saw most of the sites and then drove to Mount Vernon in Virginia. After a three-day visit in D.C., we headed north to Boonton for dad’s burial.

The burial was simple, with just Mark and I present. We had asked Josephine to join us but she declined, and dad had survived his three siblings.

The simple service was indicative of dad’s life. I had a prayer book from which I read some Psalms, but most of the time we just stood in silence in honor of him or we told stories about him.

The reunion afterwards was special because it was the first time Mark met my cousins. It was also particularly poignant for me because some of them were in their seventies and I knew I would not see them again.

After leaving Boonton, we drove through New England. We spent most of our time along the Massachusetts coast and around Boston. We took the ferry across to Martha’s Vineyard, drove around the small island and stayed overnight. From there we drove on to Portland and Belfast in Maine.

The Maine coast was as beautiful and majestic as I had read about. We drove as far north along the Atlantic Ocean that time would allow and then began our return trip. We took throughways and the turnpikes to minimize our driving time back through New Jersey and on to Washington, D.C., where we parted ways. I flew to Ft Lauderdale to visit my cousin Muriel Schulze, who was dying of cancer, and Mark drove southwest to Baton Rouge, where he stayed with my cousin Bob Wilhelms and his wife Lon until I got there. After I arrived, they drove us around Baton Rouge where we visited some beautiful plantations. After a few days, Bob and Lon drove us to New Orleans, from which I flew back to Torrance to return to work and to school. Mark drove directly home through Texas, New Mexico and Arizona.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Reciprocal

World

I fully accept the principle of reciprocity. Usually we cannot repay a

person who has extended his or her kindness; instead we extend that kindness to someone else. I, however, was fortunate enough to give something back to a woman who gave me a tremendous gift.

Josephine Robibero opened her house and heart to dad after mom died, a time when I was not ready to deal with him. After we moved dad from Boonton to Torrance, I would call Josephine on holidays or whenever the small voice within urged me to, and I continued to do so after dad died. If I could not reach her for two days, I would call the Catholic Church in Boonton and ask one of the priests to check on her. Josephine would then call to reassure me she was all right.

But when I called her in December 1995, the church told me to call social services. One of their representatives informed me that they had put Josephine in the hospital after they found her in her home dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition. Social services told me they had asked the priest if Josephine had any next of kin who could become her guardian. She did not have any living family, but the priest said that a woman called periodically from California, though he had neither her name nor telephone number. When I called the church again, their mystery lady became known and the circle was closed.

Social services told me that a woman named Frances was buying food for Josephine, but when I was in the house I found nothing in the cupboards or refrigerator and surmised that Frances was taking advantage of Josephine’s mental limitations. Social services also gave me the name of a lawyer who had some knowledge of the case. I contacted him for more details. Frances had informed him that Josephine wanted to put Frances’s name on the deed to the house and on Josephine’s money market accounts. The lawyer told Frances he could not honor her request until Josephine came to the office herself; only after he knew these were Josephine’s wishes, would he draw up the papers. When social services hospitalized Josephine, Frances was petitioning to be made her guardian. Social services told me Josephine would stay in the hospital until they found a safe place for her to live. Once the lawyer and social services assured me I could become Josephine’s guardian, I began preparing to move her to Torrance.

Before I left California, I contacted a realtor in Boonton so Josephine’s house could be sold. I obtained legal representation from the lawyer I had spoken to earlier and put a deposit on a room in a retirement home in Torrance. I also bought plane tickets for the two of us, and then I took a red-eye to Newark Airport on Wednesday evening, February 21, 1996.

When I visited Josephine in the hospital, she gave me the key to her

house. I was appalled when I entered it; her home had always been so clean and orderly, and now it was dirty and smelled of urine. I sorted through her papers to find anything that would be useful when I met with the lawyer and we went to court.

After Frances presented her case in court the next day, I told the judge why I wanted to take custody of Josephine and explained how she had taken care of my father. The court appointed me her guardian, and the assistant district attorney told me that if I could substantiate that Frances had done something illegal, they were ready to prosecute her. But I could not verify this. I hoped Frances has not tried to cheat another helpless person. I feel without social service’s intervention, Josephine would have died from neglect at the hands of Frances

I met with the realtor, the moving company, and the bank – a process I knew well from bringing my father out west. Then I cleaned out her house by making four piles: one pile of things to take back with us on the plane, a second would be shipped to Torrance, another to donate to the Salvation Army, and the fourth and largest pile was for the trash. It took me two and a half days and many aspirins to perform this task.

On February 27, 1996, six days after I arrived, Josephine and I left for California. I returned the rental car and was picked up by a limousine. After Josephine was released into my care, the driver took us to Newark Airport, where United Airlines had a wheelchair at curbside. We had ample time and everything was going just fine. Our luggage was checked in and I wheeled Josephine to the nearest bar, where she had a Coca Cola and I had a double Scotch. This was dad’s trip all over. Unlike dad, however, Josephine complained “You’re killing me” for most of the flight, until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. (I soon learned this was her favorite expression when she was not getting what she wanted.) Oh, what disturbance we caused the other passengers.

Josephine stayed at my house for three days until her furniture arrived, and then we moved her into a very large bright room in the retirement home. I bought her a thirty-six-inch-high soft doll, which she loved; she talked to her “little girl” all the time, and they even slept together. My nine-dollar gift brought Josephine a great deal of joy

In January 2001, we found a lump growing under Josephine’s ear. Two doctors confirmed the growth was cancerous but we all decided against an operation because of her frail condition. Fortunately, she was not in pain. The decision was to let nature take its course, and it did. Josephine died on August 31, 2002, six and a half years after she left Boonton.

Two weeks before she died, the retirement center administrator told me that Josephine refused to eat and drink and said within a few days the growth had gotten larger. The administrator wanted Josephine to go to the hospital. The emergency room doctor suggested she should be under hospice care, so on August 19 she was transferred to their care and a six-person team guided Josephine’s last days. A priest visited her to offer her the Sacrament of the Sick, and Josephine opened her eyes in recognition. Shortly thereafter, she went into a coma.

On August 31, I was planning to visit Josephine but had not yet left the house. My dear nurse friend, Ann, called to say she wanted to visit Josephine, so I put aside what I was working on and met her at the hospice facility. When we entered the room, we saw that Josephine was on oxygen. I was told this was because she was gasping for air. Since this intervention was against the protocol of al-lowing her to die naturally, I had them remove the mask.

Josephine was on her back, her eyes open, but no life in them. I talked to her and stroked her hair. Then I asked Ann if she would join me in saying the Lord’s Prayer. Josephine closed her eyes, and we saw her appearance change. Her breathing became shallower, and several times her face crunched up as if she was in pain or pushing on something.

Ann made an astute observation and suggested we leave the room, because our combined energies could be preventing Josephine from passing. We left for about ten minutes and when we returned she was peaceful again. I suggested we leave the complex and get some coffee before returning. We were close to my home, so we stopped there first. I picked up a telephone message that Josephine died shortly after we had left the facility.

It was interesting how this played out. I believe God moved through the hospice’s staff, which gave Josephine enough oxygen to keep her alive until I got there. I did not leave the house until Ann was available to lend her support. Then, as soon as we said the Lord’s Prayer and I reminded Josephine that her husband (Bob), her daughter (Celeste) and Dad were all waiting to receive her, she died – but only after we left and gave her permission and space to do so.

Later, I asked Joshua (through Lucy) what had happened to make Josephine’s face crunch up. He told me, “The soul was so entwined in the body, and the body was still in a ‘survivor mode,’ that it took some pulling to release the soul back into the Light.”

When I brought Josephine to Torrance I had made arrangements with a local mortuary for her body to be cremated, in accordance with her will. So when Josephine died, the head nurse at the facility faxed the mortuary proof of my

guardianship and the paid cremation agreement, and asked them to remove her body. But the nurse was told they needed proof that I had power of attorney, which I had not been told was necessary. I became frantic. In desperation, knowing I could do no more, I raised my arms in the air in a supplication and said, “God, I have done everything I can. The outcome of this is in Your hands now.”

The nurse contacted the hospice office, and the social worker on call was the one I had been working with. Coincidence? The social worker told me she spoke to the man at the mortuary, who was following procedure, and urged him to open his mind so the body could be picked up. She assured him that I would bring all the necessary papers to the mortuary the following day. She further explained that if he could not do that, she needed to know the name and telephone number of his boss. He relented, and Josephine’s body was transferred to the mortuary. The next day I gave them a copy of Josephine’s will and other legal documents, and she was cremated three days later. In October 2002, my friend Olivia and I transported her remains back to a cemetery in Boonton.

I believe the opportunity I had to care for Josephine compensated for my not being able to be with my mother when she became ill. When Josephine died, Joshua told me this completed a cycle with dad that had been incomplete. This was a healing for the four of us.

A memorial service for Josephine was held at my house and six of my female friends attended. The table was set for eight; the empty seat was for Josephine. All the dishes – black with gold filigree – were from her best set and I placed them on my pink tablecloth. The way the table was set created an ambiance Josephine would have liked.

We poured ourselves wine, and each of us put some in an empty glass that was placed at Josephine’s seat at the head of the table. We toasted Josephine, and then those of us who knew her shared our recollections. I turned the clock back to 1944, when I first met Josephine after becoming friends with her daughter Celeste. Our sto-ries added to the tapestry of her life, as I knew it. I passed around pictures I had of Josephine, Bob and Celeste from those early days, as well as pictures taken after she came to Torrance. It was a very special night for all of us and I am sure Josephine was pleased with our celebration of her life.

Part Eight

Returning To Judaism

Chapter Twenty-Six

Spiritual

Search

In 1968, a friend wanted me to attend a Sunday service conducted by Dr. Frank Richelieu, the now-retired minister of the Church of Religious Science in Redondo Beach. She wanted me to share the fulfilling experience of the church’s teachings, and I soon understood what she meant. The Church of Religious Science not only had a persuasive spiritual teaching that transcended anything I had previously been exposed to, but the church was considered a powerful force in the new thought religious movement. It taught positive thinking techniques that I could apply to my everyday life – at work and at home. I learned how to pray to God, and my outlook on life changed to incorporate a more positive approach to life. I started attending every Sunday with the exception of the first Sunday of the month, when I would receive Holy Communion at the Lutheran church. After a while I began to see Jesus as one of many teachers, and not as my savior, though his teachings provided a

sound foundation for a good moral life. Several years later, I learned that what Jesus was teaching was not Christianity but Judaism, directly from the Torah. Jesus was a rabbi, which means teacher. I never became disillusioned with the Lutheran teachings; I simply found myself following a different spiritual path.

The teachings of the Church of Religious Science are metaphysical and at first it was hard for me to understand. I remember taking an introductory class of The Science of Mind – the foundation of Religious Science – and saying to my friend, “I know all the words, but I haven’t a clue what they mean in this context.” I came from a religion that taught absolutes. The metaphysical approach to spiritual teachings was abstract, subtle, and beyond physical or material teaching and, as I said, was hard to grasp at first.

I repeated the class, and then the teachings started to become second nature to me. I took more advanced classes and thought I might become a practitioner but did not pursue a license. I think the most important skill I learned in my study that changed my life was how to effectively pray to God and how to make God an integral part of my life. I know followers of other religions say they have received the same enlightenment from their religious teachings, which I do not dispute; but this was the path I chose and that I benefited from.

During each of the seventeen years I was a member of the Church of Religious Science, I took classes, weekend seminars and lectures in holistic medicine, psychology, and new-thought religion. Leaders who had stepped out of their traditional disciplines, eager to investigate new approaches in solving recurring problems, conducted the courses. Without a doubt, this period offered me a great opportunity for personal and spiritual growth.

I became very active as a volunteer in my new church. I took many classes and met interesting people there, including my second husband. However, after nearly two decades, I felt my soul was urging me to continue my spiritual journey.

In 1985 another friend asked me to attend a class with her on Jungian psychology. David, the teacher, later changed the course to Kabbalah, the heart of Jewish mysticism and ancient wisdom. After Religious Science, it was easier for me to understand the abstractions of Kabbalah. I studied The Ten Sefirots, which teach the essence of God and the relationship between man and God. These classes thoroughly challenged and stimulated me to the core of my being, yet they frightened me. I read that a teacher of Kabbalah, as well as the student, should be well grounded to study its mystical teachings. I soon felt that David did not fit that criterion; he had too many personal issues he needed to resolve.

David was a psychologist who was making his return to Judaism, the religion of his birth. He was gathering a cadre of

students who were candidates for conversion or born Jews who were willing to follow his teachings. He was following a fundamentalist, Hassidic model of Judaism.

In 1986, I had a session with Lucy and Joshua during which Joshua suggested that I visit Israel. In January 1987, David took us on a two-week spiritual and historical journey to the Holy Land. We landed at the airport in Tel Aviv and drove north through Haifa on our way to Safad. There we spent a week studying Kabbalah and the Golden Age of Safad in the 16th century, at the Ascent Institute. We drove to the Golan Heights and saw the Israeli military camps; we drove through the West Bank and saw the ruins of the Capernaum Synagogue, where Jesus taught. Then we crossed the Galilee to the Kibbutz Ein Gev.

The second week we spent in Jerusalem, taking day trips and studying with local rabbis. We walked through the Old City and prayed at the Western Wall (called the Kotel). We saw the Mount of Olives, Mount Zion and Mount Scopus. We traveled south through Jericho, and in Hebron we entered The Cave of Machpelah, the burial place of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca and Leah. We took the cable car to the top of Masada (some walked the steep hill), swam in the Dead Sea, and saw the caves at Qumran where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found. We also visited Rachel’s Tomb in Bethlehem. There were Israeli solders posted at both Machpelah and Rachel’s Tomb, ensuring the safety for all visitors.

While praying at the Kotel, I had a deep emotional experience that I felt was more than a non-Jew might have. I had an internal vibration so strong I began to sob uncontrollably. When we returned home, I again contacted Lucy and Joshua to discuss this internal upheaval. Joshua explained that I had been a Jew at the time of the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE. So, did the simple action of putting my hand on the remains of the Temple connect me to that lifetime long ago? I suspect it did. This concept was indeed a leap of faith, but it gave meaning to my emotional reaction, something that I could not otherwise explain. Was this the reason Joshua wanted me to visit Israel? After hearing this story, I took David’s instruction in Judaism more seriously; I also began to think about converting to Judaism, or as I now saw it, returning to Judaism.

We went to Israel with David again in August of the same year. I was looking to have a similar emotional experience; however, nothing special happened. But this did not change my desire to

convert. The trip again focused on education and Jewish history. The more I studied, the more I knew Judaism was the right religion for me.

Of the many Jewish traditions that attracted me, I will share two examples. One has to do with Jewish Law and the other relates to treating people with respect and kindness.

In compiling the Talmud – the Jewish Law – the rabbis spent months in scholarly debate over words and phases to explain a particular law. When completed, the Talmud not only contained the law the rabbis agreed upon, but it also included dissenting opinions to substantiate how the conclusion was reached and to form the bases for future commentary. This is so unlike other religions, which posit immutable beliefs.

Zelig Pliskin, who wrote many books including Love Your Neighbor, Guard Your Tongue and Gateway to Happiness, describes how to treat another person with respect and kindness. A very simple example is not to be demonstrative to one’s husband or wife in front of a recent or long-time widow or widower; that could cause pain and grief, since they no longer have a spouse to love or to love them.

Without a doubt, the most powerful reason behind my conversion was the observance of Shabbat. Shabbat is a space in time where it seems that time stands still. In the book To Be a Jew, Rabbi Hayim Halevy Donin writes of Shabbat, “It is a glorious release from weekday concerns and routine pressures. It is a day of peaceful tranquility, inner joy and spiritual uplift, accompanied by song and cheer. It is a time to refresh the body and the soul.” Outside concerns hold no power during this time. Shabbat starts at sundown on Friday with the lighting of candles, and concludes with Havdala, 25 hours later. There are three ceremonial meals eaten on Shabbat: the first is eaten on Friday night, the second after the morning service, and the third after the evening service – literally called the third meal. One becomes engulfed in embracing the ceremony of the meal, studying Torah, and enjoying the companionship of other like-minded observers.

On December 27, 1987, I went to one of the Beit Din (the Jewish court) in Los Angeles and then immersed myself in the Mikvah (the ritual bath) for my Orthodox conversion. I chose the date because it was the closest Sunday to my birth date, December 23. I was fifty-seven years old and, in essence, this was my second birth date.

Going to the Beit Din was unnerving. I waited in the living room of the chief rabbi for my turn; several other people, some from as far away as Canada, waited with me. This in itself was stressful, and seeing three men in long beards, black hats and black coats just added to it. The three rabbis were friendly and tried to put me at ease. The religious questions they asked were not that difficult – they were more concerned with understanding why I wanted to convert to Judaism and to be sure I had not been pressured to do so.

After the interview I was welcomed into the Jewish community and given a certificate of conversion written in Hebrew. As my given name was Ruth, a name rich in Jewish heritage, I did not take a Hebrew name. In the Torah, Ruth was the first convert to Judaism; it was fortuitous that my parents gave me this name.

If the interview was a legal test, the Mikvah was my spiritual test. Preparing to be immersed in the large pool of water was extremely symbolic. First, I had to be sure nothing from the external world was on my body, like a hair from my head. To guarantee this, I showered. An attendant put a sheet over my head and I stuck my head through an opening in the center. This was for modesty, since the three rabbis would witness the immersion. After I was in the water, the rabbi’s entered the room. I had to lower my body under the water three times so that no part of my body was showing. I said a prayer each of the three times and the rabbis would utter the word kosher after a successful immersion. I did not realize how buoyant my body was; I could not fully submerge on my first attempt. I remember vividly the sensation of the water. It tingled and felt as if it was energizing me. I see the Mikvah as representing the womb, and walking out of the Mikvah the coming down the birth canal into a new life.

The next step was to convert my kitchen in accordance to the Jewish dietary laws. I thoroughly enjoyed the ritual of keeping Shabbat. However, David’s strictness and the overbearing, fanatic manner in which he enforced these laws were more than I could handle. Once I told him that he was destroying the beauty I had found in Shabbat.

David’s students were with him for four years. After the last night of Passover, 1989, six of us decided to leave the group. I was the only convert who continued to observe Judaism after our own Exodus. There was something in me that was not willing to toss away all that I had learned and all the beauty I found in the religion, so I immersed myself in study at the University of Judaism in Los

Angeles. There I learned that David’s teachings were sound, as I said before, but the teacher was not.

One beautiful thing happened to me at this time; I met Diane who became one of my dearest friends. Our friendship grew as we shared many experiences from the classes and trips we took with David. Since then, each Friday morning we talk on the phone to wish each other a Shabbat Shalom and catch up on the past week.

While I was taking classes at the University of Judaism, I also attended lectures and workshops at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills, conducted by leaders in the Jewish community that focused on Jewish values. Since these sessions were sponsored by the hospital, some of the sessions were on bioethics. Rabbi Levi Meier, the hospital’s chaplain, arranged these lectures and also conducted classes at the University of Judaism on Torah subjects, often based on his many books. In Rabbi Meier I found someone whom I could trust and who also had a deep understanding for making the Torah come alive.

After leaving David, I joined a local synagogue, where Rabbi Mark Hyman gave me the nurturing I needed to continue my Jewish observance. I became active in the synagogue through committee work, board positions, and as president of the synagogue board. In 1992, I became a Bat Mitzvah in that synagogue. What a joy it was studying with nine other women in preparation to come to the Torah!

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