If you were wondering this morning as you dressed and ate your breakfast, “Huh, I wonder how the edits on Book Six are going for Christine?” – then I have read your mind and I am here to give you an update.
Work is going slow but sure, and I’ve got my hands full and my mind working away on…The Cottage.
No, that isn’t a book title. Sorry. And no, I haven’t been editing. Three things are filling my days: work on The Cottage rehab, homeschooling Em, and preparing for the Homes Tour on October 15th.
Yes, you too can see the house I call home, along with five others, all for the low price of $15!
But I digress. Mainly I’m running around like some crazed chicken, missing that proverbial head, as I struggle to get everything done.
So the update is that there is no progress on the edits. I hope to give you better news soon. Give me three weeks and I’ll see if I can’t manage to work editing back into the mix.
Meanwhile, all of these police shootings brought to mind a parallel story, and a true one at that, which I will now share with you.
A True Life Story
I left home at the age of sixteen. To be more exact, I ran away.
I had screwed up in school, been caught cheating, and my dad was beside himself and pissed. He told me I would be going back to my mom’s in Arizona and repeating my senior year of high school there in public school.
That wasn’t what made me run away, it was the phone call that night, and his remarks directly after, that sent me fleeing.
My mother had called, reminding him that they had agreed to never change custody during times where it might provide an escape for me from a problem. He got off the phone and instead of telling me this (he was pissed and frustrated) he said, “Well your mom doesn’t want you. So I guess I’m going to have you declared incorrigible, made a ward of the court, and send you to a juvenile facility.”
Just writing this makes me want to laugh. How did I ever believe him when he said this?
A “sort of” friend had had this happen to her. I didn’t know the circumstances of what she had done, but her mother did get her locked up in a juvenile facility. And her mother knew my father, of course, he knew the story even better. I reasoned that if it could happen to this girl, it could happen to me.
And the second reason was rather simplistic – to my knowledge, my dad had never lied to me. He had never told me that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or even God (my dad is an atheist) – was real. He had also stated on more than a number of occasions that he would always tell me the truth.
I believed him. As far as I was concerned, he was going to have me locked up just like my “sort of” friend had been locked up. And the next day, before he left work, he told me to start packing. I did. I grabbed what I could carry and I left home.
We lived in Pacifica at the time, and I headed for San Francisco, where a friend was living in some residence hotels. These places were rented out by the week or month, each floor had several shared bathrooms, and it was some rather simple, basic living. A hot plate, maybe a refrigerator if you were lucky, and maybe a sink in your room to do your dishes in. They also had a restriction, no one under the age of 18, but my friend was 21 and he was determined to help.
“Just meet me in the city, we will figure it out.” He promised.
There I sat on a bus, my bags clutched close beside me, heading through the Tenderloin. The area was riddled with crime, violence, shootings and drugs. Each time I rode through it I was tense and scared. It was a bad, bad area at the time.
The bus stopped near a corner store and passengers disembarked and others came in the front, paying the fare and moving deeper into the bus. I was in a single seat, some of the busses had them at the time, and the bus was relatively full. It was a bright sunny day in April 1987.
The bus closed its doors and inched forward to the crosswalk, but the light was red. At that moment, a convertible sports car screeched to a halt beside the bus, immediately to my left, and I saw the passenger jump out, a gun in his hand. He was white, dressed in a shirt and blue jeans. He made no attempt to hide it and I watched as he ran in front of the bus. The light had turned green and the bus had begun to move forward. It just as quickly lurched to a stop when the driver saw the man run in front.
What sent me into a panic was what happened next. The bus driver actually opened the front doors. I’m sure it was an automatic response, one that he quickly rectified as the man with the gun continued past the bus and towards a man standing near a pillar at the corner market. He reached the man, a black man, slammed him against the pillar and placed the gun against his head.
Here I was, not quite seventeen years old, running away from home, and convinced this was a drug deal gone bad and that once the guy with the gun finished off this poor s.o.b. he was going to come for any witnesses, i.e. all the people on the bus.
It turned out he was an undercover cop. As the bus pulled away I could see his partner racing over, the car still running and parked in the middle of the street, and silver handcuffs flashing in the sun.
So there you go. A real life story that you probably never heard me tell before. Got one for me?