I started this two weeks ago in response to a request from my writer's group facilitator. Since she did not specify what kind of bio she wanted, I tried to make it general but not too detailed.
I thought maybe posting it here on my blog might give me motivation to get going on parts two and three.
(Part One: Early Years)
My entry into the world had a single distinction; I was a girl. Though I had nothing to do with that fact, my mother tells and retells the story as if I accomplished a great victory for her just by coming out the correct gender. After three stinky puppy-dog tails, my birth gave her opportunity at last to announce sugar and spice. To my parents and the relatives, this was celebratory news. My brothers, on the other hand, had they been disposed to deep thought - or any thought at all - may have taken it differently. But they were too occupied with nails and snails to worry much. The girls could do their thing; they would do theirs.
Though ignoble, seeds of early childhood cravings were thus sown in chromosomal soil. Being a boy was fine for boys but girls needed to be ladies, and if possible, beautiful ones. Paper dolls I cut outfits for were the same glamorous stars I saw at the movies. Visions of Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth evoked a childish longing - and disagreements about whom got to be who. More significant, the complexities of grooming for the gentler sex seeped in by osmosis when I watched my mother. I can see her now.
Starting at the top, she wore her dark hair near shoulder length with full bangs, curled under. Sides were pulled up and back, anchored with hairpins she concealed by allowing upper locks to flow over. A cloche with veil came next, guarding everything but the cherry lips.
Generally, I visualize my mother back then in the well-tailored suits she preferred; though occasionally she put on something more daring like the loose trousers that had just come into vogue. Gloves, silk stockings with seams, and a red fox stole draped over padded shoulders conclude the vision. And Minnie Mouse shoes. This in the forties was the epitome of feminine mystique; and from a tender age, I wanted it.
Other factors had their role to play too though in shaping my personality. Culture was one of these. The city of my birth, San Antonio, evolved a platypus creature in those days and I am sure this diversity had a profound effect. The military influence was strong upon us and as well both Latino and German ethnicity. Until spring of 1953 when my parents moved to Corpus Christi, I was nurtured in the deep bosom of lugares del San Antonio - plätze San Antonio. Breckenridge and Playland parks, Casa Rio and the River Walk, Joske’s, Bluebonnet Hotel, Christie’s Seafood Restaurant, the train depot, and the Alamo, are names any native denizen of San Antonio in the forties can spark to. Reluctantly I admit this will not hold true for folk of other times, other places.
Closer to home animal friends exerted their sway. A bobtail terrier named Lady was with us almost from birth to death. She came as a pup of three weeks and stayed until old age took her away. During her tenure, Lady and her adult master and mistress put up with white rabbits, parakeets of all colors, chickens, rats, fish, lizards and later on the occasional cat I had to smuggle in. Except for the rats, I loved them all. It is my view that affection and caring for pets contributes much to the making of an emotionally generous person. I believe these beasts beloved did that for me.
And then there were the books; intertwined with other elements for propensity was the continuity of literature. From an early age, I loved reading. As a family we were not great world travelers, but books were available to broaden my horizons, ignite my imagination, and give me a love for the cadence of words fitly written. Without my even realizing it, books helped open for me the integrity of life’s mysteries. Who could ever be bored when so much of the interesting world out there exists between pages of books? I had merely to walk to the shelf, pull one down and off, or in, I went.
When I was in the sixth grade we made our move and life became more tropical. Giant hibiscus and purple bougainvillea grew right in the front yard and the ocean was near enough to visit often. In summer, I would have gone salt-water swimming every day if someone were available to take me. Padre Island was free as a bird in those days. Teens lucky enough to have a car could drive up and down the beach, stop and swim, or build a campfire to roast wieners and marshmallows over. One end of a rope we would tie to a car bumper, the other to an inner tube to be inhabited by a hapless volunteer. As we jolted our way over ground too near, across dune hills and sandy vales, we would hang on for love of life and limb. Though much relished, this could be a painful and dangerous ride.
As a teen I think my aspirations were similar to that of my chums – eminently short term. I did have a vague notion of home, hearth, and motherhood, but was mostly interested in having a good time - right now. Then at eighteen very green years, I encountered my future husband of a lifetime. We met in May of my senior year, married in July. Two years later I held my first babe in my arms and the first (adult) inklings as regards the importance of developing real character began to dawn for me. It was to take some years before I began to explore what that might look like.
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