I watched an interview with Sully co-star, Aaron Eckhart. He’s working on a movie based on his mother’s memoir about her hardscrabble life growing up on the Montana plains. It got me thinking about my memoir and whether my daughter would appreciate the grueling torment that embodied growing up in the ’60s in the unforgiving San Francisco suburbs.
- Hygiene horror. The one and only bathroom option in our cracker box domicile consisted of an indoor toilet, small wash basin, and a tub. Sparse at best. That’s right. One lavatory for five people. Oh, the humanity. When dad had to go, he grabbed the sports section of the Oakland Tribune and announced his intentions to the rest of us. His attempt to fend off the requisite pounding of the door and caterwauling of my older brothers and me to “Hurry up!” was, alas, futile. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the 19th century claw-foot tub had – wait for it – no jets. Imagine wallowing in flat, motionless, non-jetting water. Oh sure, we had bubble bath, a pathetic substitute for a frothy whirling whirlpool.
At ten years old, my grandson is a seasoned bargain hunter. But Jackson didn’t get it from me. Even when my daughter was little and my budget littler, I never got into the whole coupon cutting, bargain hunting competition that my contemporaries enjoyed. When dollar stores starting cropping up in strip malls in my area, I had no interest. Target, sure. Walmart, on a rare occasion, but the Dollar Store? Sounded like another scam whipped up to get me to spend my hard earned Social Security check.
The house smelled of pine, bayberry and bacon. My mouth watered, anticipating the feast promised by our hostess.
Sounds crazy, right? But believe me, I know where you’re coming from. For more than half my life, I endured a 45-minute commute five torturous days a week on clogged highways and crammed public transit. By Friday afternoon, I fantasized about the wondrous weekend ahead. TGIF. For two blissful days, no alarm clock jarring me from my nightmare of looming deadlines, no packed roads or commuter trains, no boss surreptitiously leaving AARP literature on my desk. Oh yes. I get it. TGIF. 
