LeeAnn Prescott - Escape From Nowhere

C is for Christmas

During Christmas 1979, I had just turned 8, and we were living at Camp Bayou in Ruskin, Florida. We had a pop-up camper that we called the Space Age Dumpster. It was an improvement from our previous home, which was a leaky canvas pop-up camper we had called The Dumpster. The Space Age Dumpster was fiberglass, and although it did not leak, in the morning the walls would drip with condensation and my blankets would be damp at the edges.

The week before Christmas, the campground filled with new people, including some children. I was excited to have playmates, even though I understood that they were on vacation and would not stay. I made a new friend one day and we climbed one of the crazy oak trees. While we were sitting in the tree, I asked her, “How do you think Santa Claus can find us when we are away from home? And how do you think he can get in the camper when there’s no chimney?” It was the first Christmas that I did not live in a house with a fireplace or a wood stove.

“Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?” she replied, surprised at my ignorance.

“That’s not true!” I yelled, aghast. “Then where do the presents come from?”

“Your parents,” she said. “How do you think you get what you want?”

I was still in shock. “I always write a letter to Santa Claus before Christmas! On Christmas Eve I leave milk and cookies out for him, and they are gone in the morning,” I explained, sure that this would prove Santa’s existence.

“It’s your parents that eat the cookies. Just ask them,” she said.

I could not believe that every adult I knew had been lying to me my entire life. 

“It’s not true!” I yelled, “There really is a Santa!” I climbed down from the tree and ran to the Space Age Dumpster where Cheryl was cooking. To my dismay, she corroborated the story.

When I got gifts for my birthday and Christmas the next day, I knew that Santa Claus couldn’t have made them – my second favorite gift after a Darci doll was a box for my dolls that Papa made from a drawer that was in the original Dumpster. He had taken The Dumpster apart and made it into a trailer that he could carry things in to sell at the flea market, and the drawer had become scrap material.  He had built dividers inside it, made a cover from wood paneling, and attached a suitcase handle to the top. My mother had painted flowers on the box to make it look like a fancy doll carrier.

Perhaps THEY were Santa's real elves, working together in secret while I played in the trees. Even then I sensed that elves in the North Pole couldn't have made mass-produced toys that had "Made in China" stamped on the back.

Here's the doll carrier. It still holds my dolls, although the sliding top is broken into two pieces after 30 years of use. Compare it to the photo of the 1976 official Barbie carrier that I found on eBay. Which one was made in Santa's workshop?

B is for Birthday

For kids, birthdays are all about presents. Presents and cake. Presents, cake, and a party. A party where all your friends come and give you presents, and sing "Happy Birthday" to you.

Being born on December 23 does not facilitate having a big party, which means your opportunities to get presents are limited.

All through my childhood, I was envious of kids who had birthdays in the summer. They got to have outdoor parties, and maybe go swimming at a lake. Their relatives and friends gave them presents for Christmas AND their birthday. I sometimes got cards from relatives that said "Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas," and contained perhaps a $10 bill. Were my non-Christmas-born cousins getting $10 twice a year? I could never know, but I somehow felt this was unfair.

We always had some sort of little party - usually just me and my mother and Papa, and perhaps a friend or two. My mother made it festive by making my favorite food - one year it was lasagna, another year tofu patties - and a cake of some kind with candles. They would do their best to divide up the gifts evenly between my birthday and Christmas. But I could never remember afterward which gift I got for Christmas or my birthday - except when I wrote it my journal, as I did in 1982 and 1983.

1982 (Benton, New Hampshire)

On my birthday I turned 11. I had Shanni, Angela, and Erika over. We went sliding. Alicia came over. I had a birthday cake with whipped cream and flowers on top. I got a blouse that Cheryl made, a hairless Garfield, and Italian porcelain doll, a Jordache pocketbook, some markers, crayons, a zodiac stained glass window coloring book, the 2nd Big Book of Amazing Facts, some Osh Kosh overalls, and my favorite was a stuffed horse from Marian, Pat and Alicia. We played pin the nose on the clown. Shanni won. Erika spent the night. We played barbie dolls the next day until Darci's hand broke off. Then we got bored. We made a snowgirl because it rained.

Here's a photo of me and Alicia on Christmas day that year. I'm showing her my new stuffed horse horse and my doll Erica (Darci's sister). I'm wearing the blouse and the overalls I got on my birthday. The feather barrette was a Christmas gift.

On my birthday the following year we were living in a little trailer RV in a KOA Kampground in Tombstone, Arizona. Marian, Pat and Alicia ("the Boudreaults") had traveled west with us and were living in the nearby town of Bisbee.

1983 (Tombstone, Arizona)

On my birthday I turned 12. The Boudreaults came over. For supper we had tofu patties, peas, baked potatoes, salad, and bread. I had a cherry pie with rainbow candles and a tofu-orange dessert. It was delicious.

For presents, I got an Indian crafts book, an Indian beaded ponytail holder, a big stuffed Garfield and a loaf of sweet bread (from Cheryl and Papa). From the Boudreaults I got a baseball shirt with pink sleeves and a Pegasus with a rainbow and stars in the background, in pastel colors. From our landlord I got a knitted snowman - the hat fits Sasha. Some people in the campground gave me a copper road runner pin.

That pegasus shirt became my favorite shirt, and I wore it until the iron-on design crumbled off. Note that my mother knew my dissatisfaction with the hairless Garfield I got the year before, and got me a nice furry one that year.

Now having birthday parties is difficult because most people are with their families for the holidays. But I'm far past the age of being present-hungry, and if two people show up and I get to eat some cake, I'm happy.

Alphabet: A History - A is for Apple

I stumbled across a group of blogging writers - Fog City Writer, The Contact Zone, Jade Park, Everything In Between, and Charlotte's Web - who are writing entries based on letters of the alphabet. Here's my first installment. I already know what I'm going to write for "Z," so I can't wait to get there!

A is for Apple

In New England, fall is apple time. People come from all over the country to view the fall foliage - mountains colored in a swaths of oranges, reds and yellow. Roadside stands selling bags of fresh apples, apple butter, apple sauce and apple cider dot the roadways. Tourists and locals alike enjoy steaming cups of hot spiced cider, filling their insides with a sweet warmth on the cool crisp days. 

There were several apple trees on our property, which had been pasture before it had grown into the young forest that my parents cleared to build our home. These sprawling trees stood out among the younger pines, alder, and cherry trees that had grown straight up toward the light through the brush, reminding us that once animals had grazed there, and had sat under the trees for shade from the sun or shelter from the rains, and eaten the apples that fell from the trees.

The apples were abundant on two of our trees - the tree by the roadside had small, hard apples that turned red, and the larger tree by the house and green apples that were also bitter and hard. There was a third tree in the woods, surrounded by tall pines that had grown around it. The pines had blocked so much light from the tree that it no longer produced apples, but was alive enough for Papa to build a tree house for me in it.

These apples were not good for eating - not nearly as good as the apples we could get at the roadside stands, or at Windy Ridge Orchard a few miles away. Yet my resourceful parents could not let this free source of food go to waste - my mother would cook up huge batches of apple sauce and can it in mason jars. The apple sauce tasted distinctly different depending on which tree the apples came from, and needed extra sugar to make it more palatable. Because we did not apply any pesticides to the trees, many of the apples were wormy, and I admired my mother's patience in preparing them.

McIntosh are the quintessential New England apple variety. They are soft, crisp, sweet, juicy and slightly tangy all at once. The sensation of biting into a fresh McIntosh is distinct from all other apples, but can only be experienced for several months a year. Sadly, their softness makes them bruise easily and thus not travel or store very well.

In high school, fall for me was also defined by cross-country running, and the coach would often bring a white paper bag of apples to practice. After the run, we would rush to the apple bag and stand around eating our apples as we went through the motions of stretching, far more interested in absorbing the juicy crispness that hydrated us and replaced our blood sugar. In this age of electrolyte replacement drinks and packaged energy gels, I still think that the apple is the best post-workout recovery food. And a fantastic snack when cut up and covered with peanut butter.

Arkansas Gypsy for Halloween 1980

In 1980 we lived in a large sparsely furnished house in a housing development outside of Hot Springs Village, Arkansas. Since we had spent the previous year living in campgrounds, I was very excited when October rolled around to have the opportunity to go trick-or-treating in a real neighborhood. Because my parents were health nuts and generally anti-materialistic, Halloween was a holiday to be eschewed. Papa talked about handing out apples instead of candy, and told stories of kids getting sick from eating too much Halloween candy.

My enthusiasm for costumes and candy could not be contained, however, and my mother and I set about figuring out a Halloween costume. In 1st grade, my mother had made me a papier-mâché alligator costume, for which I won a prize in the school costume contest, even though everyone thought I was a dinosaur. But this year we hadn't done any planning, so getting the costume together was left to afternoon of Halloween.

What to be? A ghost? We could cut holes in a sheet. Boring and uncreative - that was for boys! A witch? We didn't have a black cape or time to make a hat. A ballerina? No costume, and no budget, even though I desperately wanted a tutu. A scarecrow? Put on some overalls or jeans and look dirty - too boyish for me! Finally my mother suggested a gypsy. I had read about gypsies in some books - they traveled around and told fortunes and bought and sold things. I could wear some of my mother's clothes, because gypsy's clothes never fit. Perfect!

Since we had spent the past year essentially being gypsies in our VW bus, the costume was thematically perfect for my life at the time. Gypsies were known to wear lots of jewelry, and Papa sold jewelry, but I wouldn't be allowed to wear real gold or real gems. So we went over to the neighbors' house to ask for help.

Our next door neighbors were a retired couple - since I don't remember their names I'll call them Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Johnson had costume jewelry that I could wear. I wore a dress that was too big for me over a lacy blouse. We made a cape out of some fabric, and put a bandanna on my head. Mrs. Johnson pulled out her makeup and put rouge and lipstick on me. Wearing makeup was a special treat, since my didn't wear it or even have any in the house. It became a fun event, getting dressed up and being the center of attention. I could even twirl around in the dress that was too big for me and it would spin out to the sides! I was ready for trick-or-treating.

I'm sure that whatever candy I got that night I hoarded and ate slowly, feeling guilty for having "junk food" in the house. But I had fun looking like a gypsy for the night, even though it wasn't always fun when I really lived like one.

My Michael Jackson Love Affair

In 1984, I was 12 and Michael Jackson was the King of Pop. The album "Thriller" was the world's best selling album, and won 8 Grammy Awards. I had my first celebrity crush. I was (secretly) in love.

We didn't have a TV, so I couldn't watch his videos. We had a stereo, but I was too shy to ask my parents to buy me a copy of Thriller. I listened to the radio all the time to see how many Michael Jackson songs I could hear in a day. I cut out every newspaper article I found about him, and desperately wanted a poster, some pop magazines, and a biography, but I never asked anyone for these things. I tried to keep my crush a secret from my parents, because I had the impression they wouldn't approve. They were anti-establishment everything, and this included buying new clothes, new cars, and anything that would identify us as "mainstream." I decided that my love of an artist who sold millions of records would classify me as mainstream, so I tried to keep it to myself.

When I was 11, I got a velvet notebook with a horse on the cover as a gift from a friend of my mother's. It became my treasured book of secrets. As a tribute to Michael Jackson, I am publishing the content I wrote about him, under dire warning from my 12-year-old self: "If anyone tries to read the contents of this book, may they not live to remember anything they read!!!!! This is MY PERSONAL PROPERTY."

My Secrets,* 3/22/84
The dream I had the other night where I met Michael Jackson and he did handsprings on top of two cars.

I want to write a letter to Michael Jackson and be pen pals with him.

I want to meet Michael someday (preferably before I turn 13).

I have newspaper articles about him and I treasure then. Michael is my very favorite singer.

I want Michael to come and stay in Benton - then he would not be lonely any more.

I wish he could teach me to dance like himself.

When I heard 'Billie Jean' on the radio, I was so happy to hear Michael's real voice. I listened carefully and heard all the variations in his voice. I decided not to listen to the radio anymore today. When the song was over, I was so happy I started grinning, and now, 15 minutes later, I am still grinning. I will not stop until I have to speak. I love his voice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* These things may not be my secrets if I meet Michael Jackson. They will be shared between us.

3/23/84
Last night I had a dream that Cheryl was going to the store and buying Michael Jackson clothes to try to excite me, but I didn't care. (And I wouldn't if she really did because they would be stupid.)

I had another one that I had last week's People Magazine (it has an article about Michael Jackson in it) and somebody took it from me and I was mad, because I wanted to read about Michael. Then Michael came and I met him, so I didn't have to read the article.

I think all those posters and t-shirts and pins of Michael Jackson are stupid. They are a waste of money, but kids go crazy over them and Michael and the dealers are making money. I am happy with my newspaper clippings.

I was very happy to hear 'Human Nature' yesterday. Now all I want to hear is 'P.Y.T.' and 'Beat It.' That would make me very happy.

I hope that Michael Jackson comes in concert to Lyndonville. Then I could meet him, and he could come to our house.

The other day I also heard 'Want to Be Starting Something.' I was very happy.

I thank God for letting me hear the songs on the radio. Thank you! Thank you!

4/16/84
I have been pretending that Michael Jackson is here and staying with us. I started doing this when we were coming up from Florida in the car.

We bought a 1970 Plymouth Valiant in Florida that year. On the way back to New Hampshire, Papa drove the truck with the RV behind it and Cheryl drove the Plymouth. I spent my time in the backseat fantasizing about Michael.

I wish I could meet him (in real life) real soon and he could live with us or real near and come here every day. I would like to do a dance with him for the recital to Breakdance.

That year at the ballet recital, we did a dance to a Michael Jackson song. I carefully sewed at least 100 sequins on an old lady's glove we picked up at a yard sale. I wore it at the recital and felt like I was the closest person to Michael since I had a shiny glove.

7/28/84
I don't know why I keep lying to myself about liking Michael Jackon. I know I like him a lot, but I just can't tell anybody. I do wish I had a few posters or pictures of him to put up in my room. Oh, well!

I really hope to go to one of his concerts (by winning that thing in USA Today)

I start looking forward to my runs now because I always dream of crazy ways how I meet Michael at a concert or conversations with him. I may start running Sundays.

I started running during the spring of that year - I went out on 3 mile runs every day by myself.

8/2/84
Well I didn't win that contest in USA Today, but luckily they're having another one, so maybe I'll win that.

We went over to Richard's today and he says he thinks Michael Jackson is queer. He has a pin that says "I hate Michael Jackson." We also went to the Littleton Bookstore, and they have 5 or 6 books on Michael Jackson. I want all of them, but I think Body and Soul is the best ($10.95).

8/21/84
I haven't found yet whether I'll win tickets to the concert. I'll find out Thursday (23rd). I can't wait.

I didn't win the tickets, and my love of Michael Jackson dissipated when I went to school that fall. I started having relationships with real people, and I no longer needed my lonely obsession.

Thank you, Michael for giving us your music, and inspiring us to dance, sing, and sew sequins on gloves.

The Maker Family's Outdoor Solar Shower

A few weekends ago, I went to the Maker Faire in San Mateo. As I stared in wonder at things like a life size mousetrap or a puppy mover monorail, I thought about ingenuity and what drives people to envision something, and decide to make it themselves.

My parents are makers, but of the practical kind. They see something they want, and decide to build it themselves in order to save money. Papa built our house in New Hampshire almost entirely by himself, with only help from my mother and occasionally some friends. He drew up the plans for the house based on plans in a book. He did the wiring and plumbing. If there was something he didn't know how to do, he would ask someone or get a book from the library.

The outdoor solar shower is a great example of Papa's inner maker. In the second summer we spent in New Hampshire, in 1982, the basement was not yet done, which means the house had no bathroom or shower. There was a water pump that sat in the dirt beneath the house to pump water from the well. We had a gas hot water heater for the kitchen sink and a shower stall that stood outside next to the house. This shower worked perfectly well, but Papa wanted to save money on propane by harnessing the power of the sun to heat our water.

There were many trees that needed to be cleared from the property, so when Papa cut down trees to build a bigger parking area at the top of the driveway, he kept some of the straight ones intact instead of cutting them up for firewood. He placed four logs upright in the ground in a shower sized square, and built a platform on the bottom. He then built a platform on the top, upon which he placed a 50-gallon drum that was painted black. A hose from the house filled the barrel with water. There was a spout that came out of the drum and it had holes in it to resemble a shower head. The log posts were wrapped in black plastic for warmth and privacy. The idea was that the sun would heat the water in the drum, and gravity would provide the necessary pressure to make it a shower. This was to be a luxurious outdoor shower experience.

But summertime in New Hampshire is fickle. It rarely gets above 80 degrees. Our property sloped to the North, so even in the southern corner, the forest made a full day of sun non-existent. When I used the shower, I tried very hard to like it. The lukewarm water dripped on my head, and the lack of pressure made rinsing shampoo from my hair difficult. I looked up and could see the trees, but I could also see the dirt of the driveway through the cracks in the platform. The wood was not treated, so slivers felt imminent. But this was grand, this was living off the land!

I longed for a ceramic tub with a high pressure shower. In a room with a toilet.

I used the solar shower a couple of times. I tried to stay at my friend Erika's house often so I could bathe there. Soon my parents switched back to the outdoor metal shower stall with its water pressure and hot water from the propane tank. Some things in life are worth paying for, and I believe water pressure, hot water, a shower stall and a septic system are well worth the money.

Why I Love Suburbia

On a recent evening walk with my dog, I turned onto a street I had never been down before, and was struck by the sensation of being in a tunnel of trees. A warm breeze blew branches and leaves in a gentle whisper, revealing stars and a moonlight sky.

I quickly noticed that the trees were all the same type and size. Most likely they had been planted about 60 years ago when mid-town Palo Alto was developed from orchards to middle-class housing. Many of the original houses still stand, although some have had major remodels or additions.

As I stood watching this scene, I thought of all the lives that had been lived on that little street - children learning to ride their bikes, teenagers going out for reckless nights, adults growing old and dying, marriages beginning, marriages crumbling. The trees were silent witnesses to this flow of life, growing imperceptibly from young saplings to the sentinels of today. Here nature is controlled, safe, and even in wild winter storms and oppressive summer heat, the trees impart a sense of solidness, of stability. Could the developers have imagined such a pristine, yet perfectly uneventful scene 60 years later?

Here's the street in the daytime, via Google Maps.

This scene exists in stark contrast to my childhood. When we came back to New Hampshire to build our house in 1981, my parents cleared the land themselves. Like much of New Hampshire, the forest had once been farmland. There was a well, a crumbling stone wall, and several apple trees, but at least 50 years of unchecked growth - brush, pine trees, and blackberry bushes. While the the neighbor's house could be seen through the trees, we were far from any town center - six miles of curvy road from the post office and the town of Bath where we had lived at the Colonial Inn. The house was 10 miles from the elementary school and high school, which turned out to be 40 minute bus ride each way. There was a separation from the "town kids" and us kids in Benton, or Pike, or Warren, or any of the other towns that were too small to have their own schools. We heated with wood instead of gas, our pipes sometimes froze in the winter or our wells ran dry in the summer, and wild animals were said to be responsible for the disappearance of our pets. Trees, if they had the room to grow wide, offered little protection from the elements.

Here's an aerial view of the neighborhood:

When my family traveled, we always camped. In small towns, at the most remote site of the most remote campground we could find. "Going into town" was a weekly or bi-weekly event, no matter where we lived. 

Today I live a block away from a Safeway, a Walgreens and a Starbucks. The magnolia tree drops its huge leaves onto the roof of my house, clogging the gutters. Nature makes its presence known, but I always feel safe.

On Falling in Love: The Non-Human Kind

On March 29, I adopted my first dog. She's a six year old Yorkshire Terrier, and I named her Betsy. Within a week I was completely smitten. I bathed her, brushed her, bought her toys, a toothbrush, a matching collar and leash, and and watched videos on YouTube on how to leash-train a dog. Getting to know the habits and preferences of this sweet eight-pound being who now shares my home was fascinating. I would sit on the couch and stare at her while she chewed a toy, or watch with interest as she sniffed around the backyard. At some point, I realized I was falling in love, and this innocent love felt familiar - when had I before wanted to inhabit and know another creature so deeply?

We didn't have pets when I was growing up after we went on the road, so I knew it wasn't a pet love. Then I remembered my dolls. My dolls were the center of my world from about age eight to age twelve. My favorite, most special doll was Sasha. I saved money for months to buy her for $40.00, which was a lot of money for an eleven year old in 1983. My mother and and I made her clothes - we bought patterns so that we could make her dresses, a coat, a swimsuit, even shoes. She had a complete ensemble of homemade clothing, more complete than any of my other dolls. I wanted to take her everywhere with me, and changed her clothes and styled her hair every day to match the weather. We would go on imaginary adventures in the house or in the woods, to foreign lands or big events. I wanted curly hair like hers, I wanted clothes like hers, I wanted beautiful skin and a calm presence like hers.

I was in home school that year and I didn't spend much time with other kids. Sasha was my best friend, and Daisy the horse was her best friend. Daisy was also treated with extreme care: was brushed regularly and had a collection of ribbons that would go around her neck. Like many 11-year-old girls, I dreamed of having a real horse, but knew this was not possible with our itinerant lifestyle. At least Sasha, my alter-ego, could have a horse.

I did have a real friend, Erika, who also had a Sasha doll and a horse like Daisy. I can't remember who got which first, but it was essential that we both had the same dolls. Every week or two we would have sleepovers and spend hours and hours playing with our dolls.

When I realized my developing attachment to Betsy resembled the attachment to my dolls, I noticed how real a relationship with an animal is. I have to feed her and take her for walks. She does unexpected and instinctual things, like immediately bury bones that I buy her for treats. She barks at other dogs when she doesn't like them. Best of all, the relationship is real, and reciprocal. She licks my face every morning, and every time I walk in the door.

Sunday Fasting Provokes Donut Fixation

In 1981, when I was nine years old and in 4th grade, Papa decided that fasting on Sundays was a good way to cleanse the body and the mind. He was home for a month between his month-long business trips, so my mother and I had to participate in the weekly day of fasting.

I was shocked to learn that people chose not to eat for a day or even longer. He said that we could have water, although to truly fast, we shouldn't even drink water. I wanted at least orange juice, but even this was off limits according to his rules. The three of us were not to eat anything between Saturday night dinner and Sunday night dinner.

At the time, I was going to Sunday school at the local Methodist Church. My parents did not attend the church, so I would ride my bike 10 minutes to the church in my dress every week. Sunday school started early, before the main service. Soon I started lighting the candles before the service and stayed on for the service, sitting in the pew with adults or a classmate's family. I wanted to get baptized but my parents wouldn't let me.

Every week there was a social in the basement of the church after the Sunday service. Donuts and coffee were served, so when Papa's fasting kick started, I started going to the social. My parents looked down upon food like donuts, and I didn't like coffee, so previously there was little reason for me to go. They didn't serve orange juice, and I wondered why they didn't - what were the kids supposed to drink? But there was no way I was going to refuse free donuts when I had no other way of getting food until dinner.

I remember standing in the room full of chatting adults, most of them retired, with my eyes fixated on the donut plate. I would try to figure out if anyone would notice if I ate two, or if I could get two before they were gone.  I tried to make enough small talk with the adults so that they wouldn't think I was there just for the donuts, but after the donuts were gone, I chatted politely a few more minutes and left the room to jump on my bike and get home before the sugar rush ended. I felt guilty breaking Papa's fast, but I knew he had no way of finding out, since he didn't know anyone at the church. Luckily he never was home for more than a month at a time that year, and by the time he got back from his next long business trip, the weekly Sunday fast was forgotten.

Picturing myself as a lone nine-year-old fixated on donuts at a church social full of retirees seems slightly absurd, but I still experience that food fixation when I go to cocktail parties - I almost feel like I have to be eating constantly just to have the courage to stand there and talk to strangers. It's not the alcohol that interests me, it's the food. Only recently I've gained enough presence of mind to feel comfortable standing around talking to people without food in my hand or my eye on the food.

For those considering a weekly day of fasting, please take this warning into account:

Fasting of any kind is not recommended if you are pregnant, infirmed, on medication, a child, or in any other abnormal circumstance that requires supervision.

Home School and Truant Officers

In September 1979, when I should have been starting 3rd grade at Bath Village Elementary School, we left the Colonial Inn in a white VW camper bus towing a canvas pop-up camper. We took our time traveling down the East Coast, and finally stopped for a while at my Aunt Virginia's place near Sanford, Florida. This is where I started 3rd grade home school. I captured this in my journal - my mother insisted that I keep a journal of our travels, saying, "you're going to want to write about this one day."
 

The Calvert School is a correspondence school based in Baltimore, Maryland. The way it worked then is that they sent the entire curriculum for the whole year - textbooks, a manual for the teacher, drawing paper, and a ruler. My mother administered the lessons, which were planned out in detail. Once a month, I took a test and sent it to the school for grading. There were also quarterly exams for which I received an official report card.

Over the course of the next two months, we traveled to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where we lived in two different motels, and then back to Florida. We stayed for a few months at Camp Bayou, a campground on the Little Manatee River in Ruskin, Florida. Every morning, my mother would spend about 4 hours giving me the lessons out on a picnic table or in our camper if it was too cold. We stayed out near the "crazy oaks," an area with with a lot of low, twisted oak trees that were good for climbing. Here's a snapshot of me there:

One day after I finished my lessons, which was usually by lunch time, we went to go a nearby town to go grocery shopping. On the way, Papa told me, “watch out for truant officers, they might catch you and make you go to school.”

“What’s a truant officer?” I asked.

“A truant officer is a person that works for the school and goes around looking for kids who are playing hooky from school. One time my brother and I got caught by one and they dragged us back to school.”

“But I’m going to school,” I said. The lessons were harder than they were in regular school, and my parents said I was getting a better education, better than other kids, because I got to travel around and see the country. We did the lessons five days a week, sometimes on Saturdays if we spent a weekday traveling.

He replied, “They don’t know that you're doing home school. You could be anybody. All kids your age are supposed to be in school. So be careful.”

Thereafter, every time we went anywhere before 3:00 PM, I slumped low in the seat of the van so no one would see me. When we went into the supermarket, I wished I could make myself invisible so that no one would see me and report me to a truant officer. I rehearsed what I would say if someone stopped us, “I do lessons every day, and it’s harder than regular school, it’s an accredited correspondence school, and the lessons only take a few hours without breaks for recess and gym class, and we’re only staying here, not living here! Please, please officer, don’t take me away!”

I did Calvert again for 5th grade and 7th grade, and I never encountered a truant officer. But the fear never left me, and by 7th grade my speech to the imaginary truant officer was well-rehearsed.