18 - My Miracles

My Miracles

My life has been filled with miracles starting with the birth of my children. Their births were absolutely my two most significant miracles.

After that, my greatest miracle occurred after my children’s teen-age years. Looking back, I am acutely aware of how difficult those years were. In recalling the 50’s and the confusing, uncontrolled life-changing 60’s, I realize how traumatic that period was for me. (I now realize that it was also traumatic for my children).

My background of moral values . . . of parental, teacher, and family respect as well as respect for authority . . . was abruptly disappearing, while my simple uncomplicated sense of right and wrong fought to stay alive. The children also fought to defend their new world of drugs, sexual revolution and resistance to authority. I lived with the constant fear that Bruce and Robin could be hurt or even killed by the drugs that they hid so well from me.

As for the sexual behavior, it was my daughter that concerned me. I was raised with the notion that the male was free to do as he pleased but the female needed to remain chaste and pure. That was written in stone and embellished by constant parental reminders, and I believed it. So I was shocked to learn that mothers took their daughters to the doctor for birth control medication. That meant they were giving their approval for their daughters to engage in sexual behavior. “How could they do that?” I asked my puzzled mind. “No intelligent man will ever want to marry girls who are not virgins.” I forgot that was only true during my unmarried years.

I realize now that in many ways, I was wrong. In many ways, they were also wrong. What I didn’t adjust to was the fact that it really was their world and no longer mine. I defended my values while they were adjusting to theirs, and each of us made mistakes. The mistakes I made during that period are the ones I regret the most, the ones that I now know could have been handled more logically with more understanding and less emotion.

The miracle of that period is that we all survived. That truly is a miracle . . . a miracle that includes each of us going on to a time where we truly love and respect each other.

17 - A Daughter

A Daughter…Yes….Please Give to Me

I kept repeating that prayer as I walked with my precious son in his stroller. My beautiful, brilliant baby boy was just two years old. He was the joy of the family and me. But now a new joy appeared. I was pregnant again. In seven months my baby would be born and I wanted a daughter desperately . . . a tiny female to adore and dress in pretty girly things.

She arrived just as I hoped she would . . . the most beautiful baby girl I had ever seen. Only 17 inches long weighing 6 lb. 14 oz, she was chubby with fat wrinkles around her little wrists and ankles. Her curly dark hair had to be cut in bangs to keep it out of her eyes. “Peaches and cream” was a poor metaphor for my little Robin’s complexion. In fact, she was so beautiful that the nurses tied a red bow on my bed so visitors could find the mother of that beautiful baby. I swear I crowed in delight.

She grew . . . still lovely . . . still not recognizing it . . . but playing make-believe with all the friends that she made so easily. So the time came for her 7^th Birthday Party and though I felt she needed it, I also knew that we must invite her friend Barbara. Barbara was a wild, uncontrollable child. Still, a party it would be. I would figure out how to deal with Barbara, and I did. Formal invitations were sent reading:

You are cordially invited to attend
A Dinner Birthday Party in honor of
Robin Dennis’ Seventh Birthday
To be held on November 20, 1954
At 1863 Sunset Boulevard
Mission Hills, California
From seven until nine-thirty

Formal attire is requested
Baby sitting is available

Her friends arrived in their mothers’ shoes wearing gloves and hats. Several of them wore fur stoles. Jewelry glowed from their earlobes to their necks and wrists. The 18 little girls were ever so polite as I offered them seven-up champagne in my beautiful glasses. They puffed sophistically on their candy cigarettes. Dinner was served on the best linens and lovely napkins were placed on their laps. They received creamed tuna served in ramekins along with whipped potatoes and flower-like vegetables. Of course the cake was the crowning glory . . . a large domed cake with a dolls head and arms placed on top. The body was covered with lace-like frosting. Their departure was equally polite. They picked up their babies from the play pen I had provided, thanked Robin for their invitations stating they had a wonderful time, and Robin politely thanked them for coming. Her party was a success and a special time that she has never forgotten. Neither have I. And needless to say, Barbara was a perfect guest.

Robin’s other special birthday was her 18th. Now a young woman but still my precious child, this time a poem had to be written. I couldn’t tell her in words all that was in my heart. There was no way to cover those blessed years . . . the good, the traumatic, the wonderful, the difficult. It needed to be written and left with her forever.

Written for Robin’s 18^th Birthday

A daughter...yes...please give to me a curly-headed
little girl...and let me reach far into space...of
time and life so I might know that every precious
atom of this sweet delight will ever be...a part of
me...a part of me...and yet herself...with separate
thoughts ...and separate needs...that I alone cannot
fulfill...and must not try...for in this single life
exists an ever more demanding need...to be herself.

And so she came...and so she grew...with female wiles
and dancing eyes...with every grace that one would
need...to charm the world...to tantalize.....
And I am world...as well there be so many more who
have succumbed...and we are part disciple bred...
and all- and non-believing led...by one small one.

The years crept on until today...when now a young
flower stands full blown...and all the dreams we both
have had...are now possessed by one alone...and she
is master of her soul...and she alone must meet her
fate...and I must sit and pray the thorns of wrong
decisions...willful ways...will never harm the
precious plant...that ever more than lovely grows.

Thus I look back on eighteen years...and question
each decision made...the bittersweet...the haunting
fears...the inner joys she can create. Can I place
value on these years...can I in truth ask of their
worth...When I alone am certain that I would not
alter one small part...I would not tear from memories
arms that sweet small body holding fast...I could
not part one moment with this priceless section of
my heart....For as she goes this much remains...a
precious dancing little girl...a sudden sunshine in
the dark...a joyful spirit in my world.

The few hard years will soon become...a trifle in
the overall...While thinking back some distant day
...we may remember to recall...the problems overcome
by joys...the trials soon lost in life's strange
maze...and place importance in the fact...that we
forget in many ways...how very precious she has
been...how much more so with passing days...How
wonderful my daughter is...how very dear she'll
be always...

A daughter...Yes...please give to me...I keep
repeating this sweet poem...and add a prayer...
Please...World accept...with tenderness this
woman grown.

16 - Words I Love

Words I Love

Tradition . . . not just because I’m Jewish and we cling to our traditions, but because I believe that tradition and memories go hand-in-hand. They are part of what I am and part of what my family has been. They can be as simple as saying prayers before a meal or the youngest child placing an angel on top of the Christmas tree or young people taking turns lighting Chanukah candles. When I go back in my memories, I realize why traditions and family are so combined in my mind. When traditions of the home are observed, a true bonding occurs and you really know who you are.

Beautiful . . . as in sunsets, opera, ballet, trees, birds, flowers, and the world. I recall driving to work with the beautiful Pacific Ocean on my left. It was spectacular. The vivid blues and greens and the frothy white waves dancing across the rocks were breathtakingly beautiful. So I held my breath as I turned the curves that offered me a wider seascape and I promised myself that I would never take those wonders for granted. But I did. And in the process, I lost the magic of my drive to work. I forgot to look. I discovered that I only know beauty when I allow myself to see it. It exists in the people I know, in the world around me or in a written sentence. Now I make sure to take the time to look.

Proud . . . as in mother, father, husband, child, family or friends saying, “I’m so proud of you.” For me, that is the ultimate praise. From my child it might be that I look fine or I’ve done something that is impressive. Or it may just be to let me know that I’m a great Mom. From my friends it often comes after an achievement and I can only say “Thank You” when inside I am so pleased. There are some times I hear it and I am overwhelmed because I’m just being me. But coming from a spouse, it’s often as welcome as “I love you”.

Proactive . . . Proactive is a wonderful word that I recently discovered while I was listening to a CD of the Kabbalah. According to the Kabbalah, I need to become proactive as a way of life. “Interesting,” I thought. I, for one, with my feisty Aries blood, am prone to being very reactive. Always being proactive is foreign to me. So I began testing the concept and found it to be magical. The magic is not in what it can do for others, but what it can do for you. I now utter no words that make me despair and wonder why I ever said them . . . no angry remarks . . . no need to justify my position and no need to lose the love and respect of those around me. I’ve become more accepting of people and situations by approaching things softly and kindly. I live with the concept that I’d rather be kind than be right. I’ve learned to be proactive and life is so sweet.

Try . . . Try is a strange word to appear in my list, but for me it’s an important word that has added meaning to my life. Many times I have heard “That’s just the way I’ve always been” or “I’ve always done (whatever) my way,” and I wonder if the word “always” shouldn’t be removed from the dictionary. I believe that the use of “always” coincides with the first sign of aging. It all begins when a young child says, “I don’t like it,” and mother replies, “You always say that. How do you know you don’t like it until you try it?” There’s the rub. New ideas, new approaches, new behaviors, new concepts, all add to the growth and vigor of life. Flexibility is a good response, attitude even better when I’m faced with trying something I’ve never done before. Many new things are frequently worth trying.

Hello . . . as when I pick up the phone and I hear a voice that is dear to me. Hello is much more than just a word. It can cement a relationship. It brings news and insights about what is happening in my world and it says that I am important enough to receive this call. Hello has a strength of its own. When I use it, it can reconnect me with an old friend. It may signal an opportunity to smooth ruffled feathers or begin a conversation that adds pleasure to a homebound individual. It might even be as simple as letting someone know about a brand new recipe or an invitation for lunch. Whatever it is, it always starts with “Hello,” and the tone of voice frequently sets the stage for the conversation. A happy “Hello” is like a warm glow entering the room. The voice of joy may be in a child’s voice. And for me, when I discover my granddaughter’s voice saying, “Hello, Granny,” my heart sings and life is good.

Resilient . . .Webster’s Dictionary’s definition is: The act of leaping or springing back, a rebounding. That’s a great word to define me. It all began fifty-five years ago when I had two babies and was going through another divorce. I was embarrassed, confused and more than a little depressed. I really wasn’t meant to be a divorcee. In my era a divorcee was a scarlet woman, bad and immoral, and this was my second divorce. “Oh, my,” I said to myself, “terrible, terrible.” And then came a revelation. One day I drove down to the pharmacy my parents owned. I had been there a short time when my father asked if I would take his shirts to the Chinese laundry. “Of course,” I answered, and walked the short block to the laundry. As I entered, I glanced over to a wall on my left. There, hanging on the wall in bold print, was a Confucius saying. It read: The glory is not in never having fallen, but in how many times you rise. I’ve lived my life with those words. I’ve rarely been defeated and seldom been depressed. I’m a bouncing ball that, when given time, will always rise.

Love…of course… But love is such a varied word with different degrees and reactions. The love of a mother is not the same as the love of a friend. The love I feel for a sibling is certainly different than the love I feel for my spouse. So why do we have only one word for love? And why have I often been at loss to express the love I feel? I found an answer to the “why’s” that satisfies me. To explain it, I have to go back many years ago when Eddie Cantor (a movie star whose career began before talking movies existed) said, “At the time of the Greeks, there were three words for love: Eros, Philo and Agape. He explained that the erotic love was the word Eros, that the loving familial love was Philo and that Agape was brotherly or friendship love in it’s highest form. So why did we lose these words? I don’t know, but I carry them in my head. And when I say, “I love you” to each person that I love, I know exactly which word I mean.

15 - Why

Why

Am I not afraid of death?  Is it because I have loved life so much and I have so many loves in my life?

Now, at this terminal time of my life, I see myself as though I was sitting at a train station with my granddaughter Vailia, my namesake, waiting for the train to arrive. A very slow train that we can see in the far distance moving very, very quietly toward us. We sit on a bench, hold hands and reminisce about who we are and what we’ve meant to each other.

We have had an incredible and wonderful relationship. One that few are privileged to receive. It’s as though there has been an uncut umbilical cord holding us together and allowing me to know when she is happy and when she is not. And in every case I feel just as she feels. It started when she was a tiny babe and would wake during the night crying and I would wake at the same moment, fifteen miles away from her, in my own bed. I recall waking one night and saying out load, “It’s alright, Baby, don’t cry”. I did check with my daughter the next morning and yes, a tiny Vailia had awakened the very moment I had and yes, she was crying.

One day, when she was working in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I was having a miserable day in San Diego. That evening I called her and asked what kind of a day she had. “I’ve been miserable, Granny,” she answered, “Everything has gone wrong today and I’ve been unhappy and sad all day long.”

That was the time I replied, “Vailia, you just have to stop this. I don’t want to go around feeling like that all day.”

With these remarks, we both laughed because this was just one of our many, many times that we have connected completely. So I was not surprised when a very unhappy Vailia called me from her mother’s home, in Snowflake, Arizona, and told me how badly she felt that she could not come to see me. (Living and working in Canada had only allowed her a short visit). San Diego was simply too far. I had no problem with her not coming, but I did have a thought that I felt was important to share with her.

“Darling,” I said, “it’s alright. I understand and I’m not unhappy about it. But I do have one thought that you need to hear…and accept… It is that if I should die two days after you’ve left, I want you to promise not to feel any guilt about coming here to see me. You’re not coming is right and if it helps, I’m sending you back to where you need to be. That is my choice. Now, Promise.”

A promise in my family is written in stone. So when she replied, “Granny, I can’t.” I needed to explain to her that I know many people do feel guilt at the death of a loved one. It’s self-inflicted, as though you hadn’t said enough, felt enough, cared enough, and what it does is diminish the relationship that was. No one goes through a perfect life. No one has said something they wish they hadn’t. No one has neglected someone they love without good reason.

“So, my Love,” I said to her, “we have had the most wonderful, caring relationship in the world. Would you choose to forget the wonder of it and feel guilty about some unimportant thing? Keep it sweet, My Darling. Mourn if you must…feel guilt you must not. Now I want my promise.”

I received the promise, and I so deeply wish that my precious children and family and friends will remember these words:

Mourn if you must….Feel guilt you must not…Treasure what has been ours to share.

14 - My Private World

My Private World

The world I live in is a very private world. Though I rarely speak of it, it does exist somewhere between metaphysics, religion and psychic experiences. I can relate to moving between metaphysics and religion, to be comfortable with both and to be aware of the similarity between them. But the psychic is a very different story.

I’ve known so many things that sound strange to others. Deaths at the moment of death, accidents right after they’ve happened and welcoming ghosts of my departed loved ones. Does that not sound strange? Of course, and yet I think it happens to many. Though I’ve often wondered why the knowledge is usually alarming and very rarely comfortable.

For example. My uncle Bobby and I were raised together. He was my mother’s brother and was born six months after my birth. We both experienced pre-World War II and the later war years. He became an army pilot and I worked as an inspector and editor in the aerospace industry. He went off to England. I lived with my family in San Diego. Then I married while he flew fighter planes over Europe.

I was very young, so was my husband. Young enough to be drafted into the Navy. Yes, they did draft into all military during World War II. I felt so fortunate that he was in boot camp here in San Diego and I waited impatiently for his first leave. Finally, on the 4^th of July he received a pass to leave the base. We traveled to Chula Vista (about thirty miles from home) to have dinner with his family. On the return trip he began feeling ill. So I stopped at the first drug store to buy medication that might help him, asked for water from the pharmacist and walked out the door. I took two steps, looked up at the sky and became frozen in terror. In the sky were many, many white doves circling around a plane in flames that was falling to the ground. When I reached the car I was sobbing. My husband asked what was wrong, and I answered, “Bobby’s dead.”

The first telegram the family received stated that Lieutenant Bob B. Bobrof was “Missing in Action”. I knew we had lost him but the hope that the rest of the family displayed broke my heart. The second telegram, several weeks later, announced his death. His plane was shot down over Tours, France on July 4^th.

It is interesting that my children accepted these strange insights. I think they really believed that I was a witch (which is the case for many mothers who seem to see from behind). They heard stories of my being at my friend’s home when the telephone rang and while it was being answered, I asked, “What has happened to my grandmother?” She had been crossing a boulevard and was hit by an oncoming car. Fortunately she survived.

Or when they also heard about my directing a play, in a social hall, and the double doors behind me swung open. I turned to see a police officer, walked quickly toward him and asked, “What happened to my son.” After verifying that I was indeed Mrs. Dennis, he explained that during the Boy Scout field trip Bruce had missed the log with his small hatchet and hit his leg. He was in emergency, but all right and ready to go home. I’m afraid incidents like these gave my very young children reason to believe.

The fact that my children had faith in me proved to be vital when my son and his friends planned a summer getaway. Bruce and his friend Harvey along with two other boys had spent the summer as a musical quartet, playing for parties and dances. They had all graduated High School, were to about to enter college and before returning to school they decided to take a trip to Big Bear City to relax and have fun.

I woke up early that morning, before Bruce was to leave. I woke with the knowledge that I had to stop his going. That he must not go. He looked up when I entered his room and I said, “You know Bruce that all your life I have wanted you to enjoy and have wonderful times. But this time I must beg you not to go.” For some incredible reason he responded with “They’ll be here soon, Mom. What will I tell them.” I replied, “Tell them that you need to go to work with me today. That you need the money for college.”

The boys arrived in an open bed small truck. I tried to suggest that Harvey not go if Bruce wasn’t going. (I just couldn’t stop them all) Harvey was determined about going and they left. Bruce went to work with me and approached my desk a few hours later with tears in his eyes. He explained that the plan had been for two boys to drive and two to sit in the open bed. That would have been him and Harvey on the way up and the other boys on the way down. As they drove the Rim of the World Highway, leading to Big Bear, they hit a soft shoulder and the truck rolled over Harvey killing him instantly. I was so sad for Bruce’s loss of his friend, and so grateful for my psychic awareness.

A very sad happening was the death of my daughter-in-law’s father. Her mother and father, Lolita and Harold Schwartz, were on a cruise celebrating Lolita’s retirement. At dinner one evening her father said that he didn’t feel well. They returned to the cabin where he laid down on the bed and died. That night I was visiting friends at a distance from home when my brother called to say that Schwartzy (most people called her father by that name) had died. I returned home close to midnight. Too late to call Debby and Bruce. I would wait until morning.

When I entered my home I walked to my bedroom at the end of the hall. Found that everything was all right until I got near my bed. A strange smell surrounded the bed. I moved into my adjoining bath. No odor. I moved down the hall. Still no odor. I returned to the bed and the odor was strong. I stopped for a moment and then I knew he was there.

“Schwartzy,” I said, “I know you are here and I understand. You did not have time to say goodbye to Debby or to tell he how much you love her. She knows, but I will tell her that you came and that I promised to say it for you. Be at peace because I also promise you that for as long as I live I will always be there for her.” The odor left slowly, as though a sigh of relief.

The next morning I called Debby, spoke to her for a while and before we hung up I asked, “Did your father ever use anything like Bengay or Icy-Hot or any analgesic?”  “How did you know?” she questioned, “My mother rubbed Icy-Hot on his shoulders every day before he went to work.” I could then tell her what had occurred and was able to send to her, her father’s love. How blessed I was that he chose me and that she understood.

I have had many psychic experiences and strangely, a white dove has accompanied any death. With the death of Papa and the white dove, that only I saw on the roof, I have always known in advance when death was near. What does that mean? What does the white dove represent? I don’t know. Perhaps, one day, I will understand.

13 - Wisdom of the Ages

Wisdom of the Ages 

My great-grandfather was a Rebbe, (Not only a religious leader, but a spiritual advisor and mentor in all arenas of life).  My grandfaterh, the Rebbe's son, with whom I spent much of my early years was very orthodox.  In addition, my father was a descendant of the Jewish priesthood, as was his father who raised him according to observant Jewish law.  It is no wonder that many of my memories return to this background.  that the ancient stories I was told remained with me and have become a source of involvement with my past.  I seem to recall I was told that these stories were from the Talmud (a vast collection of Jewish laws and traditions.)  I don't know if that is true.  Of this I am certain.  I have two favorites. 

To make sense of the first one, I must go back many years when my children were in their early teens. I had been laid off by an Aerospace company and seeking unemploy-ment insurance until I could find other work. One day I took Robin and Bruce with me. We were seated at a desk while I was being interviewed by an agent. The subject of how much I had earned needed to be verified. When the amount of many thousands of dollars came up, one child asked, “Where did it all go?” I asked for the agent’s patience while I explained that it went for a roof over our heads, for food, for clothing, for school supplies and much more. It was then that the other asked, “How can we ever repay you?”

I apologized to the agent and explained that I needed to speak with my children. That I would return whenever she became available again. I walked over to sit on a bench with a child on either side of me and told them this story.

Once there was a mother bird that built a nest in a tree on a very tiny island. There she laid three eggs. As the eggs hatched, the rains came. Water covered the island and began to climb up the tree trunk. She knew there would only be enough time to carry one baby safely to land. She picked up the first baby and as she was flying asked, “When I am very old and the rains come, what will you do for me?” The baby answered, “I will do for you what you have done for me.” She dropped the baby in the water. She picked up the second baby, asked the same question and got the same answer. Again she dropped the baby in the water. With her tiny heart beating fast, she picked up the third baby and asked, “When I am very old and the rains come, what will you do for me?” That baby answered, “For you Mother, I will do nothing, but I will do for mine what you have done for me.” That baby she carried to safety.

I then said to my children, “Remember that you owe me nothing, but you really are in debt to my grandchildren.

Again we travel to the past for the second story. It may sound strange, but it all began because of hair. This was the beginning of long hair for boys and men. It was also the beginning of many frustrated parents who couldn’t believe that it as allowable for their son to grow hair that made him look like a girl. It was particularly hard on my cousin, Marion. No explaining that it was the rage, that everyone was letting their hair grow, that her son was just being like everyone else’s son and that when you walk behind him and he looks like a girl, it’s all right to not like it. Just learn to accept it. She could not, so I told her this story.

There once was a king who had only one son. He loved this child above all others. One day the young prince left home and did not return. The king mourned for him as the days moved into weeks and the weeks into months, though very many were sent to look for the prince. One day, a courtier was traveling in another country and he saw the prince. He hurried to him and exclaimed, “My prince. I am so happy to see you and to see you are well. But why do you not return to your father? He sits in mourning every day.” The young prince answered, “I cannot.” The courtier hurried back to the palace and received an instant entrance to the king. There he told the king of his experience with the prince and the answer that he received of “I cannot.” The king then said to the courtier, “Go back to that land and find my son. Take to him these words. Come as far as you can, I’ll come the rest of the way.”

The wisdom of all the ancients, from every land, has traveled through time and is wonderfully applicable today. Oh yes! Marion accepted her son’s hair. She went the rest of the way.

12 - I Made It

I Made It

I tell everyone who is interested that I am 86 years old. The fact is that I was 86 on April 11^th 2005. I say it with pride and feel like I did on my 21^st birthday. On that birthday I stood in my bedroom, before going out for the family celebration, and twirled round and round in front of my full-length mirror while I said over and over again, “I made it.”

As a sickly little girl with severe chronic kidney disease I heard doctors said that I might never reach adulthood, but I did. They also explained that if I lived and married I was never to bear children because the strain on the kidneys would be too severe and could cause my death. Well! I did grow up and I did get married. And about six months after the wedding, I thought I was pregnant.

My visit to a gynecologist brought about the need for a urinalysis and a rabbit test. (Sixty one years ago, that was the only pregnancy test.) That meant anxiously waiting by the telephone for an answer. It finally rang and yes, I was pregnant. I inquired about the results of the urinalysis. “Perfectly clear,” came the doctor’s voice, “I’ll see you in three weeks.” He didn’t know what he was telling me, he didn’t understand about the warnings, he didn’t realize that I never had a clear urinalysis test before this pregnancy. Was this a miracle? I think so….

When I delivered my son, I held him close, kissed the top of his precious head, and softly said, “I made it.”

Two years later, I decided that I wanted another baby. “Please don’t,” my mother said “Remember how hard the labor was. Remember the serious water-weight. Remember the blood transfusion. It’s too risky, please don’t.” But I wanted another baby, a baby girl to love and dress and cuddle.”

When I delivered my daughter, I looked down at her sweet face, kissed the top of her curly head and whispered in her ear, “I made it."

When I became a single mother I needed to be gainfully employed in order to provide for my children. I found employment as a contract-hire in the graphic arts department of McDonnell Douglas Aerospace Corporation. I was a supervisor, covering all activities of contract hire personnel, but still punching a time clock, still having my purse examined as I entered and left work and all in spite of my Top Security Clearance. So when I was called to the Employment Office and offered a permanent job with the company, I said “No, I will never punch a time clock as an employee of a major corporation. I will only consider a managerial position.” Managers don’t punch time clocks or have their purses searched. But you don’t expect to get what you want if you ask for the moon and I was asking for the impossible. Few if any women held such positions at that time and certainly none without a college degree. So I returned to my desk and was again surprised by a call that asked me to come to the employment office. There I learned that they had decided to accept my years of experience, in lieu of education, to qualify me for the position of Systems Analyst. That was a managerial position and I accepted.

As I left the office, I took a couple of quick dance steps and said to myself “I made it.”

In the years that followed I had my own floral design company selling to stores such as Bullocks, Saks Fifth Avenue, Virginia’s Gift Shop at Knott’s Berry Farm, Disney Hotel Gift Shop and many others. I also developed a product for use by florists and promoted it at floral conventions throughout the country. When the warnings on the product became too severe, I closed the business and began seeking employment, Once again, Volt Technical Corporation employed me. This time working as a saleslady selling contract hire personnel to customers in Los Angeles. It was through my work that I met Tom West of 3M Company. He later employed me and I began my fifteen year employment with 3M.

I started in the Audio Visual Division conducting seminars for potential buyers. I enjoyed the work, but it was not what I had hoped for. I wanted sales and I was qualified for sales. However, most of the sales-force were very young men. No women. Still, I thought, “In time it will happen.” And it did. I became one of the first women to be employed as an outside sales representative for 3M Company. First in the Business Products Division. Later in the Audio Visual Division where I worked for ten years and all the while I wanted to achieve the special VIP award. It was a yearly award given to the very few whose performance of excellence exceeded all others. I received many awards while I inched my way to the top one and finally in 1981 I received a telegram announcing that the award was mine.
 
I sank into a chair, lit a cigarette with all the sophistication of a Bette Davis, slowly blew out the smoke and said with great dignity, “I made it.”

These were the big “I made it’s.” The smaller ones were also important and there were many. I especially recall my watching TV on New Years Eve 2000 and remembering, when I was very young, how excited I thought it would be to see the turn of the century. Now at 86 I’m wondering if, when I die, will I be accepted at the pearly gates?

I know that if I am, I will surely breath a sigh of relief when I say, “I made it.”