So, St. Paul Minnesota

Dang it was cold there. When we arrived in Minnesota, with my brother who was home from Viet Jungle Nam, it was 17 below zero. I was in 8th grade and since we never went outside, I could not tell you much about Minnesota. The boys played hockey. I got some of the cutest shoes I have ever owned at Sears in a big mall in Minneapolis. They had a buckle. I had a really cool sweater and skirt set in kind of a butterscotch tweed..with my cool new shoes, I was too cute. Then one day my period started in the middle of the school day and there was that horrible stain in the back of my butterscotch tweed skirt. I died of mortification. Right there. Died.

Put yourself in my cool shoes for just one minute. Here we go in to third person for a short dream sequence. New girl. Cute in her trendy mini skirt and sweater and to-die-for buckled shoes. Oh, her period has started and now, along with staring at her for her southern accent and new kid-ness, we get to laugh about THAT over lunch. Ugh. That may actually be why I don’t remember much about Minnesota. Selective amnesia.

Fortunately for me, we moved to San Francisco shortly after. We weren’t taking the mobile home. Sold it or something in fact. We would be living in an apartment, in Corte Madera, Marin County. We were going to be groovy by golly. I am sure my mom was freaked out. We had already lived through race riots in Alabama in 1964 in a dirty, run down park in a small town called Demopolis. Heard the news, saw the “whites only” signs, the back of the bus, separate wash room, separate drinking fountain horror that was the United States of America. Lets not forget the hurricane in 1965. But this, well, this was 1968 baby...summer of love had already attacked San Francisco California the previous year.

Launch.