Then Again - Diane Keaton [10]
Dorrie came as an “unexpected surprise.” I was seven years older, so she could do no wrong. Her face was a miniature replica of Dorothy’s. She was the brightest, most intellectually gifted of the Hall kids. In fact, she was the only one of us who ever presented Mom and Dad with a report card of straight A’s. She loved to read biographies of inspirational women like Simone de Beauvoir and Anaïs Nin. She read A Spy in the House of Love because it was a good “message” book. She said it instilled in her an optimistic outlook toward the future. She thought I might find some tidbits to apply to my philosophy on “love.” I didn’t have a philosophy on love. That’s what hooked me on Dorrie; she was full of contradictions. It must have been part of the terms of being our only “intellectual.”
We spent all weekends and every vacation at the seashore. In 1952, Huntington Beach still gave permission for families to pitch tents on the water’s edge for a month at a time. Ours rose out of the sand like a black cube. That was the summer I read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and The Adventures of Perrine. I was nine. It seemed like life would always be imbued with black words on white pages, framed by white waves and black nights. Mom put zinc oxide on my nose every morning before Randy and I collected pop bottles, stacked them into borrowed shopping carts, and deposited them at the A&P supermarket for two cents apiece. With money in our pockets, we were able to buy our way into the famous heated saltwater swimming pool. A few years later, Dad took us farther south and assembled our tent at Doheny Beach, where we caught waves on six-foot Hobie surfboards and sang songs like “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley” around the campfire. Sometimes we’d drive up to Rincon, where we set up camp at the side of the Pacific Coast Highway. But it was Divers Cove in Laguna Beach that had Daddy’s heart. He and his best friend, Bob Blandin, would slip into their wet suits and disappear under the ocean’s surface for hours at a time while we kids played on the shore. Mom packed bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise. Willie, Bob’s wife, wore Chinese red lipstick and smoked, which Mom said was really bad. I remember the cliffs. At night they looked like dinosaurs ready to attack us. During the day we climbed them to the top and looked out over our beloved Laguna Beach. If you had seen us from the beach below, you would’ve thought we were the picture-perfect average California family in the fifties.
One Man’s Family
The radio played a big part in our life. The one I remember most was a tall cabinet model made by Philco. We bought it on time, as we did with everything of value. Sundays were Radio Day. One Man’s Family was on at 3. It was my favorite. My sisters and I hurried home from church in order to follow the plot of Father Barber and his perfectly neat family. There just couldn’t be anyone as good, or wise, or understanding as Father Barber. I thought it unfair that I couldn’t have a father who would give big hugs and talk and laugh with his daughter. I always wondered how come my dad wasn’t like that, all warm and patient and loving and … well, he just wasn’t, that’s all!! “If only” he would just say, “Come over here, Perkins, and give your dad a kiss.” If only Mom would say, “Hurry up, I know how exciting the next episode of the Barber family is for you.”
The only thing our family had in common with the serials was Mom and Dad were always looking for a better life. I thought it was unfair. And when I grew up I wasn’t going to live the way we did. My family would be perfect. I would see to that; always and forever happy, smiling, and beautiful.
Unanswered Questions
When I was six, television gave me a gift. Gale Storm. Not Lucille Ball. Gale Storm in My Little Margie. She was everything I wanted to be—clever, fearless, and always