My stay in Creve Coeur, MO lasted almost two years, up until my high school graduation. (Other than a two-year stint when I was in elementary school, this was the longest I had ever lived in one place.) After graduating, my plan was to live with my folks until the fall, when I intended to go off to college. I had narrowed down my choices to Yale and Bentley College, finally deciding on the latter. Early that summer we moved to Lexington Park, MD, and I spent my time riding around on my bicycle, enjoying the new surroundings, and finalizing preparations for my move to Bentley in Boston.

But as it got closer, I was less and less inclined to go to college right then. I was eighteen years old and had moved over 20 times. Frankly, I was tired. We almost always moved during the school year, which meant missing a few weeks of school and then getting caught up once I got enrolled in the new place. I went to three high schools in three states by the time I finished, all with different credit requirements for graduation. Although getting good grades had never been much of a problem, it did require a great deal of work and discipline to always make those adjustments every time we relocated, and the thought of jumping into another school environment with all that it would demand was daunting to me. The idea of becoming an accountant was losing its appeal and I didn’t know what else I would pursue. So, at the last minute, I cried off.

Then I got the crazy idea to move to Seattle, where my sister lived and I had visited the year before. I was just planning on loading up my car and making the trip by myself, but my parents wanted someone with me so they flew my sister to Maryland and we made the trip together. We basically drove straight through, except for stops to eat and such, and we made the trip in less than 72 hours. I had all my worldly goods stuffed in the trunk and piled up in the back seat, so we couldn’t even make the seats recline when we wanted to take a nap.

On top of the pile in the back seat was my cat, Kitty Whompers, (aka Whomper Dudes), and his litter box. He wasn’t that keen on this traveling stuff and my sister was worried about him not eating. So whenever we stopped for lunch or dinner, she would get some kind of seafood dish and share some of the food with him. He was actually eating alright, but he hadn’t left any kitty tootsies in his box since the trip began. By Day Two he had gas that would make your eyes water and have you holding your breath until you could get the window rolled down. Somewhere in Montana he finally got down to business. We could hear him scratching around in his box and we exchanged worried glances. By now we would rather he just “held it” until we got to Seattle. No such luck! Two days worth of popcorn shrimp and fish sandwiches had worked its way through his system and was on its way out! The smell had us pulling over onto the shoulder and stopping so suddenly that the brakes screeched. We leaped out of the car, gagging, and I grabbed the litter box and heaved it as far as I could throw it. We debated leaving it there on the side of the road, especially when closer inspection showed that there weren’t tootsies in the box, but a runny mess. Littering, however, was not an option. I cleaned it up as best I could and crammed it in the trunk. Whompers would just have to take scheduled potty breaks for the remainder of the trip.

By the time we got to Seattle I wanted a shower and to be able to stretch out on a bed to sleep. (We had tried washing our hair in a rest area sink in North Dakota, but the water was freezing cold and just seemed to make the shampoo coagulate or something. Plus you had to hold down the faucet head the whole time to keep the water flowing and cram your head under it. We were both trying to wash our hair at the same time and didn’t think of taking turns and holding down the faucet for the other one. We ended up wearing bandanas for the rest of the trip.)

Sunday marked my first day in this new town and I was dead broke. After cleaning up and unloading the Mazda, I spent some time reading the classifieds, looking for work. I had moved in with my sister, but I needed to get a job right away to be able to pay the rent, buy food and put some gas in my car. I went on an interview on Monday or Tuesday and took a job as an accounts payable clerk for a produce company. (My plan was to see how I liked bookkeeping so that I could make a more informed decision about going to college and becoming an accountant, which was still a possibility.)

That’s where I met Tony, my future husband. He was a driver for the company and would talk to me when he came in the office to drop off his receipts and invoices. Eventually he asked me out, and after only dating for a little over a month, we moved in together. Life was fun. We lived in a quiet apartment on the beach in West Seattle with a beautiful view of Puget Sound. We both worked and made good money. Weeknights we would often go out to dinner, then come home and play backgammon and have a glass of wine and just talk, or go for walks on the beach. Saturdays we would putz around the apartment doing chores, take bike rides around West Seattle, go downtown to window shop or get together with friends. Sundays were meant for sleeping in, maybe going out for breakfast, and then reading the Seattle Times, which required several hours because the paper was so big. 

Life had a nice easy rhythm to it and I was enjoying myself. No worries, no serious ups and downs, and no serious thoughts of God. But that would change…

(to be concluded - for real this time! - in part 6)