Step By Step

By Laura T. Jensen

Step By Step is a memoir. A collection of short creative non-fiction pieces, which represent segments of my life. They are recollections of people, places and events; some big, some small, some happy, some sad. These stories richly reflect the times and, of course, me and my friends and family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura T. Jensen
• Release date: Jul 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476081663

Laura T. Jensen

A writer of fiction and creative non-fiction, Laura is a member of the North Carolina Writers’ Network. Interested in continuing to hone her craft, she has attended numerous writing workshops including: Finding The Story, UNC-CH Friday Center; Diary Writing, Chatham Community College; Personal Essay Writing, Sheila Bender; Amherst Writers and Artists, Part I & II. Her work has been published in: Urban Hiker, 3/2004, A Cat Named Tom; 12/2004, A Christmas Hero The Rambler, 3/2005, Robinson and Crusoe; 9/2006, Contributor/Your Stories, Eddie; 9/2008 Contributor/Your Stories, The Redheaded Woman Building Bridges, 2/2008, San Francisco Writers’ Conference Anthology, Up Up and Away Calliope, 12/2009, An Anthology – Women Who Write, Up Up and Away (3rd prize) News & Observer, 1/2010, Contributor/Readers Who Write, Winter Solstice The LA Review, 4/2010, Red Hen Press, The Letter Patchwork Path: Wedding Bouquet, 5/2010, Standing In A Doorway Gulf Coast Writers Assoc., Magnolia Quarterly 9/2010, The Long Wait (2nd prize) A Long Story Short: story of the month 6/2011, The Beaches One Title Magazine: 3/2012, The Best and the Brightest The Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, 3/2012, The Piano Teacher Persimmon Tree, 5/2012, The Summer Intern Telling Our Stories, Accepted for publication 2012, The Last Shot Laura lived her early life in Bergen County, New Jersey. She attended public schools in both Bergenfield and Westwood and graduated from Westwood High School. A graduate of Lasell College (2011 recipient of the Lasell Medallion and member, Board of Overseers), Laura spent eighteen years in the human resources and training departments of a large organization in New York City. Until recently, Laura and her husband (Jack Hyer) ran a boutique executive search firm specializing in positions in non-profit organizations.

Book preview

WHOSE CHILD AM I?

The woods behind our house were thick and for me, a child of six, they reminded me of something out of Jungle Book – a favorite from the moment Dad first read it to me. Most nights we read the same book. I could even tell when he should turn the page. A grin tugged at his mouth whenever I caught him skipping ahead.

On my first visit to the woods, Dad showed me the way. I clutched his hand while I listened closely to his instructions.

Stay on the path, he said, if you do, I promise you won’t get lost.

The path curved toward the right at the top of a small hill. Dad pointed out a large apple tree off to the left.

This, he said, is your landmark, the halfway point.

He explained that the path formed a circle. From here, if I followed it, I’d end up back in our yard.

Promise me, he said, promise me you’ll stay on the path. His voice sounded stern.

I nodded. With dramatic exaggeration, using the tip of my index finger, I crossed my heart to seal my promise. Then I grabbed his hand and we continued on. Sure enough we came to our yard. Like so many times before, he had not steered me wrong.

My mother tells the story that she didn’t think I was her child when the nurse first brought me to her. I had dark hair; she expected a blond. After careful examination she realized I didn’t have a bump on my left ear like the bump on Dad’s left ear. She couldn’t explain why but she’d been expecting that bump. She says she yelled at the nurse,

This isn’t my daughter, you’ve made a mistake.

Once I began to explore my world, first on hands and knees and then on feet, it became quite apparent that I was unquestionably my father’s daughter. I collected things: animals, stones, sticks, coins, in fact any item I found interesting or thought might have a future use. Before long I collected people, making friends with little effort, exactly like he did. And, I didn’t throw anything away. Again, like Dad. My similarities to my mother emerged much later when I began to care about what I wore, what I looked like and how I smelled. In the meantime, without a doubt – like father like daughter.

I came by my collecting skills through observation, learning from a master. Mother cleaned and tossed and Dad and I searched and retrieved. He and I never took a walk without finding at least one thing to bring home, something we just would not leave behind. Many times my treasures ended up in the laundry and were ruined. Other items found homes on the shelves of the orange crate bookcase in my bedroom, proudly displayed for all to see. Alone in my room, I loved to pick them up, run my fingers over their various surfaces, and study them from every angle.

Dad’s treasures landed in the basement. He workspace was neat but crowded. He lined one wall with corkboard on which he hung hooks; each held a different tool. For all the items too small for a hook, he used old pill bottles, glass jars or tin cans. Back from a walk where he’d found something, he’d drop it on the workbench to be filed later. Although his space contained a wastebasket it was usually empty.

Dad called the town dump his department store. Without fail he visited this treasure trove on a weekly basis -- rarely bringing, always taking away. He and the man who oversaw the operation were on a first name basis and when Dad drove in, Hank would raise his hand in greeting and shout, Hiya Fred, how ya doin?

The boys who lived on my block as I turned seven were much more fun than any of the girls. The girls pretended to be mothers with babies. They played house, cooked make-believe meals and had pretend teas. The boys on the other hand, played war with cowboys and Indians. They dug in the dirt, climbed trees and got dirty. None of them minded when I joined in and before my mother managed to intervene, ballet class not withstanding, I became a tomboy.

This gang of eight boys ranged in age from six to nine. I was taller, and in some cases, faster than most of them. I didn’t have the feeling they let me win at anything just because I was a girl. In fact, much of the time they I forgot I was a girl. These boys did, however, explore the woods beyond the path and one day dared me to do the same. They taunted and called me chicken when I hesitated.

She’s a chick, chick, chicken - cluck, cluck, cluck, they yelled. Folding their arms like wings, around in a circle they went, yelling and flapping. I covered my ears and prayed they’d stop. They didn’t. Fearful of losing my place in this gang, I broke my promise.

One day, while we explored the woods beyond the path, we stumbled on a long black snake. The boys picked up the wiggly thing and dangled it from a large stick they stuck in my face. I screamed and ran. My mother asked, What’s wrong? when I arrived home breathless. I knew I couldn’t tell.

I don’t like those boys anymore, I mumbled.

She smiled and a look of relief spread across her face. My little girl is back probably ran through her head. Visions of the snake were not dispelled by what I knew to be my mother’s pleasure.

Maybe I was saying good-bye to being a tomboy. But, I knew there was more. I had broken a promise. In this case, like father was not like daughter.

****

A CAT NAMED TOM

Laura and Tom

He lived there before I did. My parents told me he’d come with the house…sort of, take my house, take my cat deal. And, he came with a name: Tommy Papashadow. No one had any idea where his name came from; perhaps he was named after someone. It was an imposing moniker nonetheless and he lived up to every syllable of it.

He weighed about twenty-five pounds, stood a good fifteen inches from the top of his ears to the pads on his feet and measured, without counting his tail, approximately eighteen inches long. When he sat he was even more imposing, quite elegant as he held his head high up off his shoulders. With all his size, it was surprising that he possessed such a small sweet face.

He was mainly gray with a white chest; the chest marking in fact looked like a chef’s apron. A small white dot had planted itself on the bottom of his chin, another sneaked up around his mouth on the right side just below his whiskers. Each of his feet had some white on them, except for the one that was totally gray. And his toes: Why, he had six instead of five on all four feet!

His size did not, in any way, impede his movements. He was as swift as any feline and could out run nearly any animal, in the neighborhood, domestic or wild, regardless of size, type or age. When he became part of our family he was already middle-aged, but due to early alteration had maintained not only his youthful figure but also a youngster’s zest for life. Nothing pleased him more than a good chase after real or imagined prey. He was particularly good at, and fond of, hide and seek. If you happened to be making a bed, the game was even more entertaining.

My being born however meant some adjustments to his life style. This had been his territory, his home, and he had enjoyed everyone’s full attention. Now he’d be sharing both his house and my parents, and a number of friends commented that it just wouldn’t work. Cats, after all, had a reputation for smothering babies by getting too close to their faces because they smelled of milk. Cats are incapable of being trained everyone knows that. They couldn’t be trusted to stay away from infants and would scratch or, worse yet, bite. I’m not sure Tommy ever heard any of this talk but Mother certainly did. She already loved him, and sending him away was out of the question. She set out to prove everyone wrong.

Not only did she train him to stay out of my room, the carriage, and the playpen, she somehow fostered in him a regard for me that bordered on brotherly. Who knows where this protective trait came from or why he chose to bestow it on me but he did and it lasted for the remainder of our lives together.

He tolerated the invasion of his home; he endured my noise; and as soon as I became mobile he put up with tail- and ear-pulling, fierce hugging and on many occasions sat still while he was dressed in doll clothes. He endured being stuffed into a doll’s highchair, bed and stroller and suffered through bottle-feeding as I pretended he was my baby. Not once did he scratch or bite me. The worst affront might elicit a small noise from the back of his throat. Most times, when he’d had enough playing and just wanted a meal or a nap, he’d amble away. I soon learned that when he turned his back to me that was enough; I should stop.

Our relationship was not without complications. He was fearless and patrolled our yard religiously to ensure it would remain free of intruders -- fearless that is, except when it came to the vacuum and thunderstorms. He managed to convey his fear of both directly to me. He knew long before it was obvious to the rest of us that a thunderstorm was nearing, and he’d retreat to the exact center of the floor beneath the kitchen table. I followed. Pretty soon