At the Edge of the Woods: A Memoir

By Tess Hummer

“Tess Hummer’s memoir, ................. vibrates with life. The anguish of her childhood is relayed with such unsentimental clarity that we can’t help but love her and cheer her toward transformation. The road is hard and she doesn’t spare anyone, least of all herself. Her journey from homelessness to home is something that will crack open the hardest of hearts. This is Angela’s Ashes for the new millennium.”
—Alan Watt - (bestselling author of The 90-Day Novel, and founder of L.A. Writers’ Lab)

“Tess and I were in the LA Writer’s workshop in 2010. She was writing a memoir about her life, much of it dealt with her experiences as a homeless woman in the LA area. I swear to god, I never cried in that workshop until Tess presented her work. It’s a sleeper--take my word for it.”
—Frank Wilderson III - Author, Incognegro, A Memoir of Exile and Apartheid, Red, White and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonists

“In, At Edge of the Woods, baby boomer, Tess Hummer, transports us to a nostalgic America with crisp imagery that paints a story more like a forbodding Hopper than a Rockwell, as she reflects on choices, responsibility, and the sobriety of conscience on the journey to make sense of her life , which spans seven decades, from her crowded family home in Connecticut to a Starbucks in Malibu, in her relatable and engaging memoir.”
—Masha Savitz- Writer-Film Director - Red Reign –The Bloody Harvest of China’s Prisoners- http://redreignfilm.com/

“This book will prevent you from doing your chores. From the first sentence you’ll be hooked. Get ready with a comfortable reading chair for the duration. I suggest that ‘At the Edge of the Woods,’ by Tess Hummer is a consummate personal and spiritual memoir that illustrates what can be chosen, created and experienced within a human life. The fact that Hummer’s book is a fabulously successful read is a testament to her life and insights.”
—Debbi Dachinger, Media Personality, Award-Winning, Syndicated radio Host, International Bestselling Author, and Media Coach

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781504392358

Tess Hummer

When I was about six years old I asked my mother; "Ma, where did I come from and how did I get here? Ma always said the same thing, "Tess go outside and play." And to myself I wondered, 'what is my purpose and what am I supposed to do?" I've never stopped wondering.

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Copyright © 2018 Tess Hummer.

Author Credits: FAMILY; Past, Present and Future

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9234-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9236-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-9235-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017918080

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/19/2018

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Spring

Chapter 2 Summer

Chapter 3 Autumn

Chapter 4 Winter

Chapter 5 Spring

PROLOGUE

Jackrabbits scurry across the road past my high beams. It’s late—close to ten—and pitch black except for the stars. I’m surrounded by mountains; flat, open fields; and a few houses off in the distance. No man’s land. The dry desert ground crackles beneath my tires. What’ll I do if I have to pee during the night? This is rattlesnake country.

I need to wake up before dawn. I can’t have a cop find me living like a pack rat in my car. My pillow and blanket are in the trunk. As I open the door, the overhead light goes on, and I feel like a sitting duck. I hope no one drives by and sees me parked alongside the road.

It’s my first night without the comforts of living indoors, in my own room, with a roof over my head. It seems unreal, and yet here I am. The feeling of failure washes over me. And this is only the first night. A long hot bath, a clean nightgown, some RevitaLift eye cream, brushing and flossing my teeth—my bedtime ritual will have to wait.

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It’s been a long and restless night. The sun is up, but my eyes are sealed shut. I forgot the Mojave Desert is a mile up the road. My teeth feel grungy. I can’t be found here. My body aches from lying like a mummy—legs out straight, jacket stuffed behind the small of my back—as any slight turn meant a stick shift jammed into my right kidney. Glancing upward, I see my key ring tucked into the visor but no key to the front door. Fumbling to get my sneakers on, I lower the steering wheel, throw my pillow and blanket into the back seat, and speed off toward the Chevron on the corner.

Long lines of cars patiently wait their turn at the pump—commuters all heading south for their two-hour ride to LA. They’re drivers with destinations, caught up in the rat race. Will I be shot for desertion?

A woman in her late sixties with cotton candy hair and chipped blood- red nail polish stands behind the counter.

Mornin’, she says, taking a drag on her cigarette. Her nametag reads Wendy.

Ladies’ room, I ask.

Wendy hands me a dirty foot-long wooden dowel wired to a single key. The restrooms are out back, she says.

I open the door to a dingy mirror-less room reeking with a sickening sweet strawberry scent. Trash spills onto broken tiles. I have to be careful not only where I sit but also where I step. Damn, this is tougher than I expected. I head back inside to hand Wendy the key and buy a pack of gum and a coffee.

Honey, make it a good one, she says in her raspy voice.

The coffee is bitter. I see a Starbucks across the road. Still bleary-eyed, I head over and wait for it to open. I fall back asleep until the sound of cars pulling up and doors slamming wakes me. Seems strange—yesterday, I was like most customers, but today, I am here seeking refuge with fellow writers. I don’t know what else to do.

What can I get you? asks a bright-eyed teen who has obviously had her caffeine fix.

The blackboard reads…

Today’s Blend: Italian, rich, smoky, and full-bodied.

I’ll have a tall Italian, I reply.

A vision comes to me of a tall, dark, and handsome lover—a momentary thrill, until I remember that most Italian men are short. Like my ex, Michael. He was tall in the passion department, but if another man’s glance lasted too long, he had a short fuse. I thought we were a match made in heaven: both of us grew up in large families with strong work ethics and were determined to overcome our lackluster childhoods. He did have redeeming qualities, like being a hard worker and a good provider.

My mother’s answer to anyone who wronged her was, What goes around comes around. This phrase has been ringing in my ears since I was a kid. In another lifetime, was I the one who tormented him? I wondered, what did I do to him that it’s now time to ante up?

The night my right eye met with his clenched fist, I was done. But it took one long and crazy year to hang up my martyr robe for good. Along with a divorce decree, I wanted a receipt marked paid in full!

Coffee in hand, adding some half-and-half and a couple of packets of sugar in the raw, I head toward the leather chair in the corner. My custom for the past several years has been to start my day writing. One would think that by now I’d have things figured out. Instead, my life is more of a mess than ever.

I begin by writing to the gods, my mother, or—when especially desperate—my father. The crazy thing is, they always seem to agree and say the same stuff: Tess, focus on your life and let go of all the men you chase after; finish your story! Give up your romantic notions about life. No one said life was going to be easy!

Just like a brash teenager, I pooh-pooh any such wisdom—still, at the age of fifty-eight.

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After a few hours in Starbucks, I head to the gym. About a year ago, I was a regular member with a personal trainer. However, today’s meeting is a little different.

Curly-haired, muscle-bound Neal asks, Where do you live?

My mind goes blank.

Excuse me, I tell him, I need to use the ladies room before we get started.

Alone in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. There stands the mother of four grown kids with five grandchildren—homeless! What if my kids find out? Two voices clamor in my head. One says, Tess, get a grip. Just give him your old address and think of all the money you’re going to save on rent. The other says, I can’t believe my life has come to this! I vacillate between Oh, this is no big deal; one day it’ll make for a great story and the truth: How could I have imagined this would be easy?

I can’t stall any longer, so I head back to our eager body-builder who wants to sign me up and make his quota. I was able to renew your previous membership, he says.

Halfheartedly, I put my stuff in the locker room, change, and get on the treadmill, all the while thinking I’ll be able to brush my teeth and shower. Today is day one of the lying game—crazy, since I’ve spent the past thirty years studying spiritual philosophies, too many to mention, where telling the truth is key.

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Loving the smell of the wooden floors and bookshelves, I head over to the library—my sanctuary since I was a kid. During the summer, it was cool, dark, and serene, and it was where I could escape to a quiet place. I check the classified ads and phone every employment agency I know, all the while going through the motions of being a diligent job seeker—and oh, I am so reliable, just call and ask—even though the idea of taking another job sickens me.

Last month, I interviewed at TV producer Aaron Spelling’s home in Holmby Hills for the position of his private chef. Security was high. I entered through a locked gate with cameras everywhere and a fleet of black limos out front. The personal assistant entered the room impeccably dressed in an Armani pinstripe suit and Manolo Blahnik shoes.

Hello, I’m Carolyn, she said. Thank you for coming.

As she walked toward me, holding a copy of my résumé, I notice a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. Having recently gained sixty pounds I’m feeling disgusted with myself as I now am resorting to Kmart $9.99 plus-size specials.

I see you worked for Walter Annenberg, she said.

She continued to read the list of celebrated artists that included dancers Martha Graham and George Balanchine. How did you come to work for them? she asked.

Word of mouth, I said.

When she mentioned Mr. Spelling’s favorite restaurant, The Grill in Beverly Hills, I felt like a complete phony. Yes, I did work for several members of society’s elite. However, since working as a private chef and living in a Malibu mansion, and then getting fat and quitting, I once again found myself working as a live-in nanny.

Even though the family was great and I came to love and adore them, I had to leave. What nagged at me was that I needed to feel important and make some real money. It was yet, another job starting out great with the family holding me in high regard, with three bright little ones to look after.

We live out in Canyon Country, on a good day; it is an hour north of LA. Long-horned cattle graze nearby; we are definitely out in no man’s land.

Both mom and dad are psychologists who encourage their kids to share their feelings. This was as foreign a concept to me as it gets.

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It’s my last day. Looking out over the yard, the horse-tire swing hangs still in the hot sun. Images float through my mind….

It’s hot the temp is above 100 but the grass is still cool. Standing at the farthest side of the yard all three kids line up.

I call, "Ready, set, go!"

They’re off. Miles and Miken, twins almost three and singleton Holden almost two are off; running barefoot in the grass as fast as their little legs can go.

Pitching the ball to Miles, he swings, hits the ball and runs; Holden grabs the ball and chases after him as Miken jumps up and down cheering.

As I’m pushing Miken on the swing Miles and Holden are zooming down the driveway lying on their skateboards wearing helmets to protect their tiny heads.

TV is mostly off limits, forcing me to get creative as spending close to ten hours a day is no easy task. Realizing I need something to keep from going loony, I go through my closet and pull out my chess game.

Hey kids, we’re going to learn how to play chess. Since it is not a kid’s game all I’m hoping for is that you learn the names of the pieces and how they move, I said.

These three little ones are way beyond their years and eager to learn. Since their attention span is about twenty minutes, we stop before they get rambunctious. This keeps them eager until the next time.

Five to six weeks have gone by and once again, we are sitting at the dining room table. By now, they have learned how to set- up the board. Miken’s on my lap, little Holden sits on top of the table and Miles is in his chair. We begin as usual. It is Holden’s turn.

I ask him, Which piece do you want to move?

He points to the bishop, and says, This one.

Do you know what it’s called and how it moves, I say.

Miles eagerly responds, It’s a bishop and it goes this way, as he crosses his finger atop the board.

Where are you going to move it to, asks Miken.

Studying the board Holden picks up the piece and slides it in front of Miles’ pawn.

Here, he says.

Miles says, If you move it there I’ll capture you.

Whoa Miles, great call!

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Handing over my debit card to pay for my third refill, I notice a handsome guy with bright blue eyes and tousled hair, like so many of Southern California’s surfing dudes. Taking a closer look, I see that he has his hand out. His eyes silently pleading for money.

Once upon a time, we both had a roof over our heads. Will this be me if I’m unable to make my next car payment?

It’s been a long day—the same as yesterday, and nothing new except for bitter reminders of my impending fate. I feel frozen in time with brief reprieves of total panic, knowing the odds of getting a job and a place to live have escaped my reality. My old friends called loser and failure have not only taken up residence in my head, they’ve decided they’re boss.

I hate the thought of sleeping in my car again tonight, but I have no other choice. First, though, I need to shower, so I head over to the gym. It’s late. Only a few die hard fitness addicts remain. My old routine comes to mind: first the treadmill; next, work the upper arms, shoulders, and waist; and finally, sit-ups and leg lifts. I’m exhausted.

I wonder about those endorphins. Where are they? I was counting on the high one is supposed to get from exercise, but instead I feel more tired than when I began. Peeling myself from the mat, I struggle to get up. W hew, this is what I call tired! Maybe things will get better after a hot steam bath and sauna. My mind is finally quiet and I’m able to enjoy the shower. At last, I’m feeling great—nice rosy cheeks, body relaxed, ready for a good night’s rest. Until I remember where I’m sleeping.

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After a few days wandering about, not knowing what to do, I realize I am free to roam. So I head south toward Los Angeles, where my friend Angela lives. Dear sweet Angela has been living in her car for the past three years. It’s a small comfort to know she resides somewhere in the vicinity.

Angela and I are both living in our cars; two self-help junkies with big dreams and get rich quick mentalities. She dreams of starring in a TV series and I dream of walking the red carpet for writing the best screenplay. Which is another story altogether.

Last year I got this call from Angela. Hey Tess, my mother gave me a loan to buy a car, do you think you could help me find a new one? Angela’s, once red, Jeep, faded to pink by time and the California sun, held together with wire and duct tape, needed to be put to rest.

We meet in El Monte where real estate is cheap along with cars. Angela had all the details on a Ford Escort; low mileage, good price, the only thing it needed was new tires.

The salesman came out, made his pitch and left to take a phone call.

I say, Well, what do you think?

I have one last thing to check before taking it for a ride, she said. Angela reclined the driver’s seat back as far as it would go. She got in, lay down and stretched her legs. Out she came all smiles and said, It’s not a Serta Sleeper but close enough.

A few weeks later I got another call from Angela.

Hey, Tess how about taking this class on Feng Shui, I remember you had a book and did some stuff to your place. What do you think? Next thing you know we’re in The Valley sitting in a small church meeting room with an expert up front explaining the ancient Chinese art of Feng Shui.

It’s important where the entrance of your home is located. Finding an auspicious main door… she said. Angela’s arm shoots up in the air. Since I’m living in my car which door would be considered the best location?

You could hear a pin drop in the room. I did all I could do to keep from laughing aloud and was shocked by Angela’s nonchalant attitude about where she lived. The woman stared at the back of the room for a moment and said, The door on the driver’s side.

Needless to say a year has gone by and none of it worked.

Yet I have not talked to her or anyone else since the day I put my belongings into storage and began living in my car. If anyone finds out, I would have to admit the truth: that I quit my job with not only no income but, since working as a live-in, no home as well.

More than anything, I need to keep this from my kids, for this is my third time in the same situation. My only conversation comes when I buy a cup of coffee or food; I remain silent to the world for fear of exposing myself to some unsuspecting stranger. However, not engaging with another living soul is beginning to wear me down.

Driving east on Ventura Boulevard past an ugly flat-roofed strip mall, I see Starbucks: a place where the baristas are friendly and I fit in amongst a sea of laptops with writers all struggling to write the next great American novel or screenplay. Since we are so close to Tinseltown—Hollywood, that is—I must not forget the screenwriters and actors all working hard either editing or studying scripts for their next big break; after all, that yearly red- carpet event is just over the hill.

Sitting down with my notebook, I start writing: no beginning, no end, and no judgments from the teenagers in their black baseball caps and green aprons. The line in front of the counter begins to grow. My pen moves across the page …

Look out what do I see

God walking about in you and me

She’s wearing stylish clothes, all color hair

and interesting noses

He wears long legs and short ones too

she looks at me through pools of blue

Peering back through chestnut hues,

many are hurried going someplace

While others remain in a state of Grace

Inspiration is the blend for the day

Take a cup and be on your way.

The day lingers on. The morning shift has long gone. Most of my fellow writers have left, I notice some of the same people returning at the end of their workday, and it appears that no one cares that I’ve been here all day. Streetlights come on, and loneliness sets in. Ordinarily, I’d call one of my kids or friends just to chat, but I’m new at lying and keeping secrets, and it’s time to keep a stiff upper lip.

Since getting divorced in 1981, I’ve moved twenty-one times in twenty years. Just about, everyone knows of my picking up and moving on a moment’s notice, always believing I’ll find happiness over there. You know that place—where the grass looks greener.

Annie, the youngest of my four kids, is probably cleaning up after dinner and getting my four year-old granddaughter Julie ready for bed. It was at Annie’s request that I came to California in the first place. At the time, her husband, Rick, was going through chemotherapy. Julie was a toddler, and Annie had just enrolled in night school in case Rick didn’t make it. Rick had no interest in getting to know me after so many years of my being absent from their lives. While Annie was thrilled that I was nearby, her hubby treated me like a social outcast.

It’s closing time. The night shift is beginning to clean up. I gather my stuff, making sure to take my bedding from the trunk before finding a place to park for the night. The primo parking place is next to a tall hedgerow so no one can peer inside. Finally, after twenty minutes of circling around, I find a spot away from the streetlights. I’m now feeling safe and secure, with Ralph’s 24/7 supermarket just around the corner in case nature calls.

It’s nearly eleven o’clock. A car drives up and parks across the street. I slowly lift up my head, just high enough to peek out the window. A big, black, shiny SUV and what do you know? No one gets out! I have a neighbor. I’m tempted to go over and say, Hi! Welcome to the neighborhood. However, I decide to spare us both. I now feel less alone and somewhat comforted by my anonymous friend.

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It’s close to four in the morning when I wake up and have to pee. Now mind you, I don’t usually get up during the night to go, but any slight tingling sensation near my bladder reminds me that the bathroom is more than a few steps away.

Still a little groggy, I walk inside the supermarket pretending to be a weary traveler just passing through. Casually, I stroll toward the back of the store and find the restroom. While relieving myself, I glance down and notice scruffy work boots.

Appalled that a guy is in the lady’s room and making sure he’s gone; as I slowly open the door I realize while half- asleep I had entered the men’s room.

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Dirty clothes outweigh clean ones, and now the trunk of my car smells like a sweaty gym. I’m on the lookout for the nearest Fluff-n-Fold, but first I need to get some cash. My bank is just ahead on the left. I’ve been avoiding seeing the balance in my checking account, blindly handing over my bank card for food and gas. The balance receipt reads $212.52. This terrifies me! But then again, most homeless people would regard this as a financial windfall.

Having finished the laundry, it’s all neatly folded and my car smells fresh like Tide and Downy. Life is good again, until I hear the clanking sound of bottles