My father would become enraptured with a new interest, participate in it every weekend for a year or two, then tire of it and move onto a new enthusiasm. This meant that every Saturday or Sunday we went to the same place until he got bored. (I want those of you who know me well to stop snickering now. It’s perfectly normal to take after one’s parents.) Once he lost interest in Lake Arrowhead and the Pickwick Bowl, he decided it was time for more gambling, so horse racing was a natural choice. It got us out of the house, provided a day of fresh air, and an opportunity to lose the profits of the previous week’s hard toil. Whether we drove to Los Alamitos race track in Orange County or all the way to Agua Caliente in Tia Juana, Mexico and back, my job once we arrived was always the same. I was free to hang around the stable entrance as long as I wished, or until the managers insisted I leave. I didn’t care about the racing part; I just wanted to look at the horses. Sometimes I stayed relatively out of sight and was allowed to remain for hours as the horses and jockeys entered the field. Other times my desire to touch the already skittish Thoroughbreds got me sternly sent back to the grandstand. Once I was seated, it amused my father to whisper the name of the horse he’d bet on and send me down the stairs to the front of the grandstand, where I was supposed to yell “Come on, Bottlenose!” at the top of my lungs, and then return to my seat until the next race and the next set of instructions. After each foray to the front of stands, the people seated near the aisles would give me disapproving looks. Maybe it was because in those days it wasn’t common for children to attend horse races. I can’t recall ever seeing anyone else my age. Then there was the notion that children should be seldom seen and never heard, especially where large amounts of money were being lost. Nonetheless, my father said do it and therefore I gave it my best. Sometimes when we went to Tia Juana, my folks decided they might as well stay for the Jai Alai games in the evening. My guess is that they planned ahead, packed overnight bags, went to the races on Saturday instead of Sunday, and kept a little money aside to lose in the evening. That sounds logical to me now that I have to plan ahead and remember whether it’s Saturday or Sunday. All I recall of the Jai Alai weekends is that after we left the racetrack we would go to Mexican restaurants where Mariachi musicians would play for us and I would refuse to eat the food on my plate. Later in the evening, I’d watch the Jai Alai games long enough to fall asleep with my head on someone’s lap, spend the night unconscious in some unremembered motel, and be bundled into the back seat of our car for the morning trip home. My good behavior paid off. Roadside sellers would shove souvenirs at us near the border and my parents always allowed me to buy a treat. My favorites were huge, colorful, clay piggybanks. I would play with them, break them by accident, and be ready for another one after the next Jai Alai game. (Note to parents of small children: piggybanks made of clay don’t last long, particularly if you want to access the contents, whereas plastic piggybanks that have removable caps on their bellies and are filled with pesos can survive two marriages and a house burglary.) My sister apparently had better things to do when my father got around to horse racing, so she was out of the picture until she brought home my brother-in-law. Then our world turned upside down. He had different ideas about how to spend a weekend. I guess my parents decided it would be more fun to do things his way than never see their elder daughter again. Have you noticed that I was always dragged along on these outings? I’m sure babysitters had been invented by 1951, but you couldn’t prove it by my parents. My brother-in-law liked to go to the movies. That’s why I saw “A Star is Born” and other movies of its ilk before I could understand what I was seeing. Unlike the downtown years, when I could whisper questions to my mother, nighttime movies with the brother-in-law required silence on my part. Who remembers “New Faces of 1952” with Eartha Kitt? I do. Why? Because the brother-in-law wanted to see it. Robert Clary was also in it. He was my first crush. I was nine. We stopped going out to eat. Now we dined. The brother-in-law had views about food. Casseroles were verboten, as were pasta and pizza. We had to go to restaurants ruled by Internationally renowned chefs. I watched many a fancy plate pass before my eyes untouched. My diet still consisted of soda crackers coated in butter, which made nobody happy but me. Yet that was the price of my silence, so they paid it. For outdoor activities, there was fishing. The brother-in-law liked to go deep sea fishing, so that’s what we did as a family. Half day boats, full-day boats, we boarded them all from San Pedro to Rosarito, Mexico. The actual act of fishing held no interest for me, so I became the champion baiter. I could spear those worms on a hook without a qualm. I also learned to scale and gut fish like a pro. I just wouldn’t eat them when we got home. One trip out to Rosarito lasted three days and was combined with gambling in the evenings. Everyone had a great time except me. Three days of refusing to eat the local fare resulted in my first case of hallucinations. When I explained to my mother that the room was spinning, she went out and found a loaf of white bread somewhere. I ate half of it and was able to stand up again. That taught me to always pack a loaf of bread if I’m going on a long trip. I’m telling these food stories in hopes that my children, who are insisting that their children try just one bite of whatever is on their plate, will understand why their sons and daughters would rather bury their heads in their arms and sob than eat a piece of onion. It’s not their fault. It’s mine. Eventually, my sister and brother-in-law moved out of town. Fishing was no fun without them, so my folks stored their tackle and rods in the garage, stayed home, and watched TV. Then my first husband came along, discovered the cache, and decided he and I should go rock fishing. When we arrived at the seashore, he jumped out of the car, picked up the two rods and tackle box, bounded down the cliff in glee, and leaped onto one of two closely spaced rocks against which the waves were pounding. Being the coward that I was, I chose the longer zig-zag path down the sandy slope, thus saving my life. As my husband was relishing the salty wind on his face, a huge wave crashed over the rocks, knocking him completely off his feet and tossing him headfirst into the deep waters between the boulders. He vanished from sight. So did the fishing tackle. There I was, safe on the sandy cliff, wondering where, when, and if his lifeless body would be washed ashore. Diving in after him was out of the question. There was no sense in killing myself on the same day I might become a widow. Eventually, he appeared and swam back to shore. Fortunately, his head had not been bashed in against the rocks. Unfortunately, all our gear had been washed out to sea and he had no intention of trying to retrieve it. That was the last day we went fishing together. When we came home and told my folks what had happened I could see the wheels turning in their heads. On the one hand, it was good he hadn’t died. On the other hand, the odds of him replacing what he’d lost were slim and non-existent. So it was a coin flip: son-in-law or deep sea fishing. I think he was a little bewildered by their lack of enthusiasm for his safe return. They didn’t say much. Now it’s too late. We’ll never know which side of the coin landed face up that day.