Before I try to describe the events that ensued following our move to northern Idaho, I should give the reader at least a quick sketch of what led to the move, and how and why I was with my mother at all.

I wasn't raised by her. I was the inadvertent offspring of my mother, who was biracial and whose parents were divorced and remarried, which was almost unheard of in those days. My dad was the eldest son of a prominent doctor; his family probably had high hopes for him, maybe to follow in his father's footsteps by going to medical school. There was some talk of having me aborted, but instead they'd kept me and basically ruined both their lives as a result. They ended up getting married, and to be honest, I don't think they even liked each other. I think that my dad did love her, while she felt trapped by the motherhood she wasn't ready for and was compelled to do the dutiful, respectable thing. The only childhood memories I have of my parents in the same scene at the same time are upsetting. They both insist I couldn't possibly remember from that long ago, but I do and always have.

Anyway, when I was 3 and my sister a year and a half old, she waved cheerfully at us, peeking through the gap in the front door, smiled sweetly and walked right out of our lives. She nabbed me up a short time later, apparently having second thoughts, but her boyfriend didn't like me. I remember him glaring at me darkly. So she dropped me off on a street corner, having arranged for a family member to come and get me, and took off for good. My dad didn't know what to do with us either, so his parents and my mom's mother raised us until my dad had obtained an education and was ready for us. We lived in a small Midwestern town that I loved with all my heart. It was so small that everyone knew one another and it was safe for me to walk a number of blocks to school. There was a quaint little bakery with an indoor window where you could watch the cake decorator work his magic. I spent many happy hours chasing butterflies, dragonflies and other insects for my collection or crouching in the shade between the hedge and the house scrutinizing snail, slugs, berries, plants, seed pods and other small things. My uncles still lived with my grandparents and were close enough in age to me that they felt more like brothers. I was especially close to my Uncle Charlie. During a time of changes and stress as I entered school, he was a trusted and comforting figure I could always count on.

My maternal, Filipino grandma and her husband lived nearby and we spent a lot of time with them as well. My grandpa (not by blood, but blood means so little anyway) was a quiet, steady carpenter who only got ruffled when my pranks and antics were extreme and even then he was merely gruff. I loved tagging along with him to the hardware stores and puttering next to him in the garden. Grandma was more of a mother to me than my own had ever been, maybe because she wanted to make up for Mom's absence. I was a rather active, imaginative child who did inexplicable things without apology, but she hardly ever complained or scolded me. My sister liked shopping for clothes, so she and Grandma would go to the boring women's stores and look at purses and shoes for hours while Grandpa and I went to more interesting places. Although none of Grandma's family had come with her from the Philippines she was part of a seemingly huge and very close knit Filipino community of warm and loving women who cooked wonderful food and chattered rapidly in Tagalog. As her grandchildren we were also included in all sort of family get-togethers and festivals.

My paternal grandparents had a house so enormous that it was more of a mansion than a house. It was well built and old, with all sorts of interesting antiquated features, built in the Frank Lloyd Wright style. I loved that house passionately; Charlie and I were both upset when Grandpa sold it following my grandparent's divorce and said that when we grew up, we'd buy it back. There was something about the house that embodied what childhood should be. Grandpa bought another house, grand but not nearly as much as the first and Grandma got a practical split level on the other side of town. After that, things were never really the same. My dad moved back and took my sister and I in, but now I was the oldest and our rented apartment lacked the soul and warmth of the other house. I had no brother-like uncle to rely on and run to when I was sad or needed someone to talk to or roughhouse with. He lived with Grandma now, far enough away that I couldn't walk to visit him....and even when we saw him he was different, not happy go lucky anymore.

I missed our little town desperately when we moved to Chicago. I missed Uncle Charlie, the quiet familiarity of small town life, I missed my family, I missed being known as the doctor's granddaughter and having that small measure of respect. I missed my mother. I made up stories when people asked me where she was. She was famous. Or she worked in a candy factory and sent me all the candy I wanted (in reality, I stole the candy, but I think I wanted to believe that she had given it to me, because I almost talked myself into thinking it was true). Sometimes I thought that perhaps she'd died, because nobody ever talked about her, and if they did, it was in whispers, as of a scandal or something awful.

Life in Chicago was pretty wretched. I'm not saying it was all bad...there was the cultural diversity, the food, the museums, the concerts. But when it came to school, every day was an ordeal to be endured, a gauntlet of cruel children to be run through. My sister was popular and had a happy social life, but I seemed to be incapable of conforming to the norm. I actually tried (unsuccessfully) to pay or bribe other kids to be friends with me. They took the gift or money happily and then laughed at me when I asked if they'd be my friend now. There wasn't a label yet for children like me. Nobody knew that I had Asperger's. I could have been diagnosed with ADD, but I don't recall hearing about anyone having that, either. My father, and later his wife, deduced that the problem was my inability to conform, to be more feminine. Not only did I not know how to conform, I didn't want to, not anymore than I wanted to be "feminine", an idea sticky with ruffles and lace that I could not swallow. I couldn't cope as other children could; I couldn't focus in school. The humming of the fluorescent lights, the ticking of the clock, the rustling of papers and sounds of other children disrupted my concentration. Socially and academically, I was a failure. I withdrew into daydreams and fantasies of a happier world, of a world with a mom.

My dad was overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising two girls by himself, and his temper was often short. He married a really nice lady that my sister and I liked, but by this time we were half grown, and....he was the only parent we had really....as sweet as she was, there was still the sense that our father had been stolen away from us, that we were the outsiders, that I was the unwanted one....again.

So when we heard from our mother and she wanted us to visit her, the fruit was ripe for the picking. After the tearfully joyful reunion, she told us deep, dark things about our dad and how she'd wanted us all these years and they wouldn't let her see us. I think I have maybe 3-4 cards from her to show for my entire childhood....but that's not the point- we believed her. We had to believe her. To face the stark truth would have been devastating, and every child wants with their whole, entire heart to feel that their own mother loves them. When you look at it this way, we didn't have a choice. Our dad became the enemy, the villain who had so cruelly deprived us of our mother and the joyful childhood we should have had. You can see it even with livestock. A poor mother can stomp all over her lamb or kid and just about kill it, but take that kid away, and it bawls pitifully and loudly to be returned to its dam...even if the dam is eating calmly and unconcerned as her infant cries out for her. It doesn't matter.

After one month of ninth grade, we got what we'd cried and struggled and fought for, what we'd broken our more dutiful parent's heart to get: he sent us to live with our mom.

A snapshot from 1986: Meet the members of our family:

First, my full sister Lisa, since I grew up wih her: We look an awful lot alike. We both have dark eyes and dark hair, though mine fades to red in the sun (it was red as a child) and hers is vivacious and curly, sort of like her. We've been mistaken for twins before, and for one another at times. This annoys us both. Since early childhood, she has been the favorite, the cute, perky, cheerful one. When I feel jealous, I tell myself that she's overly cutesy and has a simplistic, fairly narrow-minded view of life in general. Our closeness has been marred by years of sibling rivalry and mutual longing for attention and affection, a limited commodity in our world, and she always seems to win, despite just being herself. Being lovable comes naturally to her. Although I have spent a lot of time in her shadow, envying her, I wouldn't want to be be her for all the tea in China, so I don't even try. If people can't like me for myself, I don't want them...but it always hurts, just the same.

She thinks I'm entirely too eccentric, off the wall, and too indifferent to cosmetic appearances and the newest styles in clothing. I am down to earth, zany, creative and fairly fearless about it. We're about as different as two full sisters could be: me, earthy and outdoorsy, always climbing trees, finding an animals to play with, or running down a hiking trail or building a fort; her, domestic, sedentary, playing with dolls, organizing her barrettes and hair ties, baking cookies (always from a recipe), brushing her hair or washing her face. It's sort of amazing that we share the same DNA, the same upbringing- a slap in the face of both the nature and the nurture schools of thought.

When my mother walked out the door, my mom climbed into a car with her Greek boyfriend as we watched from the window of our apartment, alone, crying until our father came home and found us there. She married the Greek man and they had two children, my half brother and sister:

Michael: Of all my siblings, Mike is the most like me, outdoorsy and active. He's little for his age, as we all are, due to the Filipino blood and for him, the Greek blood, too. He has olive colored skin, shining dark eyes, and glossy black hair. For his size, he's very macho and gutsy, very tough and surprisingly strong. He's quiet and serious. We got along well together most of the time. When we didn't, it was because he called me a stupid girl, as though I were of those girly girls like my sisters. Compact and somewhat explosive, out interactions have tended to be volatile at times, but still...aside from Lisa I am closest to him.

Gia: Youngest of the bunch (I am the eldest), she has the same olive skin as her brother. Her dark eyes are heavy-lidded and she is fairly calm and even tempered in nature. She has thick, rambunctiously curly back hair. She is easy going and rarely ever confronts anyone or outright causes trouble. Oh, she has a sassy mouth, but the things she says are always followed so quickly by her slow and gentle smile that it's easy to forget them.

Mom: Our mother is half Filipino, and the exotic blood permeates her features. She has her American father's strong rectangular jaw and chin, but it is offset by large, dark soulful eyes, high cheekbones and olive skin. Her hair is glossy and black. The early pictures of her, the ones we grew up looking at and wondering over for so many years, showed a shy, trusting, demure girl, with long straight hair. She looked so sweet, so beautiful. With time, she has grown more determined than demure. She is still the charming hostess and the Asian blood is kind to the women in our family as we age, but the harsh experiences of life have left her wary and a bit paranoid, and the superstitions she was raised with have only fallen away to give birth to others which are no less odd. She is enigmatic and difficult to understand, yet loving and affectionate, both generous in heart and critical in tongue. As with all of us, the hot blood comes out in her temper, which can be fairly frightening and then she is wildly irrational and unpredictable. I do not say that she is a bad person, but many of the choices she has made have been absolutely disastrous. To this day, we are never quite sure what to expect when we hear from her. One thing will be certain: it is never routine.

After my mom left the Greek guy (who was abusive), she met up with my stepdad:

Dennis is a big man. He's big boned and overweight, with a potbelly. Usually people who are big like he is are sort of awkward and seem slightly embarrassed by it, but not him! For a large man, he carries himself with surprising dignity and grace. His black hair is graying, and he has piercing black eyes that glint alertly. An ex-cop, he retains the "don't even think about messing with me" attitude. He's very sociable and outgoing, and has the ability to converse with almost anyone he meets. He's directly descended from Russian royalty as well as Napoleon Bonaparte...at least that's what he claims. My mother's family lineage also contains royalty (though less directly and not as impressive or well known), but we don't wear the prestige of it stamped all over our persons as he does. As far as he's concerned, he should be a king- it is his right! Instead, he dominates whatever else is within his domain.

Our arrival:

My mom and Dennis lived in Running Springs, California, in the San Bernadino mountains. Unlike much of Southern California, this area is temperate, heavily forested with evergreen trees, and receives a heavy snowfall in winter.

We expected that our dingy life in the big city had ended and that now with our mom back at last, life would be a wonderful, fragrant bed of roses, like the potporri she used in the crafts she sold. Her entire home was redolent with the fragrance of it... I could have a cat, something my dad hadn't allowed even when it was the single item on my Christmas and birthday lists. I could get to know my brother and sister. Yeah. Life was going to be great! We gorged ourselves on candy (something our dad had strictly forbidden in almost any amount) and laughed and giggled giddily. We ran, laughed loudly, goofed, played pranks, hugged, and talked almost non-stop. Delighted with the pleasant area we were in, I ran the woods, climbed the trees, scaled the rocks, and waded in the streams and built forts with my brother. Girls (our sisters) were not allowed. And for a while, it was very good.

Our dad, who paradoxically was stick thin but afraid of growing obese, had been alarmed at my growing teenage appetite and tried to curtail what I ate. I felt like I was hungry all the time. Not at Mom's; there was plenty to eat and she was always urging me to eat it or allowing me to attempt to cook for myself (the attempts make me cringe to think of them, so I'll leave those out, if you don't mind). So it's a little ironic that the first real warning signs surfaced at a mealtime.

Breakfast time:

I ambled groggily to the table. The air was full of the usual smells that accompany an excellent breakfast in a house with plenty of money: coffee, butter, eggs, toast, bacon, meat- no oatmeal or cold cereal here. Dennis was planted solidly at one end of the table relishing his perfectly basted sunny-side-up eggs. A building contractor, his Mexican laborers were also at the table, eating eggs and chorizo. One of the workers lived nearby, and the other had a little room in the downstairs portion of our home. Mike was sitting right next to Dennis as usual. They called out to me in greeting. Dennis hollered out to my mom:

"Mary, make her some eggs! Hey kiddo, what kind of eggs do you want? Over easy?"

I quickly replied that I couldn't stand runny eggs, and that I'd like the entire eggs fried very thoroughly. He thought sunny side up was best and only real way to eat eggs, but was amiable enough, contenting himself with remarking that he couldn't believe I could possibly like them that way.

So, we were all sitting there munching away on toast with homemade pomegranate jelly, eggs, bacon, and herbal tea, when my brother shrieked and stood up hurridly. We all looked at him. He looked accusingly at Dennis.

Dennis said, "Mike, what are you yelling about? Eat your breakfast."

Mike giggled: "Oh no....I'm not going to.."

After a few more stern admonitions, he did sit down and resumed eating, but within a minute or two, he yelped again and backed away from Dennis, wild eyed and half babbling about Dennis having done "it" again. The Mexicans looked uneasy. I tried to understand what the fuss was about, but it was like a game where everyone but me knew the order of play, so I just watched. Mike was induced to sit (reluctantly) again, but he kept edging as far away from Dennis as he could and giggling and saying,

"Oh no, you're not going to get me this time!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Quit fooling around and eat your breakfast."

"Oh, yes you do, yes huh!" Mike continued to eye Dennis warily as he ate in a way reminiscent of a scavenger at a carcass, ready to flee again at the slightest warning. Dennis ignored him and started talking in Spanish to George and Valente, the Mexicans. I looked at my mother. Her movements were restless and short, but she hadn't said anything. I started eating again.

Mike screamed!! He jumped up from the table and started yelling. Tears were in his eyes.

"I knew you would do it! I knew you would!!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't do anything to you. Quit making a scene and sit down here."

"Denny...." My mom said. She was looking at him, spatula in hand, passive.

Mike seized the opportunity to break off and ran crying to his room.

"Mary, I keep telling you, you're going to spoil that boy and he'll turn our just like his father. He needs to learn how to behave at the table."

"Denny....." That was all she said. George and Valente looked down at their plates and ate studiously. I shoveled in the last of my food and left as soon as I could. I couldn't understand what had gone on, but it was unpleasat.

I sought Mike out. He was hiding from Dennis, his face puffy. I asked him.

"He pokes me with toothpicks!" He showed me where the toothpick had broken the skin.

"Why?"

"Because, he likes to! He does it all the time!"

It didn't make sense to me then. And I can't really say that it makes any sense now, either.

Oh, wait. I introduced you to everyone else except for myself. I'm like that. I forget the obvious a lot.

OK, at this time in my life, I'm a 14 year old girl. Wildly unpopular in school, I defiantly try to make my own styles and march to the sound of my own drums, mainly because I don't know how to do otherwise. If I were able to conform, I might...if it made sense to me and seemed logical. So, the result of all this is that I think I'm pretty cool with a short spiked haircut, red eyeshadow, hugely baggy pants, and very loud jewelry. At this point in time, I'm convinced that I'm a talented artist, and I draw constantly and go through reams and reams of paper and wear out a lot of writing implements, often on the same subject, over and over and over again, tryign to refine it down to the essence of what I'm trying to express. I might draw the same cat in the same pose fifty or a hundred times. I also do a lot of abstract art, with intersecting shapes and bright colors. My favorite color is blue. I'd like to have everything I own in blue. I also like to sew and make things. This is the overriding drive in my life -to create- and it's virtually all I think about, other than guys and animals.

I love animals. I can't live without them. People are so mean, and animals, if you know their language, are a lot better and far more trustworthy. When I grow up, I want to have LOTS and LOTS of animals- all kinds, but especially cats. My mom let me have a kitten- Marshmallow. I nicknamed him Mashy. I spend so much time with him (hours a day, basically whenever I'm not drawing or climbing trees or hiking) that he's extremely tame and laidback. I can give him a bath and he'll purr the whole time. He lays back in my arms and lets me pet his tummy, something cats don't usually like. When I want to call the cats to play with them or feed them, I go outside and meow loudly. They come running. Even the very shy ones will let me handle them. It doesn't make sense to me to call them in English. They're cats.

I had a boyfriend in Chicago, and I miss him. His name was Matt...something ending with "ski". He's Polish, so I don't remember his last name, and besides, he was always just "Matt" to me. He's tall, about 6 feet and the same age as me, blond. He has acne, but I don't care...most of them do. Matt is extremely quiet and shy, like me. We hardly ever talk when we're together, just short bits of sentences, but there's so much meaning in the silence when we're together. He never said goodbye, or that he'd miss me....we just knew these things. When I left, we walked to the door holding hands (seemed like a big thing to me at age 14) and he kissed me on the forehead. He used to feel my spiky hair and laugh about it. Darn, I miss him. Maybe I shouldn't have moved here.

But...I don't think my dad likes me anymore. We fight all the time. He wants me to be pretty and preppy and feminine like his new wife, Marie, to play piano like he does (and he's so good that to hear my own bumbling attempts, when I want to sound just like him, is frustrating), and above all, to be "orthodox", whatever that means. I think he means that he wants me to be just like everyone else, and not only do I not know how, I don't want to. Other people are boring and dull! They never seem to think about why they do things or whether there's another way to do them. In short, I don't think my dad likes me the way I am. He didn't want Lisa to go..he likes her. He was fine with my going. Besides, my Mom is fun and it's so great to finally get to be with her.

About God:

My sister and I were raised as Missouri Synod Lutherans. This would be the stricter, more conservative kind of Lutheran. The choir sometimes sang in Latin or German. A descendant of Martin Luther once came to our church. We still did the old formal liturgy and chanting. Personal relationships with God weren't discussed much, that was sort of personal. Knowing the Ten Commandments and the Lutheran catechism was important, as was being confirmed in the Lutheran faith.

I did all that, but God just didn't seem very friendly to me. He was like this ominous father figure way far off who'd see everything did wrong and frown at it, see what you did right and sigh in disappointment that it wasn't better, and if things got really bad really quick, you might ask him for help, but he'd just watch and wait instead.

My dad had frequented more interesting born-again type churches over the years, but he was the church organist and director of music (as well as a teacher in the private Lutheran school we went to), so the Lutheran church was still home base. I'd been reading the little tracts he had boxes of for years- the "Chick tracts", and a lot of my perceptions of God were based on these tracts. He was always depicted as faceless and impossibly large, remote. The converts were always very, very emotional and filled with joy, tears running down their faces. People who didn't convert in time endured unspeakable torment by sadistic demons. The solution to avoiding hell was to say the sinner's prayer, where you ask Jesus into your heart and admit that you're a sinner and you're sorry. I did it several times as a child, but nothing felt different afterwards even though I was quite sincere.

My mother's rendition of God was quite a bit different.....

My mother's vision of God was intensely personal; a friend who forgave all and loved unconditionally and spoke to you on a daily basis whenever you wanted to take the time to listen to him. I think it can be said that people tend to pattern their concept of God after their own personality. How often do you meet a stern, severe,unsmiling person who goes to a happy, hand-clapping church and believes in a joyful God? Thus it was that my dad was a Lutheran and my mom, more of a born-again charismatic type. His god saw what we did and disapproved- every unkind thought or rude action was noted and dutifully written down against you, to be replayed on an overhead screen after your death when you stood before the judgment throne with the big, faceless Father. Her God was a Jesus with long flowing hair and tears of happiness and love running down his face, full of emotion.

My mom described how Jesus had appeared to her once, after she'd seen a seven foot tall demon standing behind my dad. Jesus talked to her all the time. She led her life through his guidance and was prone to stopping what she was doing quite suddenly and taking off to do something entirely different, because she had a feeling that the Lord wanted her to. She didn't usually explain this until after the whole incident was over and done with, leaving the rest of us confused and disoriented in the meantime. Often the Lord warned her of other people plotting against her, or who weren't true Christians, or who might be praying against us or trying to curse us.

We went to her church, which was more of a bible study group held in a room of the pastor's home. Actually, I don't remember them reading the bible veyr much, now that I think of it. The meeting began with prayer (all eyes are closed, all heads are bowed, but I just watched everyone alertly even when the pastor repeated it several times- I was afraid of other people watching me with my eyes shut), then we sang a lot of songs, most of them either very emotional or happy, and testimonials and sharing of troubles or whatever had happened to us, a call for those of us who hadn't been saved yet to give their hearts to the Lord and ask Jesus into their hearts, and more prayer, which again I used to observe the other people.

My mother's superstition had a marked effect on me: even at 14 I was still a child in many ways; I still believed that unicorns were actually prancing around somewhere in some remote, hardly discovered part of the earth, for example. All her talk of demons scared the living daylights out of me, especially since she said that my dad had a whopper following him around. Pretty soon I was dreaming of them and imagining that I saw them, and I was scared. Then there were the constant warnings of Satanists making animal and human sacrifices (this was where all those missing children ended up), and a list of signs to watch for and places where the Satanic rites were being held. One of the places was a favorite hiking place of mine. After she told me I avoided it like the plague. If we fell, we thought we'd been pushed- by a demon. If we glimpsed a shadow from the corner of our eye, that was an evil spirit, hanging around just out of sight, lurking, waiting to get us. Bad thoughts? They weren't ours- Satan had put them there. We were constantly praying desperately for God to rescue us from Satan getting into our heads and making us think mean things.

Without Jesus, what would we do? He was our rock and hiding place from the fiery tongues of evil lapping at us, ready to reach out and grab us up, away into hell if we strayed even the littlest bit.