The Short Cut

I was in fact on Catalina Street, one block south of home.

September 1959

I was not afraid of school, nor was I afraid to be left there by Mom. My first concern was that I didn’t know anyone, which didn’t bother too much, except that other groups of children knew each other. I wondered where they had been that I hadn’t been. Maybe the others had been going to kindergarten before I came along. I tried to resolve this on my first day by picking out a name from a conversation I had heard.
“Hello Marilyn,” I offered tentatively.
“You don’t know me!” she shouted, storming off to talk to her friends about my breach of some kind of indecipherable etiquette.
But other than that unpleasantness, I was fine with going to school. Our teacher, Mrs. Hefelfinger, was a tall, calm woman with a kind patient, sweet-sounding voice. Her assistant Miss Donan had a grandmotherly look about her that was very comforting. I found the activities to be worthwhile, and I especially liked the giant blocks, the smell of finger paint, and the taste of real butter, which we had made ourselves.
I even picked out a girlfriend. Her name was Julie, she looked like Rita Hayworth and she had a soft lower register voice that was sultry before I even knew the word or the value of the word. One day I decided that even though she didn’t know that I was her boyfriend that I should do what boyfriends do, so I kissed her. She looked at me and smiled and was saying something, but I couldn’t make out any words just that soft, low tone that seemed to be making a humming sensation in my chest. By the time recess was over, the entire kindergarten class was talking about us. This was more than I had planned for; I didn’t realize this having a girlfriend stuff was so complicated. I never would have guessed that Mrs. Hefelfinger would get involved, either.
“Boys and girls,” she gently announced just before story time, “let’s save all our kisses for our mommies and daddies.” The entire class turned to look at me. I looked at them, hoping that the moment was pass soon so that everyone and everything could get back to normal. I was perfectly willing to stop thinking of Julie as my girlfriend; neither did I care too much if I couldn’t kiss her anymore.
But other than Mrs. Hefflefinger embarrassing me and Marilyn snapping at me, I had a pretty good time in kindergarten. Despite those setbacks I retained my self-confidence. I even walked the four blocks from home at Catalina and Verdugo to Lincoln Elementary and then back home at noon. Eventually I got bored with that and decided to find a different, maybe shorter way home.
Instead of walking north one block on Buena Vista and then four blocks west to my house, I headed south on Buena Vista one day, intending to have an adventure and find a new way home. I came to Oak Street and decided I had ventured far enough into unknown territory. I instinctively turned west and guessed that I was now heading in the correct direction. Two blocks in though I began to lose faith.
I could not count and I could not read so the number of blocks and the street names were not useful. I had been walking home by sight, straight down Verdugo until I saw the happy looking green house. Now that visual cue was gone. I remember looking for a long time at a street that was probably Frederic Street. Giving up on that strategy I guessed that I had not walked long enough to be on what would have been my corner if I had been on Verdugo. When I walked what I thought was the right amount of blocks, I sat down on the curb at the corner. I was in fact, on Catalina, one block south of home. I knew I had to turn, but which way? If I had come one way to get to the new street, I would have to go the other way to get back to the old street. But which way was the other?
I assumed that the answer would come to me if I pondered long enough. I sat with both hands propping my head, moving only occasionally to look either south or north as if I might be able to actually see the house. Eventually my skinny, sore butt forced me to decide. I stood up, stretched, looked left, then right, made my choice and started walking. I figured if I didn’t see any familiar sights, if things looked more and more foreign, I would turn around, come back to my sitting spot and try walking the other way. If that didn’t work I would have to sit down and think some more. The block seemed impossibly long, like something from a Dr. Seuss book.
The first familiar sight I came across was the white fence around our backyard. I do not remember seeing the police car that was there in Mom’s version of this story. It was after 5 and Mom called the police. She rushed toward me like I was the prodigal son, hugging me like she had never hugged me before and in fact never did again. It was not until that hug that I realized that I had been gone too long and nearly got lost altogether.
“Where were you? What did you do?” Mom asked in her high- pitched voice, which she reserved for special calamities.
“I came home a different way.”
“You sure did!” Her voice was already calming down.
“But I got lost.”
“Yes, you did,” her face bore in on me with love and curiosity, “and how did you figure out how to come home?”
“Well, I thinked and I thinked and I thinked and decided that this was they way to come home.”
My explanation merited another neck-bending hug and she picked me up and carried me into the house.
“I thinked and I thinked and I thinked!” she repeated, laughing with delight.