Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 54

Remembering August 2, 1964

August 2, 1964 — a day history remembers for the Gulf of Tonkin, and a day I remember for entirely different reasons. While the world was bracing for a military escalation in Vietnam, I was a 14‑year‑old girl thinking only about my big brother’s wedding and the fact that I was a bridesmaid. The excitement in our house was electric — until I decided it was time to shave my legs for the very first time.

Armed with my father’s razor and his shave cream, I went to work… and promptly carved up my legs like a novice butcher. Blood streamed down my shins, my mother’s horror echoed through the house, and the pre‑wedding joy turned into a full‑blown storm. I remember crying as I walked from room to room, leaving a dotted trail of red while my parents tried to get me to stand still. Eventually my father appeared with his styptic pencil, dabbing each nick with that fiery sting that made stars burst behind my eyes. But the bleeding stopped, the storm passed, and we returned to the wedding whirlwind.

It was a day of firsts: my first time shaving, my first time being a bridesmaid, and — in a twist only adolescence can produce — my first time having two dates. I had invited Alan Young, who never responded, so I asked Mark Davis. He said yes. And then, of course, they both showed up. Luckily they were friends, and the whole thing unfolded without drama.

It was also the first time I ever tasted alcohol. Somewhere in the archives of old 8mm film, there may still be evidence of me dancing my own questionable version of the Watusi. I don’t remember much about the reception except that I had a wonderful time and made a spectacular fool of myself — as only a 14‑year‑old can.

But beneath the fun, the day carried a heavy sadness. The very next morning, my parents, Joel, and I would be packing up our home and moving twelve hours away to Minnesota. At the time, it felt like we were leaving civilization and heading into the Wild West. My dad promised it would be a great adventure. He also didn’t give us much of a choice.

My brother Gary’s wedding became a farewell party — hugs, kisses, tears, and for me, an intoxicated mix of giddiness and awkwardness. I tried desperately to get my first kiss that night and failed miserably. My two dates were polite, but I simply wasn’t their type. So, I left Michigan with virgin lips and a bruised teenage ego.

The next morning, August 3rd, I woke with my first-ever headache — a full-blown hangover I didn’t understand. The movers arrived early, and I had no time to recover. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends stopped by for one more round of good‑byes. My mother wore a brave face, but I knew her heart was breaking.

By mid-afternoon the moving van pulled away, and we followed. The car was quiet as we left behind everything familiar. Fourteen years for me, eighteen for Joel, forty‑four for my mother, forty‑seven for my father — and suddenly we were all starting over. Dad kept promising an adventure.

The farther we drove, the more foreign everything felt. My mother realized how far she was moving from her sisters, and long‑distance calls were expensive. Her daily conversations with them would now be rare luxuries.

We drove straight through to Minnesota, arriving the next evening — only to discover our furniture wouldn’t arrive for days. So, Dad took us to a discount store to buy essentials: toilet paper, soap, and four inflatable pool rafts to sleep on. The kind that barely fit an adult.

That first night, climbing the stairs to our third‑floor apartment with our bargain‑bin supplies and those ridiculous rafts, none of us felt the spirit of adventure Dad had promised. When Joel looked at me and declared, “I’m not sharing a room with her,” I wondered what on earth we had gotten ourselves into.

We all ended up on the living room floor, trying to sleep on those plastic rafts. Every tiny movement sent one of us rolling off onto the floor — only an inch or two, but enough to make us laugh until our sides hurt. Eventually we learned that the floor itself was more comfortable than the rafts.

Within a couple of days, the furniture arrived. Joel and I shared a room temporarily until he left for the University of Minnesota, thrilled to trade his sister for a stranger as a roommate.

That was my life 62 years ago. So much has happened since then — changes, evolutions, heartbreaks, joys — all shaping me in ways I never could have imagined.

Looking back, there were many moments when life felt unfair, when the struggles seemed too heavy. But hindsight has a way of softening the edges. I can see now how each challenge helped shape the woman I became.

And sometimes, when I reflect on those years, I long for the warm cocoon of my parents’ love — even though at 14 I didn’t always appreciate them. The safety of that home became the foundation that allows me to live with positivity today. I carry their love and nurturing with me still, and I share it with the people around me.

Please join me on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com