Departure

I've often wondered whether it would have made a difference had we left Midland a year earlier or a year later -- but I have no good answer.

In any case, it started with my father's announcement in very early January, 1968, that we were going to move to California. Normally this might have been welcome --I had cousins out there-- but right at this point in time it left me in shock. I did not want to go, but was not told I had been given a veto.

Then the packing started, except for me because I was going to live with a friend's family across the street until semester's end. In March the family drove off.

The rest is a blur until June grew close. My classmates knew I was moving to California and the yearbook shows it; so many were envious. But one of my teachers, Miss Riley I think, understood. "You will be leaving someone very special behind, won't you?" she asked quietly as I said goodbye.

As the appointed day grew close I started packing, with the electronics and some of the chemical bench into shipping boxes, the rest into the trash, and my rescued-from-trash TV (its controls were mis-adjusted!) to my best friend.

Saturday, or more likely Sunday afternoon, the church's high school youth group (including that someone special) went to the lake -- Houghton Lake? A fun time but I came back with an extremely bad sunburn on my back.

Monday I had ride downtown to close out my MDN paper route; on the way back a cloudburst caused me great pain. Then it was off to MHS to play for graduation and turn in my instrument. The youth group leader had invited me over for dinner and the evening after, but he quickly realized the situation and took me way across town to her house instead. (Thank you again, Mr. Fairweather!) At the appointed hour he picked me up, and here I draw the curtain.

Tuesday my hosts and I were up early to make the long drive to the Detroit airport, with mental farewells to everything familiar we passed. I departed, for my first time on an airplane, through the green glass terminal that I still see from time to time when making connections in DTW.

The flight to San Francisco (SFO) was agonizing what with my badly sunburned back, grief, and service so bad that I didn't fly that carrier again for over three decades. The only solace then, as before, were the reports from family that they were in a ranch-style house, that there was a swimming pool (such luxury!) in the back yard, and that the street name ended in Avenue; this was going to be so much bigger, grander and fancier than our house in Midland.

My mother met me at the gate, and drove me to my new home.