Damn Lucky

Damn Lucky

©2024 Nanc Koentopp

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35095-184-4

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35095-185-1

Contents

Introductioni

1. 1952 - 1957

2. 1958 - 1961

3. 1962 - 1963

4. 1964 - 1970

5. 1970 - 1975

6. 1975 - 1977

7. 1977 - 1980

8. 1980 - 1983

9. 1983 - 1986

10. 1986

11. 1986 - 1988

12. 1988 - 1991

13. 1991 - 1992

14. 1992

15. 1992

16. 1993 - 1996

17. 1997 - 2000

18. 2001 - 2002

19. 2002

20. 2004

21. 2005

22. 2005

23. 2007

24. 2009

25. 2011

26. 2014

27. 2016

28. 2017

29. 2017–2018

30. 2020

Introduction

It’s 2:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep. Lying in bed, this memoir, my book, keeps running through my head. Funny phrases, little antidotes, and my family. My mother-in-law, Patty, always loved my stories. They made her laugh, some made her cry, but she loved them all. As I started my own family, life kept getting in my way, and my sister, Lynn, encouraged me to write this shit down because you’ll never remember it all she would say. After I lost both of these amazingly wonderful women, I often thought about writing this book. It took me a few years of thinking about it, then forgetting about it, and then rekindling the idea. Two years ago, I began to write my stories in earnest. Not only in honor of Patty and Lynn but as a life lesson for others if that was even possible. I would call my brother for clarification on several incidents, and we would laugh and compare notes. It became clear to me, as it had in the past, that siblings will see and remember things with entirely different colors and lines, just like interpreting a beautiful painting. Our memories are shaped by the people who are in those memories and the preconceived notion of how things should be. Perhaps, that is also the way that I remember them. However, as innocent and revealing as memories can be, they can also be frightening in someone else’s eyes—as is the case with my brother. We were close, especially in our later years when our sister got sick and we shared the difficult blessing of caring for her. Communication between us suddenly ended. I didn’t think much of it for a month because we didn’t usually talk more than once or twice a month. But when he stopped returning my calls and texts, I got concerned. Finally, I texted and asked if he was sick. After several very short replies, he wrote that he didn’t like my book. I was shocked because I hadn’t finished the said book, and he hadn’t read any of my writing! So I asked. Suffice it to say that his reaction to me flattened my creativity for months. Until one night my husband and I really talked about my hurt, my anger, my rage at this sudden disconnection with the only Pollock family I had left. And then it hit me. Really hit me. I’m going to tell MY story, MY memories. I’m hoping to relate to mothers all over the world and little girls who are trying to make it to adulthood through a haze of confusion and sometimes pain, and just write my stories. As for my brother, he shall remain nameless throughout my journey. But I love him with all my heart.

My stories, my memories, might not flow smoothly like a river and perhaps I should try to shape them that way. But life isn’t smooth either. I bypass the mundane stuff and highlight the funny and thoughtful episodes in my life. I think most of us do when dreaming of the past. There are recurring threads in my life. Adoption is one of those threads. Another is sticking up for the underdog—family or not. I’m a firm believer in giving people a chance to prove themselves because I have witnessed those who will deny that to others who are unlike them. Shameful, yes, but it happens all the time. Another thread is independence. You have to have that in order to strengthen those around you and give them free thought to fly as high as possible. I hope I have instilled this in BOTH of my sons and the friends I am lucky to have through my lifetime.

So this may be disjointed to you, the reader, but it flows through my memory like melted butter.

1.

1952 - 1957

Spokane, Washington. In 1952, it was a small, cozy town of one hundred eighty-five thousand people. Warm summers and snowy winters. We had all four seasons and each one was spectacular; spring blooming on the many lilac trees in our town, giving way to warm and sometimes hot summer nights. The fall season was filled with colors of red, yellow, and orange and we were surrounded by local lakes, forests, and mountains. The winter season was an amazing time in our town. The large downtown department stores would try to outdo each other with winter wonderlands created in each of their large windows facing the busy streets. It was a family tradition to walk down the snow-packed streets to watch the animated stories being depicted in those windows. I felt safe walking throughout my neighborhood, with neighbors knowing each other and everyone looking out for each other.

We were the typical family, with all the usual dynamics . . . I argued with my mom, giggled with my dad, and fought with my siblings. I realize that some families didn’t grow up the way we did. As I matured, I realized that we were lucky to have grown up in the 1950s and 1960s with safe and friendly neighborhoods, great music, with one television per household with aluminum foil on the antenna like rabbit ears! And we had to constantly get up off the couch to change the channel. Mom and Dad loved the Ed Sullivan Show and we would all sit around together every Sunday evening after dinner to watch the various guests. We grew up getting to know Bob Hope, Dean Martin, Jackie Gleason, and Rudy Vallee. Jimmy Durante made our dad laugh out loud and it was wonderful. I fell in love with Elvis Presley on that show and was introduced to the Beatles in 1964. Lynn and I went crazy over those four lads from Liverpool, England. In August of 1966, The Beatles had a concert at the Seattle Coliseum, and my sister Lynn and I got to go! We were so excited. It was wall-to-wall girls, giggling, some screaming, all while trying to find their seats. I discovered that day that I don’t like big crowds. And especially loud, big crowds. I felt claustrophobic without knowing what that word meant at the time. I just knew I felt very crowded. And we were walking among the biggest crowd I’d ever seen. It was hot in that building. Our seats were in the balcony, section 70, row L, my seat was #5! (yes, I still have my ticket stub). When they walked onto that stage, we had a perfect view of them. I’m in tears, not only because we are actually there, but to see Paul McCartney in the flesh! Those four beautiful British men were running onto the stage. The noise was deafening. The drums started beating and then the guitars started to play. I am not a screamer but came to find out, that my sister was. And everyone around us was a screamer. I got angry. I wanted to hear the music. I wanted to watch Paul play his piano and guitar. And I wanted to HEAR THE MUSIC. I also discovered that day that if I concentrated really hard, I could block out the screaming girls and actually hear the music. I couldn’t see much because no one was sitting down, but I saw enough, and I heard the Beatles in concert! Really heard them. What a glorious day!

Growing up as the middle child really does have good and bad written all over it. At an early age, I didn’t quite recognize the concept. I thought my elder sister Lynn was perfect! Grades, check. Personality, check. She had lots of friends. She was beautiful, although she didn’t like her nose! We weren’t very close, she and I. And by the time we reached high school, I felt competitive toward her. She had so many friends and dated good-looking guys. It wasn’t until college that I began to appreciate what having a sister really meant. And my little brother Nameless. He was fun, funny, cute, and very curious about everything. He was a surprise to both Mom and Dad and by that I mean they were not expecting to have a baby. Mom had miscarried several times early in their marriage. Then she and Dad adopted first Lynn and then me. So Nameless was an unexpected surprise!

Starting when I was about seven or eight years old, I ran away from home all the time. Mom and I just couldn’t figure out how to like each other and my lesson to her—disappear! That’ll teach her.

We loved each other but the tension between us was, at times, uncomfortable for everyone.

I would usually run away to my best friend, Carol Clarkson’s house, about a mile away. Carol’s Dad, Mr. C made the BEST pancakes. And if I showed up on Sunday morning, he would always make those famous pancakes just for us! The Clarkson house was huge. Big gray stones rising up to meet the sky. And so many windows. The driveway leading to their home led from the main street below, around a gentle curve, and onto the parking area by the house. You could also continue up a steep incline and reach an alleyway behind their house. I would always walk down that alley to get to their home and race down the hill to their back door. I knew where they hid the key to the back door. The first time I used it, I was very quiet. The house was still, and I knew everyone was still sleeping. I was in the kitchen drawing pictures at the kitchen table, waiting for everyone to get up. Mr. C came strolling in and kind of screamed. I guess seeing my smilin’ little face looking up at him really shocked him, and then I remember getting nervous because I was in their house without permission. But Mr. C. smiled at me and said, How about pancakes for breakfast?

They never moved that key to a different hiding spot. One of my fondest memories about being with Carol was sleeping in their station wagon on a rainy night. We were warm and comfortable inside that old car, and the sound of the rain was very soothing to both of us. And we would talk about life, and boys, and food, and life, and what we were going to do when we grew up. I don’t remember specifics, but I do remember laughing all the time. And I thought I was sneaky running away and imagining my mom was very worried that she couldn’t find me. I was convinced that my mom never knew where I was. Came to find out, Mrs. C and mom were friends! But we didn’t know that then.

Another hiding place I created was above my bedroom. There was a square opening, covered by a thin piece of wood, above my closet. One afternoon, I started to explore that little hide-e-hole. Lynn and I shared the bedroom at the time, so I needed to figure this new hiding place out before she got home. I pushed all the clothes aside, got a chair from Mom and Dad’s bedroom, and crawled up into this dusty, dirty old attic crawl space. It was dark, dirty, and smelled like dust. At first, it scared me. What could be crawling around up here? I tried not to let my imagination get too creepy. The day was bright and sunny, but I still needed a flashlight. So I jumped down from the chair to go look for one. I began searching the house. I started in the kitchen and then moved into the basement which was filled with closets of tools, canned goods, and whatever else could be stuffed into a cupboard that no one looked at. After what seemed like forever, I was rewarded with a flashlight, along with some tools. I grabbed those too because you never know what you’ll need while exploring the unknown. Back up to my room, I went, making sure that I was still alone in the house. I moved all the clothes to each side and cleared the floor of shoes and various crap you find at the bottom of a closet, set the chair so it was steady and climbed on up. At first, I carefully listened for little scratchy feet. Hearing nothing, I slowly pushed the wood plank out of my way. I was instantly covered with dirt and dust flying down from my uncovered hole in the closet. I jumped down from the chair and looked up, frustrated. I now had to clean all this stuff up before Lynn got home and caught me. Time was of the essence! I ran downstairs and got cleaning supplies. This would screw up everything if Lynn thought I was cleaning something! I worked quickly and finally got everything cleared of the dust and dirt that had fallen down from the attic. I then put all the clothes back where they belonged, carried the chair back into Mom and Dad’s room, hid the flashlight and tools under my bed, and waited for the next time I would be alone.

Two days later, I had my chance! Chair . . . check. Flashlight and tools . . . check. I pushed open the wood but wasn’t flooded with dirt this time. I slowly stuck my head inside the opening and saw nothing. I grabbed the flashlight and started showing a stream of light across this void of space, now sparkling with bright floating specs of dust! I could see wooden beams on the ceiling and wooden boards for the floor covered with this pink stuff. I had no idea what that was, but it seemed harmless to me. I took my time in my peripheral search, listening intently for little taps of mouse feet. Standing on that chair with the top half of my torso through the opening, I started to feel calm, almost confident. I began to sweep away the dust and dirt just to the right of the hole. I moved that pink material to the side and discovered the wooden floor in the attic. Then I cleaned up the perfect size for me and all my personal prizes. First up was a pillow to sit on, and another one in case I wanted to lie down. A spare blanket no one would miss came up next, along with several books and stuffed animals. It took me several days, and several trips up and down that chair, until It was a perfect place to hide and be alone. And I could hear what was going on in the house below me. I knew when people were looking for me and sometimes I could hear various conversations, alerting me when it was safe to sneak back down and look innocent. How Fun Was This! To this day, I don’t know if anyone ever knew about my extra room.

I still believe in Christmas. Always will, I think. The magic, the scents, and flavors of that holiday are what keep my beliefs alive. Wintertime in Spokane is special. The snow is beautiful, covering the trees with a fine white coat. We would sometimes get an overabundance of that white stuff. In the winter of 2008, Spokane received over 130 inches of snow. There were deep snow piles in the middle of all the major roads, limiting cars to one lane each way. Travel was difficult and most people just wanted to stay home.

On December 17, 2008, snow began falling in the Inland Northwest before turning into one of the worst Eastern Washington snowstorms of the decade. About two feet of snow fell within a twenty-four-hour period, according to Spokane history.

But most years, we enjoyed our Christmas season and just the right amount of snow.

When I was five and Lynnie was seven, the most magical Christmas Eve happened, just to us! We were lying in our little twin beds, giggling with anticipation. The snow was falling slowly and the backyard sparkled with reflections from the moonlight. It was quiet everywhere but in our bedroom. For some reason, we were both loaded with excited anticipation. Mom came in, stood