I was just a kid, but I had to take on the responsibilities of an adult. From a very early age, my parents felt it was their children’s responsibility to protect them.

I have an older sister, Janette and a younger brother, Aaron. I am the “proverbial” middle child. Often overlooked or forgotten or just plain taken for granted that I will be there.

I hate to look back on my life and say I was a psychologically abused child. I guess because I’m a 59-year-old adult it sounds like I’m looking for excuses for living quite a strange life. I use the word strange because I can’t think of another word that fits into a nice box. Who’s life has been “normal”? I’ve heard stories about my friends lives that made my straight hair curl.

But my life began Oct. 13, 1954 and my first memory was Sept. 5, 1956—the day my brother was born. My father took my sister and I for a walk to the hospital where we looked up into one of the windows and saw my mother waving at us. I do have another early memory, but I have no idea how old I was. I was lying in my crib and I could see a cloud mobile above me. But the strongest memory I have is watching my mother leave the room through the door. That’s it. No trauma, no excitement.

All the excitement began when I could formulate thoughts and feelings. When I was 6 years old my father decided to move his family from Closter, New Jersey to Los Angeles, CA. I loved living in Closter—especially winter time. My last Closter memory was at Christmas when my dad played Santa Claus (he was one of the largest men in town). He stood on a fire truck ladder and I was allowed to stand close by on a stage and hand him wrapped gifts so he could give them to all the kids lined up for the annual community event.