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I'm not sure what I expected, but this wasn't it. This part of Florida, circa 1974, was in the waning days of the Apollo program---hence tons of affordable housing. (We're going through the same thing with the Shuttle program now, so if you're in the market, it's a buyer's market in Brevard country.)
There was NO public transportation, and the beach was ten miles away. Within riding distance were a couple of shopping centers and downtown. Massively underwhelming. There was a used bookstore not too far down the road: Kish's. I spent A LOT of time at Kish's.
And every afternoon at 2 PM, it rained. Locals told us it was the wettest summers in 20 years. I can believe it. Rain, and more rain. I went to one of the shopping centers, got some yarn at Woolworth's, and taught myself to crochet.
I spent a lot of time listening to the radio. The big songs that summer were Midnight at the Oasis, Band on the Run, I Shot the Sheriff and Clap for the Wolfman. Hearing any of those songs sends me back to my bare bedroom---our furniture didn't arrive until late July---with the air mattress on the variegated gold carpeting and the green curtains with the ivory ball-fringe.
When the weather was decent, I rode my bike. I probably averaged five miles a day, but by the end of the summer, I was up over 200 pounds---possibly having something to do with the fact that my treat of choice was cans of frosting---and I've never been below that since.
It was the summer I fell in love with Lee Majors---about a week after we landed here, I caught the pilot for The Six Million Dollar Man, and as so often happens, I fangirled. Massively, for the next several years. I wanted to be an astronaut (although at that point, the US had yet to put a woman in space), I wanted to go on secret missions and be strong and fast and I crushed on Farrah big-time, which actually outlasted my crush on Lee.
Martin Caidin, the author of "Cyborg" (the book SMDM was based on) lived down the road in Cocoa Beach and gave a talk at the local library, which I thought was cool as hell at the time. Once when my folks went down to Miami overnight and left me Home!Alone!, I sat down at my little portable typewriter and wrote my longest story to date, about 8 pages, in one sustained binge.
(In 8th grade, St Jerk's had done something my budding feminist soul had been outraged by: Twice a week, the guys got sent outside to play basketball, and the girls had typing class. Which was sexist as hell, but I have to admit, I've made a helluva lot more money knowing how to touch-type than any of those guys ever made by playing basketball. It certainly made my writing a lot more productive, not having to hunt and peck.)
When school started, I fell for a guy in my creative writing class, and if he'd wanted me, he could have had me. Didn't happen. I was the outsider; it seemed all the kids knew each other since forever and there wasn't room for me. The teachers had had their older brothers and sisters. They had roots.
The only two classes I liked were writing, of course, and biology. Not so much for the course content, but because Mr Kirk, our teacher, was a hoot. I regularly hung out there in the afternoon---it was my last class of the day---and tell him about whatever I was writing. He called them my "gory stories", which is accurate enough, since there usually was a certain amount of mayhem. Definitely my favorite teacher st CHS.
I didn't have any friends yet, although there was a kid in biology class who kept hitting on me. I had enough of a sense of self-preservation to know he wasn't after a relationship...if it had been the guy from my writing class, on the other hand, oh my, yes! It's just as well; I was young and stupid and wouldn't have taken precautions.
I was disappointed by Florida; I'd expected it to be more interesting. I hadn't yet heard the old curse, "May you live in interesting times."
Things were about to get interesting.
.
There was NO public transportation, and the beach was ten miles away. Within riding distance were a couple of shopping centers and downtown. Massively underwhelming. There was a used bookstore not too far down the road: Kish's. I spent A LOT of time at Kish's.
And every afternoon at 2 PM, it rained. Locals told us it was the wettest summers in 20 years. I can believe it. Rain, and more rain. I went to one of the shopping centers, got some yarn at Woolworth's, and taught myself to crochet.
I spent a lot of time listening to the radio. The big songs that summer were Midnight at the Oasis, Band on the Run, I Shot the Sheriff and Clap for the Wolfman. Hearing any of those songs sends me back to my bare bedroom---our furniture didn't arrive until late July---with the air mattress on the variegated gold carpeting and the green curtains with the ivory ball-fringe.
When the weather was decent, I rode my bike. I probably averaged five miles a day, but by the end of the summer, I was up over 200 pounds---possibly having something to do with the fact that my treat of choice was cans of frosting---and I've never been below that since.
It was the summer I fell in love with Lee Majors---about a week after we landed here, I caught the pilot for The Six Million Dollar Man, and as so often happens, I fangirled. Massively, for the next several years. I wanted to be an astronaut (although at that point, the US had yet to put a woman in space), I wanted to go on secret missions and be strong and fast and I crushed on Farrah big-time, which actually outlasted my crush on Lee.
Martin Caidin, the author of "Cyborg" (the book SMDM was based on) lived down the road in Cocoa Beach and gave a talk at the local library, which I thought was cool as hell at the time. Once when my folks went down to Miami overnight and left me Home!Alone!, I sat down at my little portable typewriter and wrote my longest story to date, about 8 pages, in one sustained binge.
(In 8th grade, St Jerk's had done something my budding feminist soul had been outraged by: Twice a week, the guys got sent outside to play basketball, and the girls had typing class. Which was sexist as hell, but I have to admit, I've made a helluva lot more money knowing how to touch-type than any of those guys ever made by playing basketball. It certainly made my writing a lot more productive, not having to hunt and peck.)
When school started, I fell for a guy in my creative writing class, and if he'd wanted me, he could have had me. Didn't happen. I was the outsider; it seemed all the kids knew each other since forever and there wasn't room for me. The teachers had had their older brothers and sisters. They had roots.
The only two classes I liked were writing, of course, and biology. Not so much for the course content, but because Mr Kirk, our teacher, was a hoot. I regularly hung out there in the afternoon---it was my last class of the day---and tell him about whatever I was writing. He called them my "gory stories", which is accurate enough, since there usually was a certain amount of mayhem. Definitely my favorite teacher st CHS.
I didn't have any friends yet, although there was a kid in biology class who kept hitting on me. I had enough of a sense of self-preservation to know he wasn't after a relationship...if it had been the guy from my writing class, on the other hand, oh my, yes! It's just as well; I was young and stupid and wouldn't have taken precautions.
I was disappointed by Florida; I'd expected it to be more interesting. I hadn't yet heard the old curse, "May you live in interesting times."
Things were about to get interesting.
.
