Left to Right: Downey, California – Grandpa Teemley – Downey’s Apollo 11 builders – Flying toddler

My Real Memoir: My Life as a “Wild Indian”

First Off…

I apologize for the offensive stereotype in the title. It’s not a reference to Native Americans. It’s what Grandpa Teemley called me almost from the moment I was born. It was a common term of endearment back then for PETs (particularly excitable toddlers). And I’m told Grandpa claimed me as his own personal PET from the moment I was born. Which I barely was: apparently two sets of forceps (eight ceps!) were required to extract me from my first abode. But when I finally came out, I flew — and haven’t stopped flying since.

As I Said Previously…

I was born in Whittier, California, home decades earlier to Pres. Richard Milhous Nixon. The Milhous family had a long, if somewhat forgotten, history in Whittier. Later, in my teens, I would discover an overgrown lot there full of Milhous gravestones. The original cemetery was apparently now a fast-food franchise (which raises rather chilling questions regarding the content of their hamburgers). I considered snatching Nixon’s maternal grandfather’s grave marker as a unique memento. But one doesn’t simply “snatch” a granite headstone.

Welcome to Downey

I spent my early years, however, in nearby Downey, California. Downey began as a Spanish ranchero in 1777, while 3,000 miles away there was a PEH (particularly excitable hissy) between the east coast colonialists and Great Britain.

Downey later became famous as the birthplace of the Apollo Space program, and home of the oldest still-surviving McDonald’s. As well as the singing duo The Carpenters. And, most importantly, me. In fact, the Carpenters and I would later, briefly, attend college together when… But I’m getting ahead of myself. I do that a lot. In fact, I can see myself up ahead right now. No, wait, self, don’t step in that…too late.

While Saving Up for Their First Home…

My parents, better known as Mommandad, lived with Grandma and Grandpa Teemley. I’m told my husky German baker of a grandfather was the only one who could channel my “Wild Indian” antics. He did this by tossing me roughly halfway to the moon; I was the precursor to the Apollo Space program. I loved Grandpa’s rocket-Mitch launches more than anything else during those first two years of life. Which is probably why, for the next decade or so, most of my dreams were about flying straight up into the air.

Oh, and…

About That Wild Indian Thing…

One morning, right after we’d moved into our first little starter-outer home, I escaped from my crib and climbed out a window while my parents were still asleep. I was dressed, I’m told, in nothing but “warpaint” (Mom’s lipstick, plus—cringe—that-which-shall-not-be-named from my discarded diaper). A neighbor called the police, and they promptly returned me to our new home, holding me at arm’s length, I’m sure.

Dad reinforced my crib.

Twice.

But I kept flying out of it.