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.
To read My Real Memoir from the start, click here. To read the next episode, click here.
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Escape artist extraordinaire
I liked imagining you small excerpt 😊
;>)
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A lovely read!
Thank you, Lina!
It sounds like you and your grandfather were cut from the same genetic cloth that included unlimited monkey-like energy. 🙂
Could be, Nancy. ;>)
Love this, Mitch, and you’re still flying high!
Aw, thank you, Joan.
Quite an adventurer! You must be related to a family I used to know years ago. Their boy, I think he was around 3 or 4, escaped early one morning, got on a bus and rode to another part of the city, got off and headed for a family friends’ house. I think he was intercepted by the police before he arrived. How he ever got past the bus driver I can’t say. He was always getting into scrapes. The first thing his parents knew about his escapade was when the police arrived at their door at around 6:00 am with the “missing” child they didn’t even know was missing.
Whoa! That’s a genius-in-the-making!
😆👍
Ahh the joy of a non-Safety-Police youth
;>)
Sounds like you’ve been practicing the art of escaping very early on 😄.
Yep. ;>)
I am good, thankyou. I’m not sure how I appear familiar, I’m from India.
Sorry, are you asking me or Mitch. 😬
This flies.
Thank you, Rakesh!
I thought my boys were wild Indians, but your escapades out-wild theirs! Your dear mother . . .
🧡
*Biggest grin* There is nothing wrong with letting yourself fly, and you have proven this, Mitch! Cher xoxoxo
Aw, thank you, Cher❣
Interesting, Mitch. I enjoyed this.
Thanks, Jack.
Good post. When can we all stop apologizing for using the language of the times? I grew up in Oklahoma. I have many “Indian” friends who refer to themselves as Indians. Wayne Sixkiller has been my best bud and bass player for nearly 50 years. Had your grandfather referred to you as his favorite retard it’s still valid. Idioms of time can’t and shouldn’t be “whitewashed.” Which I find offensive. I haven’t washed anything historical. I quote Elmore Leonard – “Don’t worry about what your mother (or the woke or the church lady) thinks of your language” Parenthetic insert on me. Tell the story, it has more flavor that way. History is history, and needn’t apologize to appease anyone. Just My .02. I mentioned that in a recent review where sanitized language killed the impact of the story.
Appreciated, Phil. I felt that because the title doesn’t have a context like the body of the post does, it should be explained at the start. The word “wild” tends to imply primitive or uncivilized. Btw, the bass player in my band (many years ago) was Native American, as well.
Indians got the groove gene! Yeah, context is everything, but in a period piece characters talk like talk, even of Pro Writing Aid try to tell them otherwise.
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😂 😂 😂 I quote “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.”
Mitch, thanks for acquainting me with your childhood history and a day of laughter. Which reminded me of my first school play when I was dressed up–my first Indian outfit, light brown clothing and shoes to match with frills. I wished we could have afforded a camera back then. The brain a marvelous part of our being retain memories like that of a computer’s drive. Thanks to our Heavenly Father!
Have a pleasant day, and thanks for the laughter. 😂
My pleasure, and you too, Bernadette!
Mitch, you are quite the storyteller. I do wonder what your young brain was thinking when you chose the contents of your warpaint…perhaps whatever was available. 🙂
I’m sure you’re right, Pam. I have no idea what two-year-old-me was thinking.
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