Born in 1939 in East Texas, I romped through the 20th century to old age, managing to survive the depths of alcoholism and enjoy the heights of recovery. We spent WWII in California and the Korean conflict in Galveston, but I was blissfully unaware of war. My young life drove my mother crazy, along with some of my teachers and many of my friends. After a huge misunderstanding on my part, I ran for my life out the back door, Mama hot on my heels. In high school, my best friend murdered a soap sculpture, and I couldn't tell anyone about it. I was a mathphobe, Latinphobe, and everything-else-phobe.

Viet Nam and assassinations threatened during my college years, but I couldn't concern myself with the crazy sixties because I had already painted myself into a corner in an unhappy marriage. The seventies were a misguided repeat of the sixties.

The beat goes on. In my first life, which lasted until I was 38 years old, I bounced from crisis to crisis. Then I learned what alcohol was doing to me, so I subtracted that from my equation. My second life has spanned almost 50 years teaching me fundamentals, like you can be productive without knowing algebra and/or Latin; like forgiveness is requisite to happiness, and love is more a verb than a feeling.

My four great grandmothers were all born in Texas in mid-19th century and died before I was born. I wish I had known them. I wrote this collection of humorous autobiographical essays for my own great grandchildren, Connor, Bendi, Maddison, Dylan, and Ben, in the hope that they can see where I went wrong and avoid my missteps. I wanted to share with my babies how it was growing up in Texas mid-century. Texas has changed, and I have changed right along with it.