I Wish They All Could Be California Girls

Pam. Me. Under the California sun.

Chapter 17

Could life be any better for a teenage boy from Nebraska than to spend a couple of weeks each summer hanging out with his relatives in California?

I got to do that every year from the age of fourteen until I was nearly out of college as part of my annual pilgrimage to visit my favorite relatives, the “California” Higleys.

To be more specific, that would be my Uncle Jack, who was my dad’s oldest brother; his wife, Aunt Margaret; and my three cousins, John, Linda, and Pam.

They lived in Southern California; thus, Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm, and the Pacific Ocean were all at their fingertips. They had a ping-pong table in their garage, they drank from a bottled water dispenser in their kitchen, and they wore cool clothes.

They were totally not like anyone from Nebraska.

When my brothers and I were youngsters, we’d go out to visit them every couple of years. And they’d begrudgingly come to Nebraska every several years—usually over Christmas, when we were having a record-breaking snowstorm. It’s no wonder they all thought living in the Midwest was stupid.

Bottom line, we saw them a lot.

Uncle Jack was a banker. I always thought he looked like Jack Benny. He wasn’t anything like my dad. He enjoyed the arts. Theater. Gardening. He seemed far more adventurous than my dad.

Aunt Margaret was the perfect aunt. Straight out of central casting. A Canadian. Tall. Always had something on her mind. And, she taught me how to eat artichokes.

Actually she forced me to eat artichokes.

“Jimmy,” she’d say, “you need to expand your horizons!”

I thought I’d barf. But for her I’d try anything.

John, the oldest, was the exact same age as my twin brothers. But he seemed much nicer (meaning he talked to me) than my brothers ever were.

Linda was my brother Kevin’s age. She was smart. She played the violin. A little quiet, she was nevertheless the first person I ever knew who made me feel like I was interesting.

That left Pam. Pam was one year my senior. I don’t ever remember not knowing Pam. She and I always had an unspoken bond as children. She was the sister I never had, and I was the little brother she never had.

After my mom died, my dad sent me out to spend a couple of weeks with “Uncle Jack” every summer. Was he doing it for me or did he need a break from his teenage son? Probably a little of both. He got no complaints from me.

I loved going to California in the summer.

While I was there, I always did the same thing. I tagged along with Pam. Everywhere she’d go.

I’d follow her to the beach. I’d go to with her to get haircuts. I’d visit her friends. I’d tag along on dates. I’d crash her friends’ parties.

Pam and I have always had a relationship where we could step in and out of each other’s lives—be it two months or two years—and pick up where we last left off.

My summer visits to California were cathartic. Aunt Margaret was devastated by my mother’s death, and she went to great lengths to love me, comfort me, and give me all the mothering she could. Uncle Jack and I had similar interests, so we always had fun doing things that were new and exciting too.

But my visits really centered on Pam. And getting a tan.

Every year I’d tell Pam, “This is the year for a good tan!”

And every year, the story turned out the same.

We’d carefully work on a tanning program. We’d schedule our days around the sun. Pam would provide me with different lotions, oils, and other products to enhance a deep, bronze tan.

And every year, about two days before I was scheduled to fly home, I’d start to peel. It always started with an innocent mark on my shoulder or my forehead. I’d think it was nothing. But it was something. It was the beginning of a full-fledged snakeskin peel. And by the time I would board the plane home to Nebraska, I looked more like a leper than a boy who had just spent two weeks basking in the California sun.

Pam would laugh. I’d be upset. So she would laugh more.

I never got a good tan. But I did carry that California warmth back to Nebraska every year.

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“Tell me what I can do. I’ll do anything.”

Those were the words I heard from Pam when I told her about my surgery.

Pam was one of the very few people in my life who, when they presented me with that question, I actually had a real answer in mind. And it wasn’t my “I’m registered!” story.

But I had to pause. My first reaction wasn’t to tell her what I needed from her. She’s a mom with three kids. She’s got a busy life in California. She is also the yin to my yang.

“Really, Jim. Anything.”

Was I taking advantage of an emotional situation? I quickly debated with myself. Pam’s mom, my Aunt Margaret, had died a few months earlier. It crushed Pam. And my cancer was Pam’s second blow.

Oh, what the hell, I thought to myself before I blurted out what my heart was telling me.

“Pam, I need you to come here and just hang out. I need something to look forward to. And I need someone to make me laugh. That’s what I need.”

There. I had said it. I had asked her. I had laid the big one out there.

She had simply a one-word response: “When?”

Within a couple of hours, she was booked on a flight to come out a few weeks after my surgery. I loved knowing Pam was out there—on my healing horizon—and hopefully at a time when I would be well on the road to recovery. I wanted to look forward to belly laughs without blowing stitches.

As if looking forward to seeing her wasn’t enough, the anticipation got even better when she called me the week before my surgery with a surprise. “Jim, Dad wants to come with me. He needs to see you. Can you handle that?”

At the age of eighty-seven, and recently widowed, my Uncle Jack needed to see me?

I said yes. An unequivocal yes!

I knew I needed Pam. And now that the subject was out in the open, I needed my Uncle Jack as well.

When they walked into my home, it was as if all was right with my life. I have no idea how long they stayed. It was several days, but probably not a week. They moved right on in.

They kept me company. They hung around with me. They blended into the family.

Uncle Jack fixed breakfast daily and earned the new name of “Uncle Flapjack” from my son Drew.

We celebrated Father’s Day together.

Uncle Jack helped me with a project I was working on that involved piecing together our family tree. He gave me a wealth of information I had never had, including the little-known fact that my grandfather ran away to join a circus at the age of twelve. He was a snake charmer! And, he dated an armless woman!

How could anyone top that?

We spent hours reliving the endless trail of stories and memories that weave our lives together. They reminded me of the young boy I was to them as well as the man they still knew me to be.

They also brought me the one thing my friend, Chris, had told me I so desperately needed. A refresher course in letting others care for me.

That course was easy with Pam and Uncle Jack as my nursemaids. They were the perfect teachers because they had been there all along.

All I had to do was ask.