I was a homely tween and a virgin when I had my first abortion at 14.

Dad was an ulcer-ridden Prudential exec who  who had an MI when I was eight, shoveling a pile of gravel my brother didn't finish.    Dad was house proud.  He built our Washington County home up from a four-room starter.

He taught me to swim and dive and one year let the pool freeze over.

Dad died on Friday the thirteenth of June, 1968.  I was too busy chasing kightning bugs that night to kiss him good night.

Dad knew he was dying.  He'd had complications from ulcer surgery and was told to put his affairs in order.  He took Wednesdays off from Prudential and took us on road trips to Old MacDonalds Farm and the Fostoria Glass Works.  He bought mom and made her learn to drive a stick.

Some unaccustomed sound woke me early the morning mom told us.   I saw a police car in the driveway, assumed mom had killed dad and settled in with my library book.

Mom moved us to the San Fernando Valley  to be near to my oldest sister Jenny.

Jenny was an ER nurse whose Sunday dinner stories and gifts of Sue Barton books  started me on the path to medical transcription.