I was almost six when my father came from the hospital to let me know I had a baby sister. I told him, “Poor daddy, three against one. I’ll be your boy.”
My mother wanted me to be a girly girl. What she got was a tomboy, which only added to the list of things she hated about me.
I finally persuaded my husband to leave our house in January 1967 after almost a year of his disapproving silence, his refusal to see a therapist, his unwillingness to talk about the many issues separating us.
Our son was six and a half. I was working part-time teaching dance and pre-school movement classes. Although I had a bit of savings secreted away, I had barely enough to live on and pay the bills. It didn’t help that when my husband left he refused to pay child support. Despite this, I managed to save enough money to take a course in children’s theatre—something I’d been doing for years—writing and directing with a bit of performing. Although I was credentialed to teach physical education and science, the thought of doing so made me nauseous. I decided to get an MA in theatre offered by the University of Delaware.
He was a great dancer, popular with all the single women who attended the Wednesday night folk dance sessions. Always more women than men, they flocked around him, some waiting to be asked, others asking him. His dance prowess spoke louder than his looks.