We’ve all got one — that one time we can’t forget.
These are the stories I pulled out of the archives of my life, coming of age as a Gen Jones. They’re messy, honest, a little hilarious,
and meant to remind all of us to embrace the tales only we can tell about ourselves.
When a broken gas pedal Went Missing
It was Monday morning in the summer of 1972, and I was 18 years old, feeling like I was teetering on the edge
Left is Right and Right is Wrong
I was couch surfing after abruptly leaving home at seventeen. Though I’d been back in the United States for three years, I hadn’t made
The Tattoo That Got Away
I had never celebrated my birthday. Not once. Growing up in a religion that forbade birthday celebrations meant that every year, when
Waiting for Armageddon at Fast-Gas
My cousin Jack landed me a part- time job pumping gas at Fast Gas, a cut-rate station on Gravenstein Highway in Sebastopol, for $1.60
I had a mentor whose husband cooked the books for the mob
I met Rita in the early ’70s, when I was working for an employment agency in the brand-new Shaklee Terraces building—a gleaming
When Water Rose
I could have told Chuck not to crawl out the car window, especially not with that wooden leg of his. Telling Chuck anything,