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Our concordance for memory was the 52nd St. house. Outside events did not enter our Arizona casa. Paulette wrote moments of history when something ordinary becomes significant. A spot of time where she was connected and my life never existed. The Beatles played on the car radio. Paulette watched them on TV. 

My mother slept at Tim's house. She added a new address but didn't give up her old one. Volumes of clothes, shoes and make-up were still piled in her bedroom on 52nd St. It was one big walk in closet with a bed in the middle. She would stop by the house and get five days of clothes and cram it into the trunk of her car. Her Goldwater's wardrobe had to be changed every week. Trying on a straight skirt, price tag hanging, she looked in the mirror. "Do you think my butt's too big?" hands sliding down over her girdled hips. One glance, over the shoulder-left -right -back zipper undone and the skirt falling to the floor kicked with her right foot. A real player.  I leaned against the door jam and watched, she asked, "Janice, what am I going to do?"

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My friend Katy Jo came over one day to make a cake we had seen in a teenage magazine. When she walked through the house she asked, "where is everyone?" The house spoke: no adult's live here. This is a youth hostel. Teenagers living alone keep it a secret. Danger could come from an invasion of party hoppers or the police. 
My brothers job at Jack In the Box paid for gas and food. The lodgings were covered by my dad's child support checks. The 52nd St house came with a swimming pool, a Scottsdale zip code and an edge that was right out our back door. The sun dropped into California and then it was lights out. Ready Kilowatt was not connected and the house was a tunnel we passed through.

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During the day the pool was a place to submerge our selves, become weight less and let our bodies float arms open. Underwater was quiet. We held our breath and counted. Our spot in history was being recorded.