1. A Nomad Is Spawned

Born To Be A Nomad...

My first journey began on this date in 1958 with an 18 hour-long voyage from the embryo sack to my first gulp of air. The story goes that my mom, an old school Bostonian conservative who would never be caught cursing found herself sputtering ‘shit’, ‘hell’ and ‘eeeeee’ over the course of this arduous and painful labor which later my dad joked had earned me the name, Shelley. Shhhiii…heeellll…eeee!

Life is a journey. One that mustn’t be taken too lightly or too seriously. Finding the right mix can come easily or it can take a lifetime. We can have too many options or none at all. Decisions to be made. Memories to be made.

From my earliest memories beginning at 3 years…Our Sunday drives became a ritual. After a big breakfast, we’d pile into the car and head up into the foothills with no destination in mind. Taking the air in, giggling at nothing in particular, just pure joy at the feel of air flowing through my hair, brushing my face gently, exhilarated by every coming mile anticipating where we would stop, imagining what I might discover.

Every Winter Miami. Every Summer Mount Vernon. A playpen nailed to the belly of the plane, plied with toys nestled within my baby blankets, the hours of flight gone unnoticed. Serene even. I felt secure. I felt loved. Journeys were becoming a staple of my being.

Our trips were domestic while my dad frequently traveled to Japan. Upon his returns he would always bring treasures from the East. Pearl necklaces, rings, earrings, lots of jade and my favorite, foot high Japanese geisha dolls in elaborate colorful costumes that I adoringly admired for hours on end. The wonderful detail that went into the make-up and hairstyles, the kimonos made from lavish fabrics, down to the geta that adorned their feet. They came alive in my imagination. Each with a story of her own. I would beg my dad to repeat his travel stories and imagined myself there with him and made him promise to take me with him as soon as I was old enough.

Because my parents traveled extensively to the east coast, I was left in the care of Elizabeth who became like a second mother. Truth be known, she was really better at it. Elizabeth was a plump black woman with a cherub face and a smile to always greet me morning, noon and night. The no nonsense type but kind and gentle that spoke with fairness.

She was a big part of my life and launched me on my first solo journey at the tender age of 5 of walking to school. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had made the journey multiple times with Elizabeth so I could memorize precisely where to go but to walk it on my own for the first time, to be on my own for the first time, gave me my first taste of independence never to be forgotten.

The morning was brisk. I had on my favorite outfit. Elizabeth had made me waffles and coursed me with warnings to speak with no strangers as I ate. If I felt I should need help to look for a house with the hand in the window. The symbol that meant they were a household who would help when needed. I was armed with my address, telephone number, my parent’s names, my dad’s work number and of course Elizabeth’s name.

With a pat on the head and a smile from a worried looking Elizabeth I began the walk down the driveway and onto the street, minding to keep myself well off the road as I had been taught. Looking both ways I crossed the only main road that would lead me to friendlier streets of the adjoining neighborhood that would deliver me to my school.

That day sticks out in my mind as one of the most amazing days of my life. My sovereignty, my independence, my self-confidence bloomed. When my school came into view, I felt the most liberating exhilaration and beamed with pride. I did it. My first autonomous conquest what may seem so inconsequential to some built the foundation for what was to come.

Little did I know that would be the first of many solo adventures ahead. I have come to savor each one for differing reasons stapled to my brain. Many that initially brought on anxiousness mixed with excitements that lead to sleepless nights, others filled with pure pleasure causing a natural adrenaline high whereby sleep was hardly needed. I recall few that filled me with pure dread but none of us can avoid those. I just look myself in the mirror and say, “you can do this” and get on with it.

I was further rewarded with a PBS appearance playing dodgeball, my 3rd favorite pastime, after the rings and bars.

My first 6 years on this planet were pure magic. In my innocence I couldn’t imagine it any other way...other than my siblings lack of restraint keeping my pop's surprises for me secret or their turning the outside flood lights on, awaken me, telling me it was time to go to school. Dressed, I'd walk half asleep into the breakfast hall, where Jackie would be watching Johnny Carson, looking at the sight of me bewilderingly, asking, "Shelley, what are you doing up at this hour?"