Dad, an artful storyteller, put us to bed every night with one of his stories. On the street, he’d chitchat at length with strangers about fishing, his lily pond, the news, his ill-conceived investments—dry oil wells and swamp land in Florida. Dad was a dreamer. Eventually, Mom tugged on his arm and say, “Come on, Bob. Let’s go.” “Oh, Jesus Christ. Just a minute, Ag,” he’d tell her.

Dad also took lots of pictures, saying how much I’d appreciate the memories. He recorded my life, first on film, then on video. Videotapes lined the hutch next to the World Book Encyclopedia and dated copies of National Geographic. He’d capture every birthday, holiday and vacation year after year, with the same camera angle and the same, “Jaynie, look here.” In his later years, he strung the same scenes together in a highlight tape. The only thing that changed in this oft-repeated routine was that as Mom’s breasts sagged, mine started to bloom. Nonetheless, I looked forward to the day I could make memories for my own kids.

On Sundays, Mom, the religious one, dressed me up like a doll. We attended mass at St. Anthony’s Church, where I marched in procession, hands folded in prayer under my chin, to receive Holy Communion. The heavy fragrance of incense assailed me, and I never understood the priest who spoke Latin. But the stained glass windows depicting images from the Exodus story of the Ten Commandments made church seem like a sacred dwelling that was protected from conflict and fear and evil, much as my parents protected me from all that was bad in the world.

My mother, especially, had expectations for me, just as I have for my sons. Once she had a daughter, she lived her life through me. She wanted me to have money because her family had so little. She believed that education would help me have this better life, and so she paid for my college education. Mom was heartbroken when I dropped out of college in 1981 to take a job as a researcher at a magazine in Jupiter, Florida. But she continued to help me out financially when I ran out of money.

Looking pretty was also important. Mom reminded me of my good looks and decided that I should become a model when I was a junior in high school. I didn’t resist when she sent me to the Barbizon modeling school in Cleveland, about thirty miles east of Lorain. I enjoyed shopping for clothes and looked forward to getting a new dress, even if it was homemade, or a cast-off bonus makeup gift from a department store. Dad was less concerned about his appearance. He seemed as content to wear overalls as he was in a shirt and tie.

My modeling career never took off. I stood a heartbreak half inch from the minimum model height. The closest I came to fame was as a car show girl at the Cleveland auto show where I met actor Ben Murphy, who starred as Kid Curry on the western TV series, Alias Smith and Jones. He wrote, “You’re cute” on his publicity photo to me.