As background for this existential tour we are embarking upon, let me share more of my history. After all, I am asking you to read what I write, you should know something about the person behind the facade.
I am the oldest of two children, born in Las Vegas in 1958, but raised primarily in Southern California and very deep south Texas. My father supported us tending bar and then being in business with our mom and then, later in life, doing commercial office cleaning. My brother came along when I was three. Because I was not born with a naturally strong ability to store memories, I rely heavily on my mother to fill in those early gaps. As any, self-respecting parent will admit, being the holder of early memories means you get to spin them any way you want. My mom’s version was that I was devoted to my brother from the beginning; I was his advocate, caretaker - crawling into his crib to comfort him, speaking for him so he didn’t have to talk, playmate and best friend. If we every argued or fought, any and all record of those events has been lost to the Perkins family lore. It would, after all reflect poorly on the holder of memories.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not, in any way saying my mother was a bad parent. She was not. She did the best she could and we both turned out ok. It is just natural human instinct to always paint oneself in the best light possible. My brother and I, to this day, have a good, solid relationship. That means everyone was successful in their assigned jobs. Families are complicated and no one is perfect. Learning to accept that and move on is one of the biggest accomplishments of adulthood.
I do remember some of the Las Vegas years. I can remember sitting in the back seat as we drove down the strip. Neon lights, bright colors and activity all around us was a completely different universe from the quiet neighborhood where we lived.
Vegas Vic stood tall above the Pioneer Club casino with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth while motioning folks to come inside and gamble. I was five. In my mind at the time, this must have been Christmas, Disneyland, and the promise of banana popsicles for life all rolled up into one experience.
They lived in Vegas from 1952, when they married, until we made our first family move in 1966. Those were wild times in Vegas. The mob still ran things, the Rat Pack owned the town, and the most important thing that happened to me was being selected to be the kindergarten nap fairy. Each day one student was chosen to use a “magic” wand to wake the class from their afternoon slumber. Why this is the only thing I remember from kindergarten is beyond me. I guess it gave me street cred with the other five-year-olds at Halle Hewetson Elementary School.
I see my life today through the lens of those early years. In many ways, the imprint of Las Vegas lives on in my love for mid-century modern decor, most things aqua and pink, Dean Martin - my favorite of the Rat Packer - and twinkling lights. Not everyone gets to claim Sin City as their hometown. Probably a good thing we moved to California in 1966, long before I was old enough to partake of the things Vegas has to offer that could have resulted in a much different outcome for my life.
Until next time,
