Commentary: Life shows that you never really stop growing up

People talk about where they grew up. I spent my memorable childhood years, from 7 to 12, on Citrus Avenue in Los Angeles in the 1950s. That’s where I supposedly grew up.

But I’ve had two other growth spurts.

The first time I was married was for all the wrong reasons — because everyone else was doing it and because it would be nice to have a pretty wedding and to entertain our friends in my own home. To be able to say to my husband, “Honey, would you get some more ice for the drinks?”

He also got married for the wrong reasons. He wanted to have two kids in order to avoid the draft. When you think about it, he was the more successful of the two of us.

When he left, I was 25 and had never been on my own. I had two small sons, not much child support and too much stubbornness to ask my parents for help.

My mother hadn’t wanted me to marry so young, especially not to someone utterly without financial stability. No college degree. No promise of meaningful employment.

Still, we had managed. In the early ‘60s, it didn’t cost so much to live. Even my under-educated and under-job-gifted husband could support us and our two sons. And with help from his family, we could move into our own minuscule home in the San Fernando Valley.

A couple months later, “See ya around, babe.”

Now in charge: under-educated, under-job-gifted me.

I would have to get a job. But I hadn’t worked in five years. My typing skills were rusty. And nobody used Dictaphones anymore.

How would I manage?

I found a crummy minimum-wage job, but in the time I worked there, I matured more than in the previous 10 years.

My self-esteem recovered. I was worth more than a husband who didn’t care about me, worth more than being someone’s “better” — if useless and unfulfilled — half.

It was gratifying to receive a paycheck, pay the mortgage, buy the food, cover child care and even buy my first crummy car.

My bosses appreciated me. They taught me accounting and how to wire a switchboard. They doubled my pay. Maybe that job wasn’t so crummy after all!

Discovering that I was of value and could take care of myself and my sons, without anyone’s help, was a true growth experience.

When I got married the second time, it was for the right reasons. Lee was everything my former husband was not. He was mature, stable, fun, a homebody, and, oh yeah, we loved each other. He was a wonderful husband and friend.

From parenting each other’s kids to being together all the time after he retired, I loved our partnership. We were married for almost 45 years.

My third growth spurt began nearly two years ago, when Lee died.

I had leaned on him for 60% of my life. Before that, I’d never lived alone. I’d barely spent a night alone.

Yes, I did take care of the household and the bank accounts, but all that became daunting once I didn’t have Lee to consult. Should I buy the new air conditioning unit with a five-year guarantee, or should I pay for the repairs that have a two-year guarantee? The tasks and decisions that I tended to during the first year were countless.

During our marriage, I’d finally received my bachelor’s degree. I even got my master’s in fine arts. Yet neither that schooling nor the passing of 45 years contributed as much to my growing up as two years without Lee.

I am self-reliant. I can manage money. I can make decisions. (I bought the new air conditioner.) I can ask for help when it is needed.

I might be approaching little-old-lady-hood, but I can handle anything, all by myself.

I wish I’d never had to experience life without Lee. But two years later, I feel that growing up some more is a very positive thing.

So if you ask where I grew up, I might say Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley and Corona del Mar. And wherever is next on my growth chart.

LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.