One night over dinner not long ago, Dr. Eli Coleman, the director of the Program in Human Sexuality at the University of Minnesota propositioned me. He wanted me to donate my remaining art collection to the University where the whole shebang would be archived and protected for the next three hundred years. My business partner Carlin and I have a lot of plans for my art. While it's true the thirty-some oil paintings and major large drawings need a safer storage space, these kinds of gifts usually take place after the artist is dead, and Eli wants my collection now. I hesitate because the art represents my blue chip stocks and I always planned to sell it off so I could take it easy in my old age. Fat chance! There's no time for me to slow down now with the new website that Carlin and I are about to launch: Betty Dodson Online: Empowering Women, One Orgasm at a Time.

Although January isn't the ideal month to visit Minneapolis, we decided to make the trip sooner rather than later. All involved agreed that I had to see the University's facility to make a decision. As a child, I had lived in Minneapolis when my family moved there in 1936 or '37 and I couldn't wait to see the house we used to live in. The address on Pleasant Avenue South was etched in memory by Mother in case I got lost. Carlin's boyfriend Geof was also gung-ho to make the trip because he used to live there ten years ago and he wanted to show us some of his favorite haunts. We booked our flights and Eli offered to put us up in his large new home that had two quest bedrooms.

I've known Eli Coleman since the early nineties and he's become one of my favorite academics. In the past few years, he's raised several million dollars to establish the first chair in sexual health at the university that will remain intact in perpetuity. Quite a feat in good old puritanical America where folks pretend they only have marital sex to procreate thanks to the influence of organized religion. Remember, the Puritans were such a rigid and morbid group of people, Europe wanted to be rid of them. Meanwhile, Eli assured me that while half of all Minnesotans are church-going, the Lutheran faith of the Scandinavian people who settled there have a live and let live attitude. That's quite a contrast to Wichita where I grew up. Folks there always tired to get me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior. Thanks to being raised by non-religious parents, I was able to create my own ideas on how to live a moral life, something I highly recommend.

For our sightseeing trip, there were five of us in the car; Eli was driving with me in the front seat while Carlin, Geof and Holly, the foundation expert for the University, sat in back. First we looked for Geof's house, but he wasn't sure of the address so we had to drive around for a while to find it. He'd bought a big beautiful brick house in an upscale neighborhood. The Dodson's old house was smaller in a middleclass neighborhood, but according to Mother, it was the best one we ever lived in. I can count eight rentals until we bought a little track house in Wichita after World War II. The down payment was provided by my older brother's GI loan when he returned home in 1945.

As we pulled up in front of our old house on Pleasant Avenue South, my first comment was, "I don't remember the attic," as I peered at the third story window. While we were sitting there, a man and a young girl walked past us and headed up the walk to the house. Perfect timing! I rolled down the window and told him that I had once lived there many years ago. He came over to the car and as we talked, he said his name was Jerry and he was with his daughter who was now standing on the front steps looking back at us. She could have been little Betty Anne some seventy years ago.

When Jerry asked if I would like to see inside the house, I was thrilled. I got out of the car and started walking up to the front door when I heard him invite everyone to join us. As I reached the door, his daughter was still waiting. I introduced myself and she said her name was Erin. When I asked her age she said eight and I told her I was her age when I lived in her house. Although she said nothing, I could tell she wasn't missing a thing. She followed us throughout the house, silently watching my every move.

All five of us stood in the foyer that had a stair case leading to the second floor on the right. I looked into the living room on the other side and my first thought was how small it looked. My memory was that our Minneapolis house was the biggest one we'd ever lived in. Suddenly, I got an image of the Christmas tree my dad put up over in the far corner of the living room. He had trimmed it entirely with silver balls and tinsel with blue lights. No one liked it, but I thought it was magnificent. Daddy had won several prizes for his window decorations and that's why Carr's Clothing Store for men had wanted him to be their new display manager. Back in the thirties, a store's windows were their best form of advertising.

Jerry, the current owner, had a sweet face and blue eyes. He asked me how the fireplace used to look, but I drew a blank on any details that would help him. He wanted to restore his house to its original condition and had kept the old molding intact. A part of me wanted to see the basement especially the sub-basement that we kids thought was haunted. There was one incident where Billy, Dickie and I were exploring down there with a flashlight when Billy heard something that sent the three of us scurrying off like mice in full retreat. When I asked about the sub-basement, Jerry said he sold wines and spirits and it was going to make the perfect wine cellar because it had the ideal temperature and humidity. He'd already successfully brewed a batch of beer.

The house was toasty warm and smelled deliciously of food. Jerry said they were having guests for Sunday dinner so he was preparing a coq-au-vine. The dining room table was already tastefully set for company. Next we went upstairs while the others waited. I got really confused when I momentarily couldn't figure out which bedroom had been mine. The largest bedroom most likely housed my three brothers, the medium sized room my parents and the smallest bedroom had to be mine. As I stood there, one memory finally surfaced. My dad had painted a little vanity table white and trimmed it with pink. One day after school, a little girlfriend came home with me. At one point, she said she wished her parents were as "rich" as mine so she could have nice things. For the most part, the Dodson family hovered just above working-poor while Mother clutched at middle class respectability. She always rented a house in the best school district which meant we were out-classed most of the time.

There was a sudden flash of recall as I stood in the small space at the top of the stairs. Just outside my bedroom door, I'd seen my dad kissing Rose Bockey whose name had been miraculously retained in my hard drive. The next day I told Mother what I'd witnessed and said how much I hated this woman who seemed to threaten my entire world. Mother smiled and made light of it saying, "Don't worry Betty Anne, grown-ups do that sort of thing when they're having a good time drinking at a party." She reassured me that it wasn't anything serious.

When Jerry invited me up to the attic, I drew a complete blank. I suspect the woman who rented us the house had her personal belongings stored there and the door was kept locked. It's times like these when I really miss not having Mother around to ask questions, yet when she was alive and would reminisce, I wasn't always that interested in hearing about the past. Now with just my youngest brother Dick still alive, I doubt he has any memories about when we lived in Minneapolis. He would have been only five years old. When I called him he said he remembered playing with Gerhard Guilford in his sandbox, another name that had been in etched in his memory forever.

Clearly the attic was Jerry's pride and joy. He'd redone it completely to create a great space with new flooring, storage space, and a fresh coat of paint. His twelve-year-old son was setting it up as his play den. When we went back downstairs, he showed me a deck he'd built just outside the dining room that over-looked a new two car garage. Just then his wife came home and we all had a pleasant chat. They were a darling couple in their mid to late forties raising a family in Minneapolis. Although there's a lot of snow there and it's colder than a well digger's ass, the sun shines brightly most days and the air is so clean and crisp it's exhilarating.

A wave of nostalgia washed over me as we drove off. This couple represented Mother's dream. She wanted to raise her four children in a house they owned in a nice neighborhood with a good school. I had a new appreciation for the traditional American family, including my own chosen family of friends. After a couple of abortions in my early twenties, a miscarriage when I was married, and a divorce after seven years, I decided to devote my life to art. This ideal morphed into other creative endeavors like being a feminist activist and a pioneering sex educator. I can now say, "Bless the traditional family." Most of us come from one, like it or not.

As for my deal with the University of Minnesota, I'm definitely impressed with their facility that has three levels of sub basements. Their safe storage capability is enormous. One of my reservations about who would want to visit Minneapolis was also eliminated after I'd seen the brand new Gutherie Theater that's breathtakingly beautiful and a modern miracle of architectural design. There's also the impressive Walker art museum, many fabulous restaurants, beautiful lakes and Minneapolis is the fastest growing city next to Las Vegas. However, there are many aspects to consider and a lot of details to think about. Meanwhile I'm going to upgrade my storage space and be more thoughtful about saving things now that I know how valuable my legacy has become. My parents would love the acknowledgement I'm getting now. I can see Mother smiling at me saying, "I always knew you were special, Betty Anne."

© copyright 2008 Betty Dodson, Ph.D.