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  One of my favorite stories of her childhood was about when the Rawlins High School football team had traveled to another town to play a game and the band went with the athletes. On the way home, the school bus stopped at a diner in Rock Springs, Wyoming, and everyone went in, but the owners would not serve the one black student that played on the team. So instead of eating there, they refused. The entire group stood up, walked out, and got back on the bus. I loved that my mom did that. That was a lesson I learned from an early age; she was insistent about not allowing us to hear any insensitive or racist talk.

  My mom took piano lessons for years and still plays everything from classical to hymns to hits from the fifties and sixties. Christmas music was her specialty. She used to play for us every morning before school—like a private concert. She went to Casper College in 1965 when women still had to wear skirts to class. She started working at a physician’s office in Wyoming and continued her career in hospital admissions and marketing in Colorado, which included managing hospice care for dying patients.

  When we were in junior high and high school, she took on additional work transcribing medical records. She could type 105 words per minute—with accuracy—and so smoothly that the sound was hypnotic and I could fall asleep to the rhythm. She also took shorthand, so she could take dictation at 100 to 120 words per minute and then transcribe it. Sometimes the notes she’d leave in our lunch boxes would be in shorthand and we’d have to try to figure out what she was trying to say. I wish I would have learned shorthand better—it would have come in handy.

  At one point, my mom worked for Lutheran Family Services and one of its national programs called Refugee Services. There were about ten offices across the United States. Each office had a certain number of refugees to resettle per year, which was determined by the government. These refugees sometimes stayed in camps for two years or more before getting a visa to enter the United States.

  My mom helped the families settle in—she organized volunteers that set up the household with dishes, towels, cribs—whatever they needed. Then she’d teach them how to do things like ride the bus so that she wouldn’t have to go to the grocery store with them every day. She did the trip with them a few times until she was sure they knew the route. On occasion, my mom would take my sister and me with her and also my dad to deliver a washer and dryer to a home. Most of the families were from the former Soviet Union or Eastern Europe (getting to know them I learned how difficult, oppressive, and scary life was under communist rule). My mom included us so we could see how others were able to come to our country for a better life.

  As part of her work with Lutheran Disaster Relief, my mom pitched in to help the families of the victims of the Oklahoma City bombing. After that domestic terrorist attack, the trial required a change of venue and was set in Denver. My mom took up the charge of taking care of the family members of the victims who were there to witness the prosecution of the terrorists. She had a group that got up at 4 a.m. to stand in line for seats for the families, and when trial opened for the day, they’d meet in the basement of a nearby church and would take their places in the courtroom if a family member needed a break. Volunteers also helped serve a hot lunch every day for all involved.

  After putting in more than her fair share of work over her career, she retired and finally gets to watch me on Fox News every day. I love when she has suggestions for “One More Thing” for The Five and when she sends a message during the show that says, “Tell that Bob Beckel to go to his room!”

  My dad, Leo Perino Jr., was the oldest of three sons. He grew up as a good ranch hand, excellent bull rider, and smart at school and in business. He and his two brothers, my uncles Matt and Tom, were good-looking boys—towheads with slight builds and chiseled jaws. The Perino boys carried on my great-grandparents’ legend in Weston County, Wyoming.

  My dad was born into ranching, but he says he knew from an early age that he wanted to have a different career. He had terrible hay fever, which made every summer tough on him and there were few remedies on the market at the time. He loved politics and public affairs, but he wanted to go into business. He was the first member of his family to go to college, and he had a successful career in human resources management.

  My dad says that he followed the news in the 1950s and ’60s, but Woodstock may as well have been on Mars. The kids in Wyoming were insulated in large part from the political turmoil and cultural changes of the sixties. There weren’t many drugs around Wyoming during that time, but some of them knew how to get 3.2 percent beer from South Dakota now and then. You have to drink a lot of that stuff to get a buzz.

  College called. My dad met my mom at Casper College in the orientation line. He studied business and eventually transferred to the University of Wyoming at Laramie. He loved to debate, and he and his friends would set up a topic and then argue both sides just to try out their arguments. My parents eloped in 1969, my dad skipping his graduation ceremony that day. Their wedding photo was taken in front of my grandpa’s red barn in a reenactment of the American Gothic painting.

  As newlyweds, my parents lived in town in Newcastle, Wyoming—about twenty miles from the ranch—and my dad cut trees in the forest. Both of them worked on the ranch, haying and branding. They stayed in a slightly run-down rental of my grandparents, and they had to deal with critters coming into the house. Once my mom had had enough with a squirrel that got in, and the next day she decided to deal with this situation once and for all. Still in her pajamas, she took the BB gun and with one shot killed the squirrel. My grandpa heard about it and claimed for years that his daughter-in-law was the best shot in town.

  Life was good. And then my dad’s number was up—he was being drafted for the war in Vietnam. He’d just graduated from college, married my mom, and his teaching job at the Wyoming State Hospital would start in late August. He was called for a physical exam in Denver in early June. The draftees started on a bus in north central Wyoming and drove it across the state and then south to Denver picking up draftees all the way. The local office asked him to be in charge of the Newcastle group, and he was responsible for the paper meal tickets and hotel vouchers. “What a rip-off! The hotel was a fleabag and the meals were crap,” he says now. My dad was released after his medical exam showed an ulcer. He said he felt bad because he could have handled a desk job during the war; instead, he went home and worked the rest of the summer around the ranch.

  After this, my parents packed their stuff in a horse trailer and moved to Evanston, Wyoming, for my dad’s new job teaching business classes for emotionally disturbed and socially alienated young patients at the State Hospital. Evanston is a small town in the southwest part of the state near the Utah border.

  My dad still wanted more education. In addition to his job, he took graduate-level classes at Utah State University just over the border in Logan. My mom also worked at the hospital. She was the administrative assistant for Dr. Paul Saxon, who ran the clinical division. Two years after they moved to Evanston, I was born in 1972. Dr. Saxon and his wife, Donna, became my godparents and my parents’ very good friends.

  My only strong memory of Dr. Saxon is that he taught me to tie my shoes and was so proud when I finally got it. He was the kind of guy you wanted to impress. Donna never forgot a holiday or a birthday, and she was there for all the important moments in life, like graduations. The best gifts she sent were tightly wrapped angel food cakes that came in a big box in the mail. A tragic motorcycle accident took the life of Donna’s youngest son when he was eighteen, and out of stress and grief, his stepfather, Dr. Paul, died of a heart attack six weeks later. Donna grieved gracefully and went on to remarry and to graduate from divinity school and work as a pastor. She’s always made me feel very special—a fairy godmother indeed.

  My dad climbed the career ladder quickly. He took the human resources track and moved our family from Wyoming to Denver, Colorado. He was really good at managing people and benefits at Western Farm Bureau Life Insurance Company, and whenever
we visited his office, you noticed that people liked working for him. He knew everyone from the big boss to the guys in the mailroom. When the company went through a round of layoffs, I remember how stressed he was about having to tell several employees that they no longer had a job. His compassion was clear and his concern made him physically sick.

  Corporate America was a good place to work, but my dad still wanted to be his own boss. He retired from human resources and opened a small neighborhood convenience store where locals could get just about anything they needed. The economic downturn in 2008 made it impossible for the store to succeed. He held on to it as long as he could. Reluctant to retire, he still works a job that he likes—especially because now he gets to see The Five (Greg Gutfeld cracks him up).

  I was two years old when my dad got that job in the Mile High City. Denver was big-city living for my parents, and they took advantage of it, making sure we visited the zoo and the museums. But they held on to their country ways, too. Because I missed my dad so much when he went to work, he made a recording on a cassette that I played over and over—“What does a cow say? Moooo… What does a horse say? Neigh…” He’d grown up around the animals and was a perfect mimic. A couple of times a year, they would bring back a butchered side of cow from the ranch, mostly steaks and roasts. We had an extra big cooler downstairs filled with meat wrapped in butcher paper and tin foil, and one of my chores was to go down and retrieve what my mom needed to make dinner.

  When I was in third grade, my dad started a tradition for the two of us. He asked me to read the Rocky Mountain News and The Denver Post before he got home from work. I had to pick out at least two articles to discuss with him before my mom served dinner. My dad would read the story and then ask me questions that helped me think through my arguments. I look back on that as when I began to articulate my thoughts and to present my ideas persuasively—a skill that came in very handy years later.

  My dad was a voracious news consumer. He subscribed to every political magazine available—Time, Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report, The Economist, National Review, etc. We’d dog-ear a page to mark something we wanted to discuss with each other. Every evening we watched the nightly news, either NBC or ABC and then CBS because it came on a half hour later. On Saturdays we had a quick family meeting to plan our Sunday schedule. I drove my sister crazy because I always pushed for the 8:30 a.m. church service because then we’d get home in time to watch the Sunday shows. We topped off our weekend with 60 Minutes, the tick-tick-tick signaling it was time to come in from the backyard. My dad got me hooked on the news. That was a good thing.

  And the Rest…

  My sister, Angela Leigh, arrived in 1976. My mom says that the day Angie was born, she kept me home from school and a neighbor took care of me until my parents returned. My mom says she was so excited to see me and introduce me to my new sister, but that when I rounded the corner, I was furious and shooting her dirty looks. She asked what was wrong and I demanded to know why I didn’t get to go to school. My mom said it was so I could be home to meet my sister. Apparently, I wasn’t impressed and said that I could see my sister every day for the rest of my life but that I couldn’t always go to school. I was quite serious about my studies, even when I was four.

  In those early years, my aunt Patty Sue and my cousin Michael Jr. lived with us. Patty Sue was sixteen when she had Michael; her first husband joined the Army and they were stationed in Germany for a while. When that marriage ended, Patty Sue and Michael came to live with us. Patty Sue worked as a waitress at Azar’s Big Boy. Michael, Angie, and I ran around the neighborhood and attended Ellis Elementary. Michael was more like our brother than our cousin and we’re still close.

  Patty Sue was a cool aunt. She indulged us more than anyone else. For example, when powder jackets were all the rage in the 1980s—two-toned pullover jackets with a pouch in front—we really wanted those jackets, but they were kind of expensive. I don’t know how Patty Sue managed it, but one night she took us to Montgomery Ward at the Buckingham Mall and got us the pullovers. She let us wear them out of the store.

  After a while of living in Denver, she moved back to her hometown of Rawlins, Wyoming. She found a good job at the Carbon County Road and Bridge Office and learned firsthand about government and business. After she retired, she ran for mayor and won twice. Patty Sue was frugal with taxpayer dollars and her own campaign money, even recycling yard signs for her next campaigns. She and her husband, Rodney Schuler, continue to serve on the city council while they run Memory Lanes, their bowling alley. Memory Lanes is the first tobacco- and alcohol-free bowling alley in Wyoming—she was told it would never succeed but it’s the busiest place in town. She likes to prove people wrong. More than anyone else, Aunt Patty taught me how to live in the moment and not to worry my life away (I don’t always succeed).

  In Denver we had a small three-bedroom house with a backyard on Elm Street. My mom and dad took advantage of the energy tax credits offered in the late 1970s, and we had a huge solar panel added to our roof and a rock box for warm water heating in our basement. When we drove up to Wyoming for visits or over to South Dakota to see “The Faces” at Mount Rushmore, we had what my dad called 2-55 air-conditioning—two windows down while we cruised at 55 mph. We were back and forth so often to Wyoming that my sister and I knew the towns we passed by heart and which ones had the best rest stops for candy. (Lusk was my favorite—they had the best gas station candy store. I loved candy cigarettes and black licorice.)

  When I got bored on the road trips, I tormented Angie by holding my feet in her face while she was sleeping. One day she bravely fought back and grabbed my white sock with the Bert and Ernie faces off my foot and threw it out the window. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to do that. I protested, but we were going fast on the highway and my parents did not stop to go back for my favorite sock. From my seat, I saw my mom smile. I think they were kind of proud of Angie for sticking up for herself. So was I, actually.

  As with any other kid, I tried to fit in and I longed to wear the fashions of the day. I wanted jeans with designs on the pockets and Izod shirts. My mom’s idea to save money was to iron on decals to the back pockets of my jeans and a Lacoste alligator onto my shirts (she still has that alligator in her jewelry box). It was mortifying. She thought that no one would be able to tell that I was wearing fakes, but I knew and it made me self-conscious around the “cooler kids.”

  My parents indulged some of my fashion desires, though. I remember when headbands came into style in the 1970s, and while totally superfluous, my dad took me in his yellow Dodge pickup to a store to pick out my favorite. It was just my dad and me—Angie had to stay home. I chose a white satin one that had a rainbow printed on it and threaded with a gold braid. I wore it until it was nearly brown and totally worn out. I loved that father-daughter time and think it’s so important for young girls to help them develop confidence.

  Aside from clothes, I didn’t want for much except books. Weekly library trips were a treat, and I checked out the limit. I’d read two of them in the car on the way home. Once at Target, I finished Sheila the Great by Judy Blume while my mom and dad did the shopping. I remember asking if I still needed to pay for the book—I thought that was only fair. After that, my parents found a used bookstore where I could buy as many books as I wanted.

  It wasn’t all studying for me. My parents put me in a tumbling club at the YMCA as a toddler, and I took to it well. I was fairly good at gymnastics and later was on the junior University of Denver team. I had a floor exercise routine to “The Entertainer” by Scott Joplin, and I could do a few back handsprings in a row that made for a so-so performance (no, I will not be performing this on The Five). I loved the balance beam, but struggled on the parallel bars. I was not good enough to take it past an amateur level, and I moved on to the soccer, basketball, and track teams. I wasn’t the best athlete, but all of those activities helped me appreciate flexibility and strength, and I have exercised consistently most of my lif
e.

  My parents exposed me to music, too. I took piano lessons but my left hand wouldn’t keep up with my right. Learning to read music had benefits, though, and I joined the church bell choir (which kills Gutfeld). Though I tried out all of those different sports and activities, I was probably best at talking.

  Perhaps my future was foretold in a trip to the East Coast. When I was seven years old in 1979, we visited Washington, D.C. My dad attended a few conferences a year, and back then, the company paid for families to travel, too. My parents decided to make an educational vacation out of it. My sister had to stay behind because she was too young, so I had them to myself. None of us had been to D.C. before. We went to all of the tourist spots: Arlington Cemetery, Ford’s Theater, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, the Capitol, the Washington Zoo, and even the White House.

  My mom’s high school friend worked for Presidents Nixon and Carter, managing the Air Force One scheduling and manifests. She arranged for all three of us to visit the White House, and because the Carters were at Camp David, I got to see the red phone that would place a call to the Kremlin. (Who knew Beckel was working in the West Wing then?) On our flight home on the Fourth of July, I remember seeing fireworks over the Washington Monument. Maybe that’s when I started to think of Washington as a magical place.

  According to my parents, that trip made quite an impression on me. When we returned home, they say I stood on the milk box outside the front door with the flag my dad flew and said, “One day I am going to work in the White House.”

  I have vague memories of that visit, but I still get a jolt whenever I see the panoramic sweep of Washington. I believe that every parent should try to take their kids to D.C. at least twice in their lives—once when they’re seven or eight, for the majesty and magic of it all, and then again when they are fifteen, for the understanding of our history and our future. At the very least it gives them a taste of participating in our democracy, and who knows where that early experience may lead.