On Thanksgiving Day, I remember, with gratitude, the way I was raised by Ed and Ibby.
Excerpt from Chapter Two of ALZHEIMER'S DAUGHTER:
Each night at
bedtime Mom would tuck me in, hold my hand and kneel beside my bed to pray for
family, friends, and the state of our nation. We’d say things like, “God,
please cure Aunt Jenny’s pneumonia, heal Mr. Smith from his heart attack, and
guide Khrushchev.” I didn’t know who Khrushchev was, nor comprehend much about
the Cold War, but I knew the U.S. was at odds with the Soviet Union.
Without fail, hours after Mom prayed
with me, I’d hear my parents kneeling––Mom on her side of the bed, and Dad on
his––murmuring prayers to thank God for their blessings.
Growing up in the
old house, I’d hear groaning and clanging from the furnace, imagining a monster
lurking in the shallow, mousey basement. That contraption heated the whole
house through a three-by-five foot register in the dining room floor, next to
the staircase Mom grumbled about dusting while she put Dad’s old socks on both
hands, running them up and down the spindles. On cold mornings I’d scoot down
the stairs on my rump, and sit on the warm register, letting heat ooze into my
goose-pimply skin, calming my chattering teeth until the metal became so hot I
had to move or burn my backside.
Mom’s voice roused
me from my warm trances as she hollered, “Jean, get moving, we’ve got to go
through your flash cards before you leave for school.”
As Dad knotted his
necktie, and Mom straightened it, she’d ask him, “What do you want for dinner
tonight?”
He’d kiss her
goodbye then chuckle, “Whatever you can spare.”
Then he opened the
oak front door with the oval glass, a cold draft sneaking in, before it creaked
closed behind him. Eating my breakfast of Alpha Bits, my knees curled
underneath me at the kitchen table, I’d hear Mom murmur, “Your dad wouldn’t
complain if I served him mud.” I’d watch out the window as my father with his
long, quick strides began the quarter-mile walk to work.
I never remember
Dad driving to work, even in the dead of winter, because we lived so close. Our
used brown 1950s Ford Fairlane rarely left the detached garage, because we
rarely left town. In those days, Dad never would have bought a new car. He
said, “A car takes us from point A to point B. We need nothing fancy.”
After Dad, Ann,
and I vacated the house, Ibby’s focus became a meat and potatoes evening meal.
Most nights we even had homemade dessert contributing to her plumpness. Her
teeth suffered from her stash of Milky Ways, Snickers, and Three Musketeers.
When she was in her early forties she decided she wanted straight teeth and a
pretty smile. So the dentist pulled her upper and lower molars, gave the sore
gums a couple of days to begin to heal, then pulled the remaining front teeth,
socking the dentures into her raw mouth. To work through the throbbing, she’d
walk to the mirror and smile brightly. The image of her straight white teeth
beaming back––her only anesthetic.
Between meal prep,
Ibby washed clothes in the wringer washer. Wearing housedresses belted with a
fitted bodice––June Cleaver-like, without the pearls––she carried laundry to a
sagging clothesline. Dad’s pants and shirts, our skirts, blouses, sheets, and
underwear along with Mom’s bras fluttered in June, and flapped so hard some
came loose––landing in the neighbor’s yard––in the angry gray freeze of
February.
Rivertown from 1950
to1960 likened to “Mayberry.” Opie––in his striped tee shirts, jeans, and shorn
hair could have been one of my classmates. My most vivid school memory is of
Friday, the 22nd of November in 1963. My third grade classmates and
I covered our heads with our lunch boxes and ran for our lives, risking glances
at the sky––hearts pounding, bobby socks and Mary Janes flying––searching for
imagined Soviet planes, which we feared could bomb us. That night Mom, Dad, Ann
and I huddled around the black and white Philco, as Walter Cronkite told the
nation John F. Kennedy had not only been shot, but was dead. Tears seeped down
our cheeks as Jackie Kennedy, in her blood stained dress, having removed her
pillbox hat, stood beside Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in.
Most days after
school, kids chased each other, running through connecting backyards––playing
good guys against bad guys––never knowing in whose yard we’d end up. Ibby, even
though she was fiercely overprotective, never
worried. She knew I’d be back to eat supper. We listened for our moms to holler
“Dinnertime!” almost yodel-like. Understanding when first and middle
names––‘Jean Louise’––were yelled we’d better run home fast because dinner was
getting cold.
The only exception
to our heavy meals occurred at end-of-summer harvest. Dad, because he was so
practical, planted the vegetable garden in the spring. Mom, wearing her
seersucker pedal-pusher pants, picked and prepared the vegetables, but allowed
herself the beauty of her flower garden. It was not as practical as Ed’s
garden. It didn’t produce food, but did give her joy––often a single rose in a
bud vase decorated our diner table.
My mouth waters,
and I can almost feel the sticky sweat on my neck remembering the steamy heat
of the old house, with the ever so slight movement of air through the white,
Priscilla curtains as we’d begin supper by spreading a thick coating of butter
on a piece of Wonder bread, then rub the buttered bread on to an ear of sweet
corn. After gnawing the rows off the cob, and licking the butter off my hands,
the piece of warm bread was a bonus. The year I had a gaping hole in my mouth
from having lost all four of my front teeth––top and bottom––mom took pity on
me and cut the kernels off the cob. Harvest meals were rounded out with
peppered green beans seasoned with bacon drippings saved from Dad’s breakfasts
of bacon and eggs, and tomatoes––still warm from the garden––topping cottage
cheese sprinkled with sugar.
A slatted swing
suspended by two chains from the ceiling of the wrap-around front porch was the
only place to catch a breeze on still summer days. I’d swing my baby dolls,
while my sister and her teenage girlfriends, holding their transistor radios to
their ears, practiced dancing to Wah-Watusi
and Twist and Shout from the
previous week’s American Bandstand.
Memories jerk through my mind, like the
clicking sound of reel-to-reel movies, of sitting Indian-style on the warm
sidewalk, cranking my skate key to clamp my roller-skates to my saddle shoes.
The bottoms of my feet vibrated, and the skate key lobbed from a leather string
around my neck as I raced to the store––navigating uneven slabs of sidewalk
pushed out of place from ancient maple and oak tree roots––to spend my
allowance of a nickel on creamy Fudgesicles or maple-filled Bun candies.
If I misbehaved,
Mom never threatened, “Wait till your father gets home.” She took care of
discipline, on the spot, so Ed didn’t have to, spanking with a paddle––a broken
paddleball toy from my Christmas stocking––or the yardstick, whichever the
infraction warranted. The paddle hurt a little more. Her footfalls deliberately
paced on the black and white linoleum squares to the broom closet, which housed
the punishing tools. I’d take a deep breath, and my face would become
feverishly hot, as I bent over––hands gripping ankles––feeling my pulse in my
temples, while she counted aloud as she whapped. She rarely told Dad about
these incidents because he was not the disciplinarian. Once, however, he
slapped me across the mouth after he overheard me sassing Mom. His hand hurt my
pride more than my face, but also taught me that he’d never tolerate me
speaking to the woman he loved in a smart-mouthed way. I never sassed either of
them again.
End of summer
crickets cricked while the pressure cooker hissed on most late-August days as
Mom cleaned string beans and blanched tomatoes, with the warm aroma of
home-made tomato juice heavy in the air. Quart sized Mason jars, contents full
or consumed, lined shelves in the basement feeding us all winter.
In the back of
those shelves, near the furnace, hid a few dusty bottles of never-opened liquor
given to Dad as gifts. Dad drank a beer about once a year when an Army buddy
came to visit––the remaining brown bottles stashed in the refrigerator door
beside the ketchup and home-made strawberry jam.
Mom was such a
lightweight that when she participated in a toast with wine or champagne, her
cheeks became hot blush-red after just a couple sips. Dad would tease her about
her flushed face, and she’d giggle, pushing the remainder of her glass to him.
Mom’s jet-black
hair in their wedding picture grayed early. She wound it in a French twist,
resembling Opie’s Aunt Bee. By the time I was five, only the nape remained
dark, turning completely white by the time I reached middle school.
Once when we were
shopping, someone asked, “Are you having a nice time with your Grandma?” Mom
scowled as a reply, then brooded, thinking she looked old enough to be my
grandmother and feared that people who saw them together might think she was
Ed’s mother. Mom viewed her hair as a liability, but I imagined white hair to
be a halo of wisdom, because––like it or not––I believed she was the authority
on everything. I think Dad never saw what bothered Mom about aging, he only
pictured Ibby as the girl he first kissed in the tunnel of love.
In contrast, Dad
maintained his lean build and brown hair. Despite having a desk job, he was
active, keeping the old house in good repair, and working outside. I never
heard him complain about household tasks. His favorite phrase was, “Oh, that’s
just a twenty minute job,” even if it was chasing a skunk family out from under
the back porch. In reality his projects might take days to accomplish.
Mom, Dad, Ann, and
I attended church every Sunday. Mom taught Sunday School––she liked being with
the kids––our friends. Dad always met us for church. I’d hearing Mom’s harmony
in songs like, Just a Closer Walk with Thee,
then I’d scoot over so she could resume her place in the pew beside Ed, his arm
draped around her shoulders––me on Mom’s side, Ann on Dad’s––Ed and Ibby
together.
Mom saved church
bulletins because she loved the pretty pictures of spring flowers, fall leaves,
or snowy mountains on the fronts. Most were covered with her petite, rounded
handwriting. She’d take notes on the sermon and write reminders to send
get-well cards and take homemade chocolate chip cookies and vegetable soup to
someone who might be going through a rough patch. She defended every minister
who ever served our church. When she heard cattiness hiding in the dark corners
of church committees, she’d grumble, “The only reason we have a cross in the
front of the church is so the congregation can crucify the minister.”
Because of her
convictions, Mom taught Ann and me to think for ourselves. She’d say,
“Popularity is fickle. Do what you know is right.” Ed and Ibby parented by
encouraging––cheering, as though they held imaginary pompoms.
You might think
I’m implying Ibby and Ed were perfect. I’m not. They weren’t. No one is. Mom
complained that Dad worked too much. He’d often arrive home to cold meatloaf or
overcooked chicken and dumplings. He worked long hours, and took little time
for himself. I remember a time when Dad came home from a round of golf, tromped
up the spindle staircase, stomping into the bedroom with the pull-down attic
stairs, charged up those rickety steps, and threw his golf bag––clubs and
all––into the sweltering, dusty rafters, shouting, “That’s the end of my golf.”
Maybe Mom was upset that he’d taken personal time, rather than family time––or
maybe he’d just had a bad round. Who knew? They kept conflicts private,
recovered quickly, and I never remember them sleeping apart, most mornings
finding them cuddled together as I snuck past their bedroom on my way to the
bathroom. They agreed to disagree. Mom often contended, “If two people agree
all the time, one of them isn’t thinking for themselves.”
Dad was social,
but Mom––more private. He greeted people in business with a handshake and
pleasant conversation, remembering their children’s names and paying close
attention to the details of their lives. She, on the other hand, hated, ‘Have
you heard…’gossip. She shunned women’s organizations and coffee clutches. Once
she observed rumor or tittle-tattle she walked away. She never wanted to put
herself in a position where someone could say, “Ibby said….” believing any
form of gossip from her lips could be a detriment to Ed’s career. Ibby could
hold a grudge, once she demoted an offender to her ‘bad list,’ they rarely were
granted access to the ‘good list’ again. She did not need girlfriends––she
needed only Ed.
The seven-year age
difference between Ann and me felt like a generation. In pictures, she wore a
ballet tutu while I toddled. She was the skinny teenager, interested in boys,
while I was porky, with skinned knees, wearing glittery horn-rimmed glasses
framed by a pixie haircut. She was learning to drive while I strolled my baby
dolls, and rode my two wheeler. We lived the lives of only children in the same
house. We were never at odds with one another––we just had nothing in common.
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Happy Thanksgiving
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