We drove, just us two, to the First Church of God for our wedding scheduled at 7 pm with Pastor Todd. When we arrived, I heard Choya jokingly ask if you remembered to bring the llcense. All I remember was you calling out to me across the lawn “I’ll be back in a few minutes”. Somehow, I knew exactly what that meant. You forgot to bring the license. I remembered to bring what I needed to – Kathy’s bouquet and Choya’s boutonniere. You just had to bring one piece of paper. I think you were a bit more nervous that you wanted to admit.
So, our little wedding began promptly at 7 pm 7:30 pm. Close enough.
I remember scouring the cars driving by to see if, just perhaps, my Mom might show up with my younger brothers, Mark & Larry (then 15 and 14) and sisters, Robyn and Lori (then just 5) in tow. I knew that Dad would not attend. He was stubborn and put his foot down that he, nor my Mom and brothers and sisters, would not attend. But somehow, I thought – hoped – that just this once Mom would stand up. No such luck. I knew if my older brother, Jay, would not have been in the Army as an MP, he would have been there. No matter how much we argued and yelled at each other, we always tried to have each other’s back. But, it was what it was. I had you by my side and that was really all that mattered. And I had three of my “ride or die” friends right there for more support. Debi (then) Luekenga and Peggy (then) Fitzhugh and Kathy (then) Johnson That meant the world to me. And still does. That show of friendship and support is never forgotten.
After the ceremony, we made our way to your Mom’s house, where she had a table set up with the cake that your friend you worked with at the bakery, had made as a gift to us. She was a sweetheart and always a “mother figure” for you at work. Later, we began an early close to the festivities and everyone went their own way – your friends to party on and you and I made our way to your sister, Linda’s house, where we knew we could wind down and relax. You were exhausted from working at 5 a.m. and I was almost 20 weeks pregnant, barely showing, but sick as a dog all day long. Linda brought me a throw and I rested my head in your lap and dozed off while you and your sister bantered a bit. In my dream like state I could hear Linda’s giggles, which always meant she was being entertained by you. We made our way home soon after, and settled into sleep, comforted by the fact that we were now married and together forever.
We don’t really have any photos of that day that are not grainy and blurry. That’s what happens when three over served teenage not yet men, were snapping photos with our little Kodak. Didn’t matter because we had almost 45 years after with over 30 albums filled with our lives. Memories that I cherish. I so wish there would have been more years. But we had a helluva time, didn’t we? Ups and downs and we weathered it all together – hand in hand.
So, happy anniversary, honey. I hope you can still feel the love, because I sure can, It is what gets me through each and every day.
You only got to celebrate 41 years on earth – but I know your souls are together somehow, I feel it.
I loved it when daddy would make me take him shopping for an anniversary gift (or gifts for any holiday really). He only went shopping for Mom. Everyone else was left up to Mom to handle. Always clever, daddy would make his mark unique – a new wallet stuffed with bills in every nook and cranny with the ultimate gift being a motorhome). He would make funny noises (his bird calls were epic), entertaining kids of all ages while the parents looked annoyed. If there was not a tag on an item, he would walk up to an unsuspecting clerk and pelt his query in rapid succession of “cuánto pesos, cuánto pesos, cuánto pesos?” While the clerk was trying to figure out what the hell this man was saying, and before they could respond he would emphatically continue with “tres pesos y no más” and would stare at the clerk while I apologized and explained he was just goofing all the while tugging on his arm in an effort to move the process along. Always an adventure.
Throughout my 36 years of your parenting, I learned a lot. I learned that some things each of you said or did were clearly mistakes – but that was how things were done in “those” days. I learned that at a young age, I could always count on my dance costumes being immaculately sewn and within a week after the recital, I would get to see all of the dancing photos my dad took standing backstage – displayed in a dark living room with the old projector shining on a wall. Hundreds of them each recital.
I learned from being the only girl for 13 years, that I was in charge of Mark and Larry. They were almost twin-like being only 17 months apart in age. I learned how to nurture and make up fairy tales and play games and just how to be with children. I learned that being the kid who took charge, I was allowed to take phone calls and make arrangements for Mom to deliver and pick up the 12 inch black and white televisions for Gdovin’s Tv Rentals. Back then, hospitals were not equipped with televisions so St. Mary’s Hospital was our biggest customer. Or, rather the patients were. (A fun fact: Mom and Dad sold the business later on to Al and Dorothy LaCount – Janet LaCount Tezak’s parents!)
Did you make mistakes? Oh hell yeah. Some big ones that still weigh on my heart. I know it weighed on yours as well when you took the time in your 1991 visit to Tucson to be with us as Bob and I renewed our vows in St Joseph’s Catholic Church, to apologize and I saw the tears in your eyes. But, it seems tears always make room for smiles. And so it did.
You both taught me how to act in Church and how to sit still. We were not given coloring books and toys to keep us occupied on Sundays. We were expected to sit and listen and learn. I learned that Sunday was a time to dress up – not in regular school clothes, but our good clothes. I got to wear my little hats and shoes with just a slightly taller heel than my normal shoes. The boys had cute button up shirts and little clip on ties. I enjoyed seeing you, Mom, in your dark crimson heels and one of your large brimmed hats. Being fancy was one of my favorite things. And when you did it, you did it well.
You both taught me some colorful phrases that I would never repeat here. It wasn’t because of the minor swear words – but more the construction of the phrases and how they were not so much as inappropriate, but more so, actually impossible! Yes, you both are responsible for my swearing. Never the unspeakable words people use today, but just the regular old cuss words. I remember I began swearing around age 10. And when I peppered my ramblings about my day with damn and hell and such, Daddy always looked at you, Mom, and would ask you “where in the hell did she learn to talk like that?” and your reply was always “how in the hell should I know??”
Mom tried to teach me to sew. She was less than successful. Dad tried to teach me to beat him in chess. Again, unsuccessful. But you did teach us to respect people and if those people were not close family friends or relatives, “Sir” and “Ma’am” were the expected greetings. Anything else would be met with Dad’s stare while he clenched his jaw or Mom’s glare with her one eyebrow raised. Either one we knew would result in a lecture, when we got home or in the car.
Dad, you had a unique way of teaching me NOT to be late getting home, by presenting me with one of your Great Books of the Western World where I was introduced to Plato and Socrates and Don Quixote. And went a step further by “allowing” me to write a report on the chapters I was assigned and then present it to the family by standing up and reading aloud. You also taught me about taking the vocabulary test in the Reader’s Digest – resurrecting that fun in Tucson during one of your visits, by giving Bob, Ricky and I a vocabulary quiz and taking it a step further by requiring us to come up with a word that the others did not know and using it in a sentence as many times as possible during your 4 day visit. Ricky was the clear winner with his word of the day – Fartknocker. I guess it was a noun (of sorts) referring to someone you found to be unpleasant. Ricky will still use that word, as did his father. From the Gardner-Gdovin dictionary,
Mom- you grew up an only child to a mom of 6. Three boys. Three girls. I am sure the other kids learned from you as well. But it is these things that you taught me that I hold dear to my heart. You were, for lack of a better word, a tomboy as a kid and as an adult. You said what you meant and made no excuses for that. Take it or leave it, you didn’t care if someone didn’t like what you did or said. That was their issue. You taught me not to back down. You allowed me, much to my father’s chagrin, to politely correct an adult if they were wrong. Not always a good thing but the lesson was, when you know you are right, don’t let them browbeat you into changing if you feel in your heart, it is right. You taught me to “be yourself”. I remember going to some school function and I knew the other mom’s would be in dresses and dress shoes and I knew you would wear your polyester pants and one of dad’s crisp white shirts. I also knew that for a school or scout potluck, moms would bring their sharing food in a nice blue casserole bowl or a pretty platter they pulled out for just such an occasion. I also knew that you would proudly carry in your spaghetti sauce stained white Tupperware bowl with your red jello and pineapple and bananas stirred in for taste and plunk that oversized thing right down in the middle of the table. If course, you could not forget the serving spoon with the big plastic handle sporting burn marks from previous meals. I would turn three shades of red, until I see the ladies standing up and serving themselves some good ole J E L L O and commenting, “oh I hoped you were bringing this!” That was you. Comfortable in any situation.
You both taught me love and commitment and loyalty. That lies, no matter how small, have consequences. That life is not always fair and that spreading the family funds for shoes and clothes and school supplies is hard. That fancy parties were fun, but even parties in the front yard with the sprinklers and slip and slides are just as fun and everybody always wants to come back. There is a reason that friends over several years and six kids always conglomerated at our house. They were comfortable there. They had fun there. They thought it was fun that Mr. Gdovin always rode his bicycle – even in the snow; and that Mrs. Gdovin would leave her turkey in the oven to run barefoot in the street and play football with the boys from the neighborhood.
You taught us how to survive on very little food at times and how to get through funerals. We all knew how to handle struggles because of you. But we also knew how to love and nurture and plant and cook and laugh. Those are important things that you don’t get from just a book. You get them by watching and listening and engaging. That is how I learned.
So here’s to you Mom and Dad. Perfectly imperfect. Irreverently believing. And living your life your way. Happy Anniversary.
It was difficult to imagine as two teenagers entering into adulthood and parenthood. As the years began to number in the double digits, it seemed more possible.
Our 2nd anniversary was celebrated with an evening drive thru Estes Park and a candlelight dinner at the Greenbriar near Boulder. The forest was a mere 30 miles from our apartment in Longmont and made for a beautiful detour. Another 40 miles to the Greenbriar Inn, nestled at the foot of the mountains. We were dressed as though we were headed to prom, and the staff seemed to enjoy pampering these two young marrieds with chateaubriand and baked Alaska served by vested waiters. We were out on the town with an 18 month old at home. So we did what most couples with kids do when they have the opportunity to dash from the normalcy of real life and into a special night of celebration – we talked about baby Cristopher. Even so, it was magical. So perfect.
We always thought we would return to celebrate other anniversaries.
We never did. Life took us on other adventures.
Bob was scheduled to attend a VW parts manager meeting in Albuquerque on our 5th anniversary. Ricky was only a couple of months old, but Mom took charge – “I think after six kids I am more than qualified to watch two kids, so just GO” – in her own not so unassuming way. On the evening of our actual anniversary, we had dinner at a local hotel restaurant; and I honestly cannot say in which hotel we were booked. But I remember it was a dressy, upscale restaurant with luxurious surroundings, white tablecloths, candlelit table settings; and of course, Bob had five long stemmed roses waiting for me, but this time 3 red and two yellow to represent our two sons. After the soup flambe was served, we enjoyed the light piano and the ambience of the entire evening. Just another of the many anniversaries we would celebrate, leaving us with memories to make us smile.
10 years was a real milestone for us. When you are so young, that seems like a lifetime. Bob had a special brown leather cowboy hat he loved and only wore once in a while – so he could keep it nice. I bought him a handmade hatband of beautiful feathers and a few beads. The colors were just as he liked and he oohed and aahed over the gift as I certainly did my 10 long stemmed red roses. We had a sitter for the evening and made our way to dinner at one of our favorite places – the Feed Lot on 2nd and Main. Their steaks were beyond tender and seasoned perfectly. A pianist was entertaining and a complimentary dessert was served, when they found out we were celebrating our anniversary. During dessert, you surprised me with a tiny box. A ring inside with four perfect diamonds to celebrate our family of four. I went to tears. To this day it is one of my favorite rings and I wear it often. I lost it for a few years. After going thru each pocket and drawer and handbag and wallet more than once, I resigned myself that I must have left it in a purse or piece of clothing that I had donated. After two years of searching and giving up, one day Kerri shows up and holds the ring out. “Is this yours?” It had been in some craft things I had given her a few years earlier and she was just going thru it to see what she could use for the kids or her students, and found my ring. I couldn’t hug her enough. My ring is home.
the ring
Our 20th anniversary was probably the most eventful of all of our 44 anniversaries. My mother’s death on November 26, 1988 hit me hard. I was left with unanswered questions and disturbing nightmares and feeling as though I was in a complete fog and in a dark depression. I returned to church and needed something traditional like St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Grand Junction, as opposed to the “lighter” guitar masses becoming so popular at that time. I chose St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in our adopted home town of Tucson.
St Joseph’s Catholic Church – Tucson AZ
St Augustine’s Cathedral, Tucson Arizona
All of this paved the way for our marriage rededication. So, on Friday, April 5, 1991, we renewed our vows and were married in the Catholic faith at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Tucson, Arizona. Fr. O’Flannigan presided. My father walked me down the aisle this time. Robyn was my Maid of Honor and Cris and Ricky were Bob’s Best Men. I carried a very heavy bouquet of 20 long stemmed roses in ivory cascading down the front of my dress. We had a little party with a few guests back at our home and thoroughly enjoyed the company and conversation. Bob and Cristopher and Ricky selected a gold anniversary band of diamonds for the ceremony, which I cherish. At the party, Bob gifted me an amethyst rosary with a gold cross. That man always had good taste in my jewelry! It was a night to remember.
engagement & anniversary ring
We had many anniversaries. Some big deals. Many quiet with just us. I wanted so many more years with you. But I am so grateful for the years we did have. I would do it all over again, just the way it was. Sweet memories.
We didn’t quite make it to 50 years. You sure tried. And I love you all the more for it.
I suppose that anyone who has known me for over ten minutes, most likely is knowledgeable of the fact that Halloween is not my “thing”. Even as a little girl, I did not like costumes. I did not like having my face made up and calling attention to myself. Luckily, I began dance lessons at the tender age of two, so I always had a tutu around to dress up like a ballerina. And my little black cowgirl outfit with the white fringe from “Ragtime Cowboy Joe“. Or, my blue costume from “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue”, so I could dress up in my big blue bonnet and be a Dresden Doll for the holiday. I was a small child and it seemed like I always got swallowed up in a sea of huge witches capes and black hats and yards of billowy white ghosts. I did not like to look funny or scary. I had zero confidence for that type of shenanigans! I enjoyed seeing everyone else’s costumes and admired their guts to have dark paint smeared on their faces or teeth blacked out. Not for me. Imagine how mortified I was each year when my Mom dressed up for her bowling team party. She would smear honey – gooey sticky honey, on her cheeks and chin and then rub COFFEE GROUNDS into the honey so it looked like a scraggly beard. To make matters worse, she would find an old stained shirt of Daddy’s that she had used with furniture polish and wear that ugly, dirty looking, wrinkled thing over some torn pants. And then, much to my horror, she would mess up her thick black hair and then Aqua Net it to hold the entire mess in place. She would get in the car, windows rolled down, and wave to anyone who looked her way. She always came home with some sort of prize for her winning look. Apparently I was the only one who did not appreciate her “costume”.
So, when I had children of my own, I was always in a panic. I didn’t want them to be a plain Jane and not be up to par with their classmates and friends. I experimented with different looks, but always came back to a clown. I just had zero talent for any other look. We always had something around the house to make their shoes look like clown shoes or an over-sized tie and shirt. Red lipstick on the cheeks and mouth and some eyeliner tear drops and eyebrows completed the transformation. Clowns. I tried something new every year, but I admit it – they always looked like a clown.
I never decorated the house save for the pumpkins that the boys and their Dad carved – front on center on the porch of wherever we lived. Mom and Dad would turn most of their house into a haunted house with dark lighting and cold spaghetti “brains” and jello “guts” and peeled grape “eyeballs”. They took great delight in scaring the living hell out of me while working on the house for several days. They had stuff in every one of the five bedrooms and, needless to say, I had many sleepless nights until Halloween was over. I did not like scaring people and I did not like being scared. I had enough of that on a daily basis while little brothers, Mark and Larry, would hide in my closet or in the bathroom, waiting for me so they could jump out or yell and watch me have a panic attack. Yeah, those were sure fun days. My brother-in-law had great fun digging out some dirt in the front yard of his Tucson home and, laying as flat as he could, and would raise up in the dark of the night and scare the bejesus out of the neighbors. How sad it was one Halloween evening, watching little kids walk a huge arc around the front of Dan’s and Robin’s house out of fear of the crazy guy in the dark. Robin always had lots of good candy left over!
So, here it is, October, and I will be damned if Halloween is once again upon me. Now I have grandkids and have enjoyed entertaining them on Halloween from Tristan and Chase to Mateo and Marluce and now Max and Abby. I have never had the chance to spend a Halloween with Quinn, but perhaps one day. So, Max comes to spend the day last week and flatly states, Nana, you need to decorate for Halloween”. Well, I did decorate (or at least I thought I had) by displaying a cute little pumpkin from Safeway where someone had artfully drawn a cute face with red lips and long eyelashes. And, if that was not enough, voila, look at my cute Halloween owl in the front garden!
Max gave me a patronizing smile and a soft “oh”, but I could tell he was not very impressed. Then he said, “you should see our house Nana! We have skeletons and pumpkins and decorations inside the house and outside of the house.” I assumed from that statement, that the kids house had more than an “indoor” pumpkin and a tin owl stuck in the dirt. “Come on, Nana! We need to decorate!” Looking into those clear blue eyes, I had no choice but to get in the car and high-tail it to the store before Max came back the next day.
I was NOT going to spend a ton of money on a holiday that I do not even really consider a holiday. Afterall, November 1 begins “my” holiday season of Thanksgiving-Christmas-Epiphany. THAT is my kind of holiday and I have always said that Halloween is just in the way. But, little kids and big kid enjoy the dark holiday, so who am I to quibble? I decided to make some melting witches. Some black pointy hats, black gauze, black and green and purple ribbons and hang them from the courtyard lights and presto! we have melted witches. A couple long pairs of Halloween socks filled with some squished up plastic bags made for the stylish footwear left from the melting witches. Max and Poppa found some orange and green lights in our Christmas light stash and I replaced some clear ones with the colorful ones to add a little flair! I got 5 little battery lit pumpkins which max has had a great time arranging them and rearranging them! Add two Sassy Witches to the front door, and we have the final product. Not going to win any prize, but seeing my grandson’s eyes light up and the smile on his face is my blue ribbon.
Happy Halloween, everyone. I am going to start getting my Thanksgiving-Christmas-Epiphany decorations ready. November 1 will be here before you know it!
Oct 2003 Kerri & Connie at a Halloween Concert in Tucson
We picked up a couple of Wizards after the concert.
Really never was much of a big Halloween fan. Oh, when I was a child I was a huge fan just because I had a ton of dance costumes to choose from recitals – so what to wear was never a problem. And since it was back in the 50’s and 60’s, we could roam for hours by ourselves collecting candy from strangers with no worries. We knew which houses to hit first as they always gave out real size candy bars! One Halloween, Mom made all of the fixings for popcorn balls of all colors. Kids could come right inside the kitchen (front door wide open) and plunk down their bags and take off their coats and dig in to the warm gooey popcorn concoction and make their own treat adding bits of candy or nuts or even fresh coconut. When they were done, Mom would hand them a flat sheet of waxed paper (Saran wrap back then – never heard of it) and they could roll it around to cover their own home made treat and shove it in their bag. it was okay to grab a handful of the popcorn all warm and gooey and pop it in your mouth to tide you over during your long night of making the rounds.
Another year, Dad decided that we would all make homemade pulled taffy. We would make our way walking backwards across the kitchen with warm taffy strung from our hands to Mom or Dad’s hands. It was a constant motion of pulling the taffy one direction and then the other with buttery hands until it reached the perfect consistency. Mom would cut the taffy rope into pieces with scissors and we would wrap the little pieces in torn wax paper. If they were so inclined, kids and adults alike had an open invitation to join in the fun to make their own. And lots did.
Oct 1998 a 6 year old Tristan sans costume sorts out her bounty at our dining table.
Many other Halloweens followed with carmeled apple make your own treat night. Our home was turned into a haunted house by my parents and Al & Dorothy LaCount, complete with scary music and cold spaghetti brains and peeled grape eyeballs and jello-y guts. Even though Janet and I had watched the entire thing come together, we still got creeped out when actually going thru the dark house. When I got home from trick or treating and was tired and ready for bed, that proved impossible as the adults had turned all 4 bedrooms, the family room, dining and living room and kitchen – all into scary little dark rooms. So, I made my way to my bedroom and dug my pillow from the closet where it had been stashed in order to make the scary guts and blood room – made my way to one of the bathrooms and sat in the dry tub, pillow propped up on the edge and tried to get some sleep in between the screams of terrorized neighbors!
October 2004 baby Mateo visits his first ever Pumpkin Patch and tries a taste of straw!
October 2007 Katia and little princess Marluce
When I had kids of my own, I was horrible at making costumes. Did not have a sewing talent to my name and no imagination whatsoever. So the poor kids were relegated to being clowns or hobos or Fonzie. When Jeffry was in Taekwondo and would be testing for his black belt at the tender age of 8, he firmly reminded me that his Taekwondo gi was NOT to be used as a Halloween costume. Orders from Master Rex Veeder! Hmmm. Apparently Master Veeder was aware of my past costume endeavors.
Jeffry inherited his mother’s talent for costumes.
I have had other memorable and enjoyable Halloweens as well. Halloween dinners on the driveway at the Dunham house …
October 2003 at the Dunham halloween Spooktacular Dinner
Enjoying the Tucson Zoo Halloween night with Tristan and Chase … Tristan had my phone headset and was a Rock ‘n Roller and Chase was skull to toe bones dressed as a skeleton. We toured the Zoo, watched dancers, got lots of candy and treats and were exhausted by the time we got back to Grandma’s to spend the night.
And we just had a visit from Thomas Train. Nana (me!) decorated the little front yard just for him as we had ZERO trick or treaters. Sign of the times, I guess.
Yeah – still not so much of a halloween fan – but with Grandkids and friends and family in the picture – well, what could be better than that?
I think there is hardly a more beautiful state than the peaks and valleys of Colorado.
I still consider Colorado to be my home state. I was born there, attended school there, and lived there for 32 years before moving to Arizona. 5 of the 6 kids in my family were born in St Mary’s Hospital in Grand Junction. (Jay was born in Chicago while Mom and Dad moved around with the US Navy. This is where the family gathered for Christmases and Graduations. Jay and Larry have both passed, however, I believe I speak for them as well when I say that Grand Junction is still home. Happy Colorado Day.
The day was November 26th 1988 – the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Mom, Dad and Grandma Tabor had the motorhome packed with their travel belongings after a few days of visiting and enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with them and my special “little sister” guest, Leisa. We had managed to fit in a huge holiday feast; the requisite shopping on Friday after, and of course, several rounds of Bingo at Papago Bingo. I had stuffed the traveling refrig with container after container of Thanksgiving leftovers. This was a special one as I had never known my mother to leave her home for that particular holiday. This was the first and only one in my life. One year she was sequestered on a murder trial as a jurist, and the judge had ordered the jury dismissed just for that day and they had to return to sequestration Thanksgiving night. Mom had made a detailed list of everything I needed to buy a week prior to the holiday with detailed instructions on how to prepare what and how and when – like I didn’t already know after being her right hand gal since the age of 10. Even on a several week jury trial, she still insisted that the family dinner would be held on North 18th Street, and no amount of reasoning was going to change her mind. And so it was. So, I was quite surprised when she called and said they were coming for Thanksgiving. Mom had suffered a bad bout of the flu in several weeks prior and I thought maybe she was just worn out. So, I didn’t question it. I was excited to host Thanksgiving at my house in Tucson. Of course she insisted that everything would be just as though we were in Grand Junction. She would do all of the cooking and baking. Gram was in charge of peeling 10 pounds of potatoes and I was charged with setting and decorating the table. I didn’t give a second thought to Mom’s comments here and there. “I do not ever want to die in Tucson.” When I said what an odd thing to say, she explained that we had that doctor here who transplanted hearts. And what if he took hers out and replaced it with someone who was mean? Would those unprincipled traits be transferred to her? I kind of just shrugged it off with a smile. We were sitting in the living room relaxing one afternoon, watching an old rerun of Designing Women where the ladies had designed a New Orleans style send off for a young friend who had died of Aids. Mom stated that she wanted her funeral to be like that with upbeat music and lots of flowers. Maybe I should have paid more attention.
After a nice breakfast at Coco’s, the three musketeers were on their way home. I didn’t envy them. The drive from Tucson to Grand unction is almost unbearable for me; hours of dry dusty desert with no cell or radio reception. It is, nicely put, miserable. They didn’t seem to mind. As long as Mom was in her motorhome, she was good. Cristopher was out with friends. Ricky was at a U of A game enjoying his time with friends in the kids Knothole Section. Bob and I were set to enjoy a movie night out with 4 year old Jeffry in tow. As the movie time slowly approached, Bob reminded me that we needed to get on our way. But, I felt uneasy and did not want to leave the house that night. When I relayed that to my husband, he just nodded okay and went about his evening. He was used to me changing my mind so nothing unusual about that.
If memory serves, it was around 7 in the early evening when the phone begin to ring. It was still in the time where the phone hung on the wall. Bob held the phone out saying it was my dad and if they had car problems, I was to find out where they were and he would be on his way. Before I put the phone to my ear, I quietly said to Bob “honey, my Mom is dead,” He just looked at me, admonishing me with his stare about the inappropriateness of making such a comment. As I lifted the phone to my hear, I could hear my Dad’s voice saying “Mom’s gone”.
I felt the tears as Daddy explained the chain of events leading up to this call. And then the blur of the night began. Laundry had to be done for five people making the 780 mile trek to western Colorado; arrangements had to be made for Jeffry to stay with my Tucson friend, Peggy for a week. Calls had to be made to my siblings. And in a flurry of tears and questions and travel arrangements, we finally fell into bed after midnight. And then came the long and drawn out sobs as Bob held me tightly until finally exhaustion and sleep took over. And this day was over.
The summer of 1958, you turned two years old. You were a joyful little towhead and my constant companion. Since I was a whole four years older than you, you thought I was the absolute boss of the universe and I seriously accepted that role. Larry was now the baby of the family and it seemed to me that given the very slight age difference of sixteen months, your babyhood was shortchanged. Babies take up so much time and since you were a toddler and potty trained, Larry naturally absorbed all of Mom’s available time, and you were left in the care of a six year old. We played “school” and even though I was only finishing the first grade, I would sit you down and you would obediently pick up a pencil and scribble on the paper and I pretended that you could write all of your numbers and letters as well as your name. Of course, I had the brightest student. I was the confident teacher and mother figure to you.
That confidence dissolved one afternoon in the split second action of a six year old. What began as a protective gesture from a six year old to her innocent charge turned into the first bodily injury to you, and a nightmare that still brings tears to my eyes.
There you were, sitting next to me on the top bunk in the bedroom. You were just playing with whatever this and that you found on the bed while I silently read my book. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched in horror as you placed the sharp hook end of a wire clothes hanger inside of your mouth. Thinking only that it was dangerous, I sprang into action and grabbed the hanger from your hand, not realizing that as I frantically pulled, the hook was scraping a hole through the inside of your cheek and literally collecting bits of fleshy tissue on the hanger itself. You did not realize the pain until, both of us looking at the blood and tissue on the hanger, began to cry. You immediately held out your arms for me to comfort you and we held each other as I cried in stark realization of what I had done to my baby brother and you screeched in unimaginable pain. Blood from your baby mouth poured onto both of us and the bed as well. I am certain it was merely seconds until Mom appeared and all I remember of that was Mom angrily screaming at me and you crying as she pulled you out of my arms and into safety – away from me. You were not taken to the emergency room. Mom called Dr. Tupper and he told her how to care for the wound with hydrogen peroxide (more baby screams) and some baby aspirin to help with the pain. After what seemed like hours, but was probably more like several minutes, you had cried yourself out and drifted off to sleep in Mom’s arms.
Aside from overwhelming guilt, I also knew I was in big trouble. In our house, there was never such thing as an “accident”. If milk was spilled at the dinner table (and with six kids, it often was), it was spilled because someone was “horsing around”. If something got torn or broken, it was because someone didn’t care how many hours Daddy had to work to pay for things. And, if someone got hurt, it was because someone else was just being mean.
I wasn’t allowed to come near you. I sat, sobbing to sniffling and back to sobbing, in the living room waiting for Dad to come home in answer to Mom’s call that “Connie ripped Markie’s mouth with a clothes hanger”, somehow making it sound like a planned action. I only feared disappointment from Daddy, as it was his strict belief and rule, that girls should never be spanked. I hated the thought that he would be upset and disappointed with me for what I had done. But, he was a reasonable man and I was certain that he would understand the situation as I explained. Not so.
No explanation on my part was solicited or allowed. As I was ready to defend myself to Daddy, I was told to shut up and get in the car. I had no shoes on as was the custom for most kids on a sunny Colorado summer day. I dutifully followed instructions and walked barefoot to the car and slid in the back seat. I never questioned where we were going – actually, never even thought to do so. But what happened next left me shaken and wounded both physically and mentally.
The State Home and Training School located in what was then the far outskirts of town, consisted of several buildings housing and educating around 800 adults and children with different levels of what was then referred to as “mental retardation”. I volunteered close to 100 hours at the facility in my teen years, but at the age of six, I was totally unaware of the building and its use. So, when my Daddy told me that high fenced compound was an orphanage, what else was I to believe? The gates were locked and no car was allowed to enter without a security code. But, what I was told was that the gate was closed for the day, and since I was being given to the orphanage, I would need to wait until they “opened” in the morning. Since I had no shoes, Daddy carried me over to a concrete slab outside the fence which was probably about nine square feet, stood me up, returned back to the car and drove away. I remember standing for quite a while, watching for the car to appear. After about an hour, I started to cry while walking around the little slab and then sat for a few minutes and then resume pacing. Since it was early evening when Daddy even got home from work, the sun was now beginning to set. It wasn’t near dark, but being such a prissy little girl who was deathly afraid of any kind of bug, terror fully encompassed me. It was getting darker still, so that I could not see more than a few feet in front of my face, when I saw headlights approaching. I desperately wanted it to be Daddy so I could back to the safety of my bedroom. By the same token, I was furious that my normally over-protective father would place me in that type of situation. He knew how afraid I was of insects and lizards, and yet he left me there with no protection. And worse yet, I felt insecure, unloved, and unnecessary. There were other occurrences between my Daddy and I; and each one of these chipped away at my self-esteem and for my entire life, I tried to build myself up in his eyes. I never really thought I did.
Daddy remained seated in the driver’s seat staring ahead at the empty road. I waited for a moment before I walked barefoot through the thistles and atop the jagged little rocks, fearing that if I approached the car uninvited, I would be turned away. The drive home took about thirty minutes. I ran from the car into the house and immediately drew a warm bubble bath to soak the dirt from my feet and the pain in my heart before I could settle into my bed for the night. I do not recall either parent speaking to me about that day and night ever again. It was as though nothing ever happened.
The next morning I was happily awakened by your little hands resting on my cheeks and your toddler words “wake up, Sissy. I hungry!” Music to my heart.
a gdovin girl's perspective 