Tag: GDOVIN John (Jay) Douglas

September 7, 1947

Published on by a gdovin girl

Happy Heavenly 76th anniversary.

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.

Colorado became a state on August 1, 1876

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I think there is hardly a more beautiful state than the peaks and valleys of Colorado.

Mt Garfield

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.

 

happy Anniversary

Published on by a gdovin girl

April 5, 1971

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 license. 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) McCulley. 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 have my heart forever.

1967 – Bob

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If memory serves, September 5, 1967 was the first day of high school and the first time we met. You were a tough looking street kid with a smart-assed attitude. I am not sure just why I was drawn to you at the time, but I was. I was modest and not at all street-wise and obviously reared in an entirely different environment than you experienced. You clearly showed an interest in me with your playful glances and funny comments. My older brother, Jay, put it this way: “here you were, Miss Polly Pure Heart and along came this James Dean wanna be with cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve and a beer in hand.  Of course you were going to fall for him.”

To say you did not always attend first hour geometry class would be an understatement of immense proportion. To put it in plain speak, you rarely attended most classes. I found myself distracted when you were not in Geometry class. It was the only class we ever had together and even though geometry was a difficult subject for me to grasp (and still is), I felt more confident and at ease when you actually did show up for class. I guess even then, barely knowing each other, you somehow made me feel comfortable and protected. I tried not to let you see that side of me, but I think you had it all figured out.  And, yes, I did know that you stared at my legs most of the class time.

I often wondered why you never finished your sophomore year. I know you did not experience the support of a family at home. Looking back, I think you were lost and possibly felt you had nothing to offer high school and high school had nothing to offer your life. You worked. You drank way too much. You dated the wrong girls (well, of course I would say that) and you wandered. I never even realized in my naiveté, there was even a choice on attending school. It was a given in my life and I never thought of it any other way. You, like geometry, were a foreign concept. I am not sure that I have ever figured you out completely.

At the beginning of the summer of 1968, my younger brothers, Mark and Larry, had quickly grown restless of the empty days and wanted to make some money. I put my creative skills to work and made some advertising on index cards offering their services for yard work and included our phone number and their names. The boys took all afternoon walking the nearby neighborhoods and placing their cards on front doors. They were so excited when they got their first job offer, even though it contained a rather odd request to “bring your sister” with them. Mom told me to go with them the next morning and see what this crazy lunatic wanted. And there you have the difference between my Mom and other Moms. She sent her 16 year old daughter to check out the “lunatic” (her term, not mine) and I went without question. I walked with them three blocks from our home only to realize that you were the lunatic to whom my Mom referred.

They worked on your yard a few days a week and I found myself accompanying them most of the time. You soon won Mark and Larry over with your antics (actually, I would classify it as bullying, however, they thought it was fun) and they became comfortable enough with you that you would awake to water running in your basement early in the morning. They found a pipe that was open and sticking up in the front yard and did what any normal 12 and 11 year old boy would do. They stuck the hose down the pipe to see what would happen! Antics work both ways.

As you became more comfortable around me, you would stop by my house when you knew I would be home. My routine was to awake at 8am, grab something for breakfast, a magazine and my baby oil, don my little white and red ruffled two piece and lie on the patio sipping water, reading and enjoying the heat on my body. This was before the time of sunscreen and skin cancer scares. In fact, the advertisers actually encouraged readers to bronze up and teenage competition was fierce to have the best tan. I was a willing participant and I normally did have the best tan. Since I worked as a hospital nurse’s aide from 3 pm – 11 pm, I had the advantage of the morning and early afternoon sun rays.

Evenings that I did not work, would find you at my house entertaining my younger siblings or watching my Mom and Grandma at the dining room table, working on a jigsaw puzzle. On a few occasions when I was allowed to leave the house with you (Daddy was certain you were some kind of teenage punk and my Mom was convinced you were responsible for the junior high school fire the year before), we would take long walks, and I swear I thought my heart would jump out of my chest when you took my hand. I lived for those evenings and thought of nothing else.

Time passed way too fast and with it I knew the time with you would become limited because I would still work four or five days a week and maintain a full schedule for my junior year. I did not know, however, that you had talked your Mother into signing a waiver so you could join the Army at the age of 17. I was mortified. This was during the war in Vietnam and having my oldest brother in the Army was scary enough; and now you. I was hurt and furious all at the same time. You didn’t even tell me until the day you were actually leaving. Driving up to my street in a borrowed truck, you leaned out of the window and flatly queried, “Are you going to kiss me good-bye? I am leaving for the Army tonight. That was our first kiss and came with anger and tears – not like my other first kisses. This first kiss was with someone that I truly cared about – loved. And this someone, you, did not bother to include me in your plans, to share an uncertain future. So, while you had time to mull this decision over, I literally had a few hours to compose myself, pick up my friend, Mary Svaldi,  for support, and get to the airport to say good-bye.

I thought we would have some time together while we waited for the plane. Instead, I was faced with a table full of people who I did not know and who never bothered to introduce themselves to me. There was no meaningful good-bye. No Casa Blanca moment. No “we’ll always have Paris”. I turned and left when your flight was called and didn’t look back. Not more than five or six times, anyway.

You broke my heart that night.

I expected a dramatic good-bye with tears, embraces and promises of a future life. Everything I ever saw in old movies all rolled up into an airport good-bye. Didn’t happen. Of course, you were forgiven when I got a letter the next day and almost every day after that. There were the phone calls, often very late at night, prompting my Mom to shout loudly into the phone, on more than one occasion “you can tell that idiot not to call after 10”. She may have used a few other words in her not so ladylike comments.

You were born with fluid on the lungs, so being assigned to a base in the humid state of Kentucky; it was inevitable that you would develop a severe case of pneumonia. After several weeks in the base infirmary, you were honorably discharged and on your way home. Or, so I thought. You ended up in Texas with one of your street buddies, working as a fry cook, drinking and fighting. As a youngster, your father taught you to fight rather than talk. He abused you. You learned to fight at a young age and seemed to actually enjoy the physical altercations. After a letter or two from Texas, we just lost touch.  It was too difficult to maintain this long distance relationship again.  I was young enough to still have crushes on other boys and I liked dating.  You can’t really enjoy a date when you live hundreds of miles apart.

Several months later, I passed by your old house and  my head swirled in memories. Why did I always get that funny feeling and rapid heartbeat when I passed your old house?  Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to write you a letter knowing that the post office would forward it if at all possible. After a short walk to the far end of my neighborhood to drop the letter in the bright red corner mailbox, I returned home just in time to receive a phone call from you. We had not seen or talked or written to each other for almost a year. And the day I decided to write you a letter, you called. Even today, you can bring a smile to my face when you sing “my baby – she wrote me a letter”.

The rest, as they say – although I am never sure of whom “they” are – is history.

1967 – meeting Bob

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If memory serves, September 5, 1967 was the first day of high school and the first time we met. You were a tough looking street kid with a smart-assed attitude. I am not sure just why I was drawn to you at the time, but I was. I was modest and not at all street-wise and obviously reared in an entirely different environment than you experienced. You clearly showed an interest in me with your playful glances and funny comments. My older brother, Jay, put it this way: “here you were, Miss Pollyanna and along came this James Dean wanna be with cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve and a beer in hand.  Of course you were going to fall for him.”

To say you did not always attend first hour geometry class would be an understatement of immense proportion. To put it in plain speak, you rarely attended most classes. I found myself distracted when you were not in Geometry class. It was the only class we ever had together and even though geometry was a difficult subject for me to grasp (and still is), I felt more confident and at ease when you actually did show up for class. I guess even then, barely knowing each other, you somehow made me feel comfortable and protected. I tried not to let you see that side of me, but I think you had it all figured out.  And, yes, I did know that you stared at my legs most of the class time.

I often wondered why you never finished your sophomore year. I know you did not experience the support of a family at home. Looking back, I think you were lost and possibly felt you had nothing to offer high school and high school had nothing to offer your life. You worked. You drank way too much. You dated the wrong girls (well, of course I would say that) and you wandered. I never even realized in my naiveté, there was even a choice on attending school. It was a given in my life and I never thought of it any other way. You, like geometry, were a foreign concept. I am not sure that I have ever figured you out completely.

At the beginning of the summer of 1968, my younger brothers, Mark and Larry, had quickly grown restless of the empty days and wanted to make some money. I put my creative skills to work and made some advertising on index cards offering their services for yard work and included our phone number and their names. The boys took all afternoon walking the nearby neighborhoods and placing their cards on front doors. They were so excited when they got their first job offer, even though it contained a rather odd request to “bring your sister” with them. Mom told me to go with them the next morning and see what this crazy lunatic wanted. And there you have the difference between my Mom and other Moms. She sent her 15 year old daughter to check out the “lunatic” (her term, not mine) and I went without question. I walked with them three blocks from our home only to realize that you were the lunatic to whom my Mom referred.

They worked on your yard a few days a week and I found myself accompanying them most of the time. You soon won Mark and Larry over with your antics (actually, I would classify it as bullying, however, they thought it was fun) and they became comfortable enough with you that you would awake to water running in your basement early in the morning. They found a pipe that was open and sticking up in the front yard and did what any normal 12 and 11 year old boy would do. They stuck the hose down the pipe to see what would happen! Antics work both ways.

As you became more comfortable around me, you would stop by my house when you knew I would be home. My summer routine was to awake at 8am, grab something for breakfast, a magazine and my baby oil, don my little white and red ruffled two piece and lie on the patio sipping water, reading and enjoying the heat on my body. This was before the time of sunscreen and skin cancer scares. In fact, the advertisers actually encouraged readers to bronze up and teenage competition was fierce to have the best tan. I was a willing participant and I normally did have the best tan. Since I worked as a hospital nurse’s aide from 3 pm – 11 pm, I had the advantage of the morning and early afternoon sun rays.

Evenings that I did not work, would find you at my house entertaining my younger siblings or watching my Mom and Grandma at the dining room table, working on a jigsaw puzzle. On a few occasions when I was allowed to leave the house with you (Daddy was certain you were some kind of teenage punk and my Mom was convinced you were responsible for the junior high school fire the year before), we would take long walks, and I swear I thought my heart would jump out of my chest when you took my hand. I lived for those evenings and thought of nothing else.

Time passed way too fast and with it I knew the time with you would become limited because I would still work four or five days a week and maintain a full schedule for my junior year. I did not know, however, that you had talked your Mother into signing a waiver so you could join the Army at the age of 17. I was mortified. This was during the war in Vietnam and having my oldest brother in the Army was scary enough; and now you. I was hurt and furious all at the same time. You didn’t even tell me until the day you were actually leaving. Driving up to my street in a borrowed truck, you leaned out of the window and flatly queried, “Are you going to kiss me good-bye? I am leaving for the Army tonight. That was our first kiss and came with anger and tears – not like my other first kisses. This first kiss was with someone that I truly cared about – loved. And this someone, you, did not bother to include me in your plans, to share an uncertain future. So, while you had time to mull this decision over, I literally had a few hours to compose myself, pick up my friend, Mary Svaldi,  for support, and get to the airport to say good-bye.

I thought we would have some time together while we waited for the plane. Instead, I was faced with a table full of people who I did not know and who never bothered to introduce themselves to me. There was no meaningful good-bye. No Casa Blanca moment. No “we’ll always have Paris”. I turned and left when your flight was called and didn’t look back. Not more than five or six times, anyway.

You broke my heart that night.

I expected a dramatic good-bye with tears, embraces and promises of a future life. Everything I ever saw in old movies all rolled up into an airport good-bye. Didn’t happen. Of course, you were forgiven when I got a letter the next day and almost every day after that. There were the phone calls, often very late at night, prompting my Mom to shout loudly into the phone, on more than one occasion “you can tell that idiot not to call after 10”. She may have used a few other words in her not so ladylike comments.

You were born with fluid on the lungs, so being assigned to a base in the humid state of Kentucky; it was inevitable that you would develop a severe case of pneumonia. After several weeks in the base infirmary, you were honorably discharged and on your way home. Or, so I thought. You ended up in Texas with one of your street buddies, working as a fry cook, drinking and fighting. As a youngster, your father taught you to fight rather than talk. He abused you. You learned to fight at a young age and seemed to actually enjoy the physical altercations. After a letter or two from Texas, we just lost touch.  It was too difficult to maintain this long distance relationship again.  I was young enough to still have crushes on other boys and I liked dating.  You can’t really enjoy a date when you live hundreds of miles apart.

Several months later, I passed by your old house and  my head swirled in memories. Why did I always get that funny feeling and rapid heartbeat when I passed your old house?  Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to write you a letter knowing that the post office would forward it if at all possible. After a short walk to the far end of my neighborhood to drop the letter in the bright red corner mailbox, I returned home just in time to walk in the house to mom holding out the phone – “Bob’s on the phone”.   We had not seen or talked or written to each other for what seemed like an eternity.  And the day I decided to write you a letter, you called. Even today, you can bring a smile to my face when you sing “my baby – she wrote me a letter”.

The rest, as they say – although I am never sure of whom “they” are – is history.

Family History Links to Page for GDOVIN

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