Difference in religion

In the Midwest, especially up until the 1980s or so (and still even a bit today), a powerful demarcation existed between several Christian denominations. Pentecostals were primarily African-Americans. Fundamentalist non-denominational Christians—or “born agains”—were white fanatics. Roman Catholics were the other, as well, with their priests, monks, nuns and popes. Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians and Lutherans were normal. At least that’s how it was in my family. We were Lutheran—German Lutheran—from my father’s German roots. My parents were married in the Methodist Church that my mother and her family loosely attended. Once married, however, she converted to Lutheran, as this was then considered her wifely duty.

When my mom’s oldest friends became Jehovah’s Witnesses, there was a kind of hushed acceptance, except it was weird that they no longer celebrated Christmas or Easter. As a child, I had no idea what that was all about, but they were still our friends. That’s all that mattered to me. My father—a police officer—also worked with a Jewish man, and our families participated in several activities together. However, I recall no specific instances where it came up, living in happy ignorance that the Hesses were simply our friends. (I was very glad of this, as Mrs. Hess owned the local soft-serve ice cream stand.)

Growing up, religious difference was accompanied by some prejudice. I recall being in eighth grade and making a comment in drafting class that went along the lines of, “You know about some Catholics.” Fortunately, for me there was a lesson here. The Roman Catholic teacher heard me. “What about ‘some Catholics’?” he growled. Since I was simply repeating something I’d heard without really knowing anything Roman Catholic doctrine, I was caught. The teacher then made a couple of strong comments that I don’t recall, and concluded with “It’s like saying Protestants are ‘holier than thou.’” (I do think that this interaction transformed the way I thought and felt about other people and their faiths, as well as discrimination in general.)

Oddly, this activity occurred long after Roman Catholicism entered my own immediate family. In 1972, my great-grandmother Leta moved into Sacred Heart Home for the Aged, a Roman Catholic senior residence. In those days, they were called “old folks’ homes.” She was in her late 70s and realized that she would need care and support soon.

However, there were severe separations between Roman Catholics and other Christians during that time, especially in suburban Ohio. While she could watch her beloved Billy Graham and other such preachers on TV, she was prevented from joining her home’s Christian community. In 1975 or so, she informed the family that she was going to convert to Roman Catholicism.

As I was still a child—but one with big ears, I add—I recall more a sense of dread and maybe a little betrayal than acceptance of her decision. She wanted to go to church regularly, participate in a Christian community and take communion. I don’t think she ever noted that she wanted to be a Roman Catholic, and floating between my parents, grandparents and anyone else involved in the conversation was the word “convenient.” And it also seems to me that no one at the Home was actively recruiting here. All of this made it more palatable. Ironically, Leta’s son Dale and his family were Roman Catholic, and no one ever talked about that. So she converted and became a part of her residence’s Christian community. When she passed away in 1984, her priest officiated at the service. No one batted an eye.

My Birth Day

Today, December 28, is my birthday. I was born the day after Leta’s eighth husband Richard Eckman died. They had been married only three short years of marriage. He was sixty-six (66) years old. They lived in Toledo, Ohio.

On December 27, in the middle of the night, Richard rose from bed to use the toilet. While in there, he had a fatal heart attack. Leta either heard him or wondered why he had not returned to bed. When he didn’t respond to her calls, she got up from bed and found him lying on the floor, as cold as the tiles.

How she felt at that moment, I can only imagine: immediate despair; a “not again” anguish (Robert Fields, husband number five also died of a heart attack in their home); or did she simply take a deep breath and call for an ambulance with incredible calm?

Getting dressed, the ambulance, telephoning both of their children, the funeral arrangements, the funeral, the mourning, the empty house—all these things filled her next few days. And along came Jerry—me, that is.

Less than 24 hours after Richard’s death, my mother went into labor. Basically, it was near the end of the day. Unlike the previous day’s shock, everyone expected this activity. My parents made the phone calls with nearly everyone still awake. Vivian took my three-year-old brother. (My maternal grandmother had four teenagers still at home and a full-time job. While she couldn’t take on a child for several days, she could meet them at the hospital.)

A helpful explanation here: I am the second oldest of my generation, my previously mentioned brother being the oldest. My parents are both the oldest in their family, married and had two children before the next sibling (my mom’s next oldest sister) married. (Incidentally, my sister is fourth oldest, nearly tied with our oldest cousin). If that wasn’t enough impetus to bring the grandparents and anyone else who could be awake to the hospital for the event, there was also the factor that my brother was born with severe allergies. He had extremely sensitive skin and required certain kinds of physical attention. (There was most distinctly the nasty smelling goop they had to bathe him in.)

My mother recalls a small complication during her labor, but then I was born—boy number two—at about 5:30am on December 28.

At that time, it was hospital practice for the mother and baby to remain in the hospital for five days. While we had many visitors (after all, I was born during Christmas break from school for all my aunts and uncles), my mother remembers that Leta was with her nearly all day every day.

In the midst of death and sadness for her, Leta sought my mother’s company and the life—mine—that had just begun.  And to my knowledge, thus far, she never married again.

A Christmas story, part three

The week before Christmas saw only a little indication of the impending holiday in Leta’s son Dale’s household--a poinsettia from a friend and some paper snowflakes that his two little girls had made. While the family—including the extended family—mourned the recent death of Dale and his wife Kathryn’s little boy, Leta’s daughter Vivian had instigated a few measures for the holiday, particularly for her young nieces. While Kathryn’s sisters and mother provided the soothing companionship necessary for the grieving mother, Vivian and Leta did the Christmas shopping and holiday baking.

Vivian recognized that allowing her brother’s home to become void of the holiday would lead young, impressionable minds to take on the blame. Losing their brother and observing and experiencing their mother’s great grief was enough. While Vivian accepted Kathryn’s own deep mourning, having had her own experiences of child-loss through a number of miscarriages, taking care of the little ones was still essential. Leta gladly partnered with her daughter to do what she could.

On this particular evening, Leta took Dale and his five-year-old daughter Connie to pick out a Christmas tree, accompanied by Claud, the man she was dating. When they arrived with the tree, they found Kathryn sitting in her usual spot in the dark living room, staring into her sorrow. She started at their sudden blast of Christmas joy, her melancholy transforming into fury. After several carefully placed glares, she turned her attention to Connie and escorted the child up the stairs to bed, taking all of the sound with her. All this happened so quickly, that the others barely had time to register their surprise. Dale and Claud were still standing in the doorway with the Christmas tree, and Leta stood slightly to the side, her own understanding of Kathryn’s harsh reaction growing quickly.

Finally, Dale spoke.

“If you’ll help me set this up before you go, I’d appreciate it,” he said.

Leta was silent, wrapped in the fury of Kathryn’s intimations.

“Ma?’ Dale said and then repeated more forcefully, cutting through the bonds.

“Of course,” Leta agreed. “Before we go, let’s not forget the food in the car. That beef stew will make a good supper for you tomorrow.”

“It was delicious,” Claud gushed.

Claud had met them at the tree lot, and followed them in his own automobile. After rearranging the furniture to accommodate the tree and securing it in its stand, Leta and Claud headed out. Once in the car, Claud made a suggestion.

“I don’t know about you, but I sure could use a drink” he said. “Is there a nice place around here?”

“I’m tired, Claud,” Leta replied. “I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned. “Although I’m not entirely sure what actually went on just now, I did note a kind of disdain in Dale’s wife’s attitude toward you.”

“Kathryn’s grieving, Claud. Her boy just died. It’s Christmas-time, too, and she can only act happy within limits. I think tonight she reached her limit.”

“But Leta,” he persisted. “There was something else. Even I felt something. Dale couldn’t get us out of there fast enough. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with you.”

“No,” she disagreed, “it wasn’t you specifically. It’s me.”

“What did you do? You bought them a Christmas tree. You’ve spent hours shopping for her. You make them food all the time. What could she possibly have against you?”

“I think she blames me.”

“For the death of her little boy?”

“I think this is about her belief that God is punishing her—for my sins,” she explained.

“Leta, that’s crazy talk,” Claud cautioned.

“Maybe,” she answered. “It’s not like I’m the best person in the world. None of them think I was a good mother. And I have led a different kind of life than what most people agree is acceptable. When Dale and Kathryn first started courting, everything was fine. I had Vivian, and Don was just a baby. I looked like the perfect grandmother.”

“You are the perfect grandmother,” he said.

“Please, don’t interrupt,” she urged. “I’m telling you something here.”

Claud leaned back in his seat to listen. She spoke evenly, staring at the headlight’s reflection on the road.

“Kathryn was a sweet girl, a little protected from the world maybe, naïve, but cheerful, and Dale needed that. Everyone around him was so serious all the time—his father, grandmother definitely, even Vivian. Kathryn, though, had an infectious laugh that ran through from her belly into her head. Dale used to try to make her laugh, which was quite a challenge for him, but he did. And they laughed and laughed. But her family didn’t approve, not of Dale—they really liked him—but of me. I had quite a reputation then. Most women who were unmarried are supposed to follow a certain way of living, and instead I liked to go out for a drink and meet people. I even had a job. And I was divorced. They’re Roman Catholic, you know, and divorce is a sin. They never said anything directly, but they were very obvious about their distaste for me, and they warned her. Connecting with my family was a step into heartbreak. That was hard on Kathryn. She really loved Dale, and he loved her. He was so afraid to propose to her, but I encouraged him. He deserved his happiness, and so did she. Plus, I do love a love story.

“He did it the proper way. First, he spoke to her father, did all the right things, talking about his job, his aspirations, his morality and how much he adored her and wanted to spend his life taking care of her. The old man was skeptical, so Dale played his ace. He offered to convert. It wasn’t much of a conversion. He wasn’t very religious to begin with, so becoming Catholic was just fine for him. And the father agreed. Once Dale became a Catholic, he would have his blessing. Kathryn accepted the proposal. Again, Dale wanted to do this right and read in a magazine about giving a woman a ring for the engagement, so he and I went to the jewelry store, and he bought one for her. He didn’t have much money, but it was nice, and she was thrilled.

“But all of them—her entire family—believed that sinners get punished, and my sins could be visited on anyone in the family. And while I think Kathryn and I developed a fine relationship, that fear that God would punish has always lingered. And now it seems like maybe I have.”

“That’s nonsense,” Claud said definitively.

“It’s what they believe,” she noted.

“What about you?”

“Sometimes, I do. God is just, Claud.”

They drove in silence for a few moments.

“Jesus Christ! I definitely need a drink now,” Claud finally declared, “and you do, too.”

On Christmas Day, Claud proposed to her, and she readily agreed, and the day after Vivian’s birthday, they drove to Angola, Indiana where they were married by a justice of the peace.

THE END

A Christmas story, part two

It was a particularly difficult Christmas, particularly for Leta’s daughter-in-law Kathryn and son Dale. On the day before Thanksgiving their only son died. Kathryn had fallen into a deep state of mourning; it was all she could do to get up in the morning and fulfill the most basic needs of her young daughters. Mostly, she sat in the dark living room, staring into regret and loss. She had no sense of the holiday, even as her little girls, ages two and five, began to fear that Santa Claus was going to pass them by this year. While Dale struggled with his own sense of loss, he tried to respect his wife’s deep sadness, hold his family together and keep moving forward.

Kathryn’s sisters and mother took on the primary task of housekeeping and childcare. Leta and Vivian provided meals and special needs. One evening, after Kathryn had gone to bed, they sat with Dale, who had just started thinking about how to reintroduce Christmas into his home. His older daughter Connie, in particular, had noted with no little concern the absence.

Always one to provide assistance where needed, Vivian offered, with her mother’s participation, to manage the Christmas shopping and wrapping. Leta agreed immediately.

Dale, Leta noticed, had risen in his chair during Vivian’s offer, and she could practically hear him accepting the kind offer with his next breath.

“Of course,” Leta added, “you need to talk it over with Kathryn.”

“Of course,” Vivian concurred.

By this time, Dale was nearly beside himself with the prospect.

“Thank you. I will. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, and I’ll give you a call, Viv,” he said.

“That’s fine,” Vivian agreed.

With this in place, Dale eagerly consumed the rest of the cookies that Vivian had brought, as if he were a 12-year-old boy.

The next morning he telephoned Vivian to inform her that Kathryn consented. Whether she did this immediately or after some persuasion by her husband and thoughtful consideration, Leta never knew. What she did know was that despite her current grief, her daughter-in-law was a loving mother, and that love for her daughters would not allow her to let them suffer for her own desolation.

Over the subsequent week, she and Vivian had a marvelous time shopping. Having only a son at home and her own heartbreak over having no additional children as a lingering companion, Vivian pursued the task with relish. For the first time in her life, she was actually looking at toys and clothes for girls. Her delight in the activity fueled Leta’s own spirited temperament, and they spent hours perusing all the many options in the department stores and other shops. During this week of furious activity, Vivian had even had the appropriate conversations with her nieces to learn what their own wishes were.

While all this was going on, Leta’s spirits were also on the rise, and in short order she had her own home decorated and commenced her own holiday baking. Her husband Claud caught the contagious glow, as well, and made himself quite useful to her.

A week before Christmas, Kathryn agreed to have a tree, and Leta offered to pay for it. So one evening, she, Claud, Dale and five-year-old Connie went tree shopping while Kathryn stayed home with little Chrissie who was running a slight fever. When they returned with it, Kathryn was sitting in the dark living room, sipping a glass of wine, caught up in her melancholy. If it had made any impact on her sensibility, she might have even regretted allowing the tree or any indication of celebration into her house. The blusteriness of their arrival shocked her. When they banged into the house and flicked on the lights, she jumped from her seat, as if the cold wind slapped her right in the face. First, she glared at Dale, then the tree and, gasped at Claud who was helping Dale with the tree, and finally with a malevolence that nearly slapped back, glared at her mother-in-law, who had dared to bring her paramour into their home life. Leta felt immediately uncomfortable.

She understood the look. It was blame. Filled with customary Roman Catholic guilt at the death of her son, Kathryn was, without saying a word, blaming her. The sins of the grandmother were waged on little Sonny. When Kathryn met and married Dale, Leta was a single woman with a reputation for being too intimate with men to whom she was not married. Kathryn also held an assumption that Leta was a poor parent to Dale and Vivian, having subjected them to her indelicate lifestyle for several years before abandoning them altogether. These sorts of sinful choices, according to Kathryn’s faith, would create repercussions for Leta’s family, and with the death of her only son, as well as Vivian’s childbearing problems, Kathryn felt in her grief that this must be the punishment.

And now, to add more injury, the wicked, scandalous woman had brought her current companion du jour into a house of mourning.

Dale and Claud stood in the doorway with the tree, realizing that something was troubling Kathryn, but not knowing what.

“Mommy,” Connie said, gently taking her mother’s hand, “isn’t it pretty? Grandma Fields bought it for us. Now we can have our own Christmas tree, so Santa Claus will know where to put our presents.”

Kathryn looked at her older daughter’s glowing face with a tear in her eye. “That’s right, darling. You have been a good girl, and Santa is sure to visit you this year.”

Connie threw her arms around her mother. “I promise, Mommy, to be good forever and ever!”

“I thought we could put it right in the front window, as usual,” Dale suggested to his wife. “What do you think?”

“That would be fine,” Kathryn agreed.

Then she rose.

“It’s time I put this good little girl to bed.”

She never even said hello to Leta or Claud. After grabbing Connie’s hand firmly, she escorted her daughter up the stairs while the other adults watched.

END OF PART 2

A Christmas story, part one

By early November, Claud had still not proposed, and Leta wondered if he would. Even her daughter Vivian, always so unintrusive, began to question the future of this relationship, asking as politely as she could one morning while they were making themselves new dresses for Christmas. Leta had found a pattern she particularly liked, a style that she believed would flatter her daughter’s curvy figure. Vivian was so pleased that she decided to adapt the pattern to make a similar dress for her mother. Subsequently, they got together twice a week for fittings and to sew. Both enjoyed the time together.

“How is Claud?” Vivian asked, tacking a sleeve.

“Fine,” Leta answered, pinning on a bit of lace to the bodice. “Do you like this?”

Vivian took a good look at the dress and the final product of the future. “Pretty.”

Vivian had a couple of pins in her mouth, so Leta hoped this would be the end of the conversation. A few moments later, Vivian spoke again.

“You two have been courting for how many months now?” she asked.

“Since May,” she answered. Clearly, they were going to have some kind of conversation, in spite of her covert distraction from the subject.

“And you see each other…?”

“Two or three times a week is all.”

“And you like him?”

“He makes me laugh.”

Having said this, Leta remembered a perfectly good joke and chortled to herself. It was too salacious to share with her more prudent daughter.

“Is that what you want in your life, Mom?” Vivian questioned. “Someone to make you laugh?”

Leta paused a moment, realizing that, yes, this is what she needed in her life at the time—a few smiles, jokes, laughter and simple friendliness from a man.

“Now that I think about it,” she answered, “yes, dear, I think that a little laughter, a walk in the park and a pleasant meal companion every now and then is exactly what I want right now.”

Vivian stopped sewing and looked hard at her, finally taking a deep breath and returning to her work. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” Leta repeated firmly. “Are you finished with the sewing machine?”

Vivian never brought the subject up again. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to, for only a week later, Leta’s four-year old grandson, the second child of her son and daughter-in-law, took ill quite suddenly and died on the day before Thanksgiving.

They were all devastated, most notably, of course, her daughter-in-law Kathryn. While the immediate days were spent on the funeral with family and friends about offering their sympathies, presence and food, by the beginning of December the reality set in.

Although Leta and Vivian spent time with Kathryn, who was still mother to two other children, one in kindergarten and the other a toddler, they found themselves pushed aside in favor of Kathryn’s own sisters and omnipresent mother. Truthfully, Leta felt uncomfortable around her daughter-in-law’s family. Staunch Roman Catholics, they seemed extremely judgmental of her, as a divorced woman with two additional late husbands. And Leta also knew that there was still a lingering disapproval that Kathryn married her son Dale, even after he converted to Roman Catholicism.

Baby-sitting and child-care duties fell on Kathryn’s sisters and companionship to the grieving mother was taken up by her own mother. For their part, Leta and Vivian prepared meals and helped keep the house clean, but they always seemed to be, at least to Leta, interlopers. If she had her druthers, she would have become simply a more frequent visitor, rather than a caregiver, but Vivian’s natural inclination was to take care of others, and so they were there.

One mid-December evening, when Dale was home, the three of them were sitting in his barren living room. Kathryn had put the children to bed and taken to her own, professing a headache. They sipped coffee and nibbled a few early cookies Vivian made—sugar walnut cookies, her specialty. Dale picked up a cookie, and sighed with great melancholy.

“Here it is,” he pronounced, “the only hint in this entire house that Christmas is only two weeks away.”

Leta herself was surprised by the comment. She had barely noticed the growing Christmas festivities herself. Sure, she had been shopping with Vivian and even purchased most of the gifts she would be sharing with her children and grandchildren, but she had done all this in a kind of stupor, without fully registering that they were well into the holiday season. Vivian, of course, was in the midst of decorating her home, but Leta had not removed one box of decorations from the closet for her own, and she hadn’t once considered her holiday baking.

“I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” Dale continued. “Kathryn hasn’t even acknowledged the season, and today, Connie asked me if Santa Claus would come to a house without a Christmas tree.”

Having said this, he dropped more deeply into his seat.

Vivian looked at her mother then turned to her brother.

“We can do the shopping for you,” she offered. She paused a moment to gauge his reaction; he didn’t recoil. “That is, if you think it can help, right Mom?”

“Of course. Definitely, We can do that,” Leta agreed, quite surprised herself.

“Buy the gifts, wrap them, and then you can pick them up from Mom’s on Christmas Eve,” Vivian continued. “We can take care of all of it.”

END OF PART ONE.

African Violets

Although Leta always liked cherry blossoms and roses for their fragrance, the African violet was her favorite flower. The cherry blossoms were seasonal, so one couldn’t get them in a bouquet. And, of course, nearly everyone liked roses, which did work well in a bouquet and were available any time of year. But the African violet was a different story.

The African violet was a relatively new houseplant choice in 1922. Her soon-to-be second husband Albert Mohr, noting that she liked to keep a few houseplants, gave her one for her birthday. She was still married to Ralph at the time, but separated. Albert gave her a second plant for their first Christmas as a married couple that same year. While she was taken by the flowering plant, she never much considered it special until after Albert’s murder in 1927. From that time forward, she always kept two to four plants, even after she retired to the senior residence in 1972.

The flowering plant, originating in the cloud forests of Tanzania in Africa, was a friendly, easygoing houseplant of the genus saintpaulia. In fact, that’s what she always called them, her “resident saintpaulia,” as if the great Apostle was always present to guide her.

Over the years, she kept several notes on its care, acquired through experience, experimentation and conversation. It didn’t require direct sunlight, but good light. The best way to water the plant was from below—that is, put water in the saucer and never directly on the leaves. The water needed to be room temperature. This is owing to its original climate with its lukewarm rains and steady mild temperature.

The hard part was that the flower required its own soil and fertilizer. Regular houseplant soil and fertilizer were too chlorinated and salty for this hearty plant. While the plant may live, it wouldn’t thrive or bloom. And the African violet isn’t very pretty when not blooming. Her African violets bloomed a lot.

Once a year, she repotted her plants. At this time, she also propagated at least one, occasionally counting how many generations she had maintained over the years.

She also developed several forms of care for her precious flowering plant. To kill bugs, for example, one could squirt them with Black Flag®, or better yet, mix one teaspoon of Ammonia with two quarts of water. NNOR Garden Spray also worked if it was diluted properly—one-half teaspoon into one quart of water 10° warmer than room temperature. She only used this method when the insects were persistent. It required a regiment: spray with force all parts of the plant and then wet the soil thoroughly. Spray every ten days for two or three times. Then once a month when cleaned. The spray mixture always needed to be fresh, or it would damage the leaves. To get them to bloom, she mixed one teaspoon of Epsom salts in one quart of water.

While botanists developed various flower colors over the years, she always preferred the purple colored ones.  “They are called ‘violet’ after all,” she noted.

Seven husbands - well...

Leta's niece June, my sister Michelle's great-grandmother-in-law, believed that Leta was married eleven times. My own grandfather, Leta’s son-in-law, had told me seven. As he remembered several when he set me on my quest to research her life and create this work, I used his number as a guide. Plus I suppose, even to me, eleven seemed a bit excessive and, well, embarrassing. She was my beloved great-grandmother, after all, and religious, as am I. It was enough to know that she was married seven times and dated other men.

Over the course of the past few months, I have been piecing together her life and marriage time-line from a variety of sources, and every time I visit the Oakland Family History Center, a county courthouse or cemetery, I learn more detail.

As a writer, I know that when it comes to fascinating lives, I couldn’t make up anything equal to what actually happened, nor do I want to—until, well, the historic sources or leads dry up. Right now I am glad that I haven’t given up and been proved right again.

Most recently, after a somewhat long, fruitless research period at the Family History Center, I started to look for the elusive seventh husband: The chicken farmer with 12 children Leta married for one week. The only point of reference I had was that my grandparents were married at the time, so this occurred after 1936. Although I know that her fourth husband Bob Fields died in 1946, I do not yet know when or how her marriage to husband number three Ora Freeman (from 1927) concluded, nor when she married Mr. Fields. These puzzle pieces are still part of my research, and I was stuck.

So I tried a new tactic. As women generally change their surnames with marriage, I typed into the search engine for Ohio Marriages, “Leta Freeman.” (Actually, I was working my way through her known last names.)

Whoa! I didn’t find out what I was looking for specifically, but I did find husband number seven – or rather, husband number four.

On March 2, 1929, Leta Freeman married Leech F. Hoose of New London, Ohio in Wood County, Ohio. The groom, age 32, listed his marital status as widowed, and the bride, age 35, listed her status as divorced.

Mr. Leech IS NOT the aforementioned chicken farmer. He IS a new discovery, and husband number eight, the fourth man she married. Right now this bumps Bob Fields to five, Claud Bassett to six, chicken farmer with 12 kids to seven and Richard Eckman to eight (I’m guessing that chicken farmer most likely comes between Fields and Bassett or now, Leech and Fields.)

For now this is all I know, but having been rejuvenated by this discovery, I am eager to pursue more (as well as reconfigure a bit the structure of the novel already in process). Between this marriage in 1929 and the death of Robert Fields (to whom she was married during World War II) in 1946, Leta’s life could include, well, almost anything!

See, I couldn’t have made this up.

Leta's home remedies

It seems to me that Leta was a practical and pragmatic person. She was not a pack rat. Of the few things she left after she passed on, I received her Bible, which she must have received in the late 1940s. It includes the information of her marriage to Claud Bassett, husband number five (in 1948). It also includes a list of birth dates of her family members down to her great-granddaughter Jennifer (born in 1965 or after; there’s no date on that one).

In addition, she included a few notes, written on scattered pages. These notes include some home remedies that someone must have shared with her. Perhaps having nothing else to write on, she found a little spot to record such things as a wart remedy: “rub bacon rind on wart; throw it over left shoulder. Wart will disappear.” I believe the note indicates that after rubbing the bacon on the wart, the bacon should be thrown over the left shoulder. (I guess one did this outside or immediately after picked up the used bacon to dispose of. I can’t quite imagine that she left bacon lying on the kitchen floor.)

Another note is actually a recipe for liniment, which, according to her directions, could be used for sprains or rheumatism:

“1/2 pint of turpentine

1/2 pint vinegar

2 crushed egg shells

Beat with an egg beater until frothy.

Bottle.

Rub in well.

Put on hot wet rags. Wrap in dry towel.”

This is actually written under a note separated by a line that says: “Hanson’s Disease is Leprosy.” I am telling myself that she wrote this note while in a Bible study about the Savior and his Apostles healing lepers. I really haven’t figured that one out yet.

She has two notes on burns:

“1.       In case you have burnt the tip of your finger, tightly grip your ear lobe.

 2.       Cut a piece of onion and keep it over the burnt area. Very effective. Provides instant relief.” (But what about the smell?)

Perhaps she had dandruff, for she includes a remedy for that: “Combine two tablespoons of vinegar and six tablespoons of hot water. Apply with cotton ball to the scalp. Keep this overnight and wash off your hair next morning.”

She also writes that the best way to clean a comb is ammonia water.

Beautiful Inside and Out, Part 2

"What changed?" I asked her.

“Honey, believe it or not, I have no idea,” she said with a shake of her head and shrug of her shoulders.

On this particularly sunny spring afternoon, my great-grandmother and I were walking in the garden of the assisted living residence where she lived. I was on break from college and caught her in a rueful mood - or she was trying to teach me a lesson. I wasn't sure which.

This started with a simple statement: “I used to be pretty. Then one morning I woke up, and I was ugly.” She believed her sister-in-law, a conservative Christian, foretold it, and the same for her brother Aaron, who was a drinker and gambler. Aaron, she had just noted, stopped his ugly behavior, and I wondered why.

 “He never said,” she answered, “and well, we never asked. Neither Florence nor I. It happened so gradually, I think, that we almost didn’t notice. One evening my husband and I were visiting, and I was feeling pretty thirsty. Florence wouldn’t allow any alcohol in the house, so I suggested we go the Flat Iron bar for a beer, and Aaron said he’d rather just have cake and coffee and stay home. And that was that."

She faltered for a moment, and seemed to be drawing back to herself and her own life. In that moment, she seemed not only frail, but also regretful.

"He never turned ugly," she concluded.

A blink later she grabbed my arm and proceeded with renewed vigor, returning to the energy I remember her having before she moved to the senior residence.

"Now my daughter your grandmother was beautiful,” she declared, “both on the outside and inside. She could draw all the eyes in a room to her, and more than that. She had humility. She never used her beauty or her charm for a selfish reason. And she was stately. "

Of course, like any grandchild, I believed my grandmother came directly from heaven, fashioned out of the most blessed stuff that God had available. While my own memories of her warmed my soul, my great-grandmother continued.

"Your mom—she’s beautiful, too. You know that, right?"

"Of course, Grandma," I said. "Every child thinks his mother is the most beautiful woman in the world."

"That's not what I mean," she snapped, "and you know it. You know things. Your mom is special. And do you know why?”

Without waiting for me to reply, she continued. "Because for both your mother and grandmother, their beauty goes all the way through. It’s not held in their faces or their bodies, but in their souls.  And even if other people don't fully realize it, they sense it."

By this time, we returned to her room, and I helped her sit in her chair before handing her a glass of water.

"Thank you," she acknowledged. "You're a good boy."

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't mock me!" she ordered, and I stepped back. Then she relaxed.

She looked tired, so I indicated that this might be a good time for me to depart. She nodded, and turned her head toward her own thoughts and memories. These moods sometimes concerned me. Each time they happened I felt as though she was moving closer to another realm, leaving this place where we were together a little more each time.

"Would you like me to turn the television on?" I asked.

"No, thank you."

I waited a moment for her to acknowledge me, but she never stirred. Was her mind full or simply empty, I wondered. Either way it seemed like melancholy, and I felt badly for instigating it.

"I guess I'll be leaving then," I said.

I moved slowly. First, I gave her a moment to respond; she didn't. Then I walked over to her and gave her the customary kiss on the cheek; more out of habit than willful participation, she turned her head to offer the cheek to me. I waited there a moment and then patted her hand.

"See you the next time," I said.

I took a deep breath and headed for the door; I was nearly gone when she spoke.

"When you get home, take a good look at your mother’s face. A real good look," she instructed. "Better yet, just give her a big hug. Watch her face light up. I tell you, she’s a Helen of Troy, blessed by God. And I want you to always remember that."

Beautiful Inside and Out, Part 1

"Look at me. I used to be pretty," my great-grandmother said to me when I was visiting her in the assisted living center.

I had dropped in one sunny spring afternoon during my spring break from college. While she welcomed me with a smile and a kiss initially, her secondary response was to slap me across the shoulder, because she wasn't ready to receive visitors. She immediately put on some lipstick and then turned to her thinning hair. That 's when she started talking.

“Some might even say beautiful," she continued. "I would say I was someone who knew how to look beautiful when the situation or need arose. Stunning. Drawing attention to myself. I liked to have men look at me." She smiled at her former self in the mirror.

Then she put the brush down and then took a good look at herself in the mirror.

“Then one morning I woke up, and I was ugly.”

“Grandma!” I scolded.

“No, it’s true,” she interrupted. “I was ugly and old. My hair was white and getting dry. I had bags around my eyes, and this long eyebrow whisker. That I could fix, but the other, it was just me. There was nothing I could do about it.”

She went to her closet and selected a sweater. Holding it up, she turned to me.

"Will this be enough?" she asked.

I nodded. "It's nice out."

She pursed her lips. "Nice for you or nice for me?" she inquired. "Remember, honey, you're a very warm-blooded man, and I am a reptile."

"Warm blooded with very cold hands, you mean," I corrected. "Warm enough for you, in a sweater."

I offered her my arm and escorted her out of her room, down the hall and into the facility's garden.

“They used to say, ‘ugly is as ugly does,’” she continued, as I helped her into her sweater, “and I was ugly on the inside. Florence, my sister-in-law, warned me. You remember her, Aaron's wife? 'Leta,’ she said, ‘you are a beautiful woman, and I can’t help but think that all this running around is going to come back to you one of these days.’ She didn't say anything else, but I knew what she meant. How I was living was dark and ugly. I wasn’t married at the time, and she didn’t think a single woman should be consorting with the kind of men I was with, you see. They were rough types, you know, and some were even married, and I knew it. But it didn’t stop me. In those days, women who went with men weren’t respected very much.”

“Grandma, even today, women who date a lot of men aren’t respected,” I shared.

“But it’s different for men,” she noted, “except, come to think of it, Florence used to tell her husband Aaron that he was ugly on the inside, too, and one day, if he didn't change his ways, it would surface.”

“Did it?” I asked.

“Not that he was ever very handsome, even if he was my brother, but no, it never showed up in him,” she answered. “But he stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“One afternoon he just came home from work, kissed Florence on the cheek, planted himself in his easy chair to read the paper and never went back to the Flat Iron Bar where he used to spend a lot of time or anywhere else again,” she said.”

Thanksgiving

My father's family is relatively small. His parents each have only one sibling, and he has two siblings. In addition, my father’s siblings are significantly younger than he is. His brother Larry is 12 years younger and his sister Linda is 14 years younger. My own parents married at ages 19 (mother) and 21 (father) respectively. They started having children immediately. Consequently, Larry is closer in age to my older brother Jeff than to my dad, and Linda is closer in age to me. When I was a child, they were teenagers, babysitters and playmates.

Like most couples, my parents had to arrange their holiday time with their respective parents and birth families, so we spent different Thanksgivings at different grandparents’ homes.  While she may have alternated Thanksgiving dinners between her two children right after Richard Eckman died in 1963, once she moved into the senior facility in 1972, her Thanksgivings were spent with her daughter Vivian’s—my—family.

Those dinners (in fact, all family meals in the Metzker household) went something like this:

We had an afternoon meal for which my grandmother Vivian, with the help of her daughter Linda, did all of the preparations. While she baked cookies and other treats, no one can seem to remember whether or not she made the pies (my mother’s specialty), although we had them.

We would eat at the large cherry wood dining room table, using both the good china and silver. Each of us had our assigned places. My grandfather Ed would sit at the head of the table; to his right, nearest the kitchen sat my grandmother Vivian. Next to her sat Linda, then Leta, and then Larry (until his relationship with his high school sweetheart moved into long-term—engagement and marriage—when she sat there. Her name is Linda; we call her Linda Jo). When Linda Jo joined the family, Larry moved around to the foot of the table. My father Don always sat at the foot of the table. Coming from the foot to the head up the opposite side from my grandmother were my siblings and I—Jeff closest to Don, then me in the middle, then Michelle closest to our mother Pat, who sat at my grandfather’s left.

Grandmother Vivian or Grandfather Ed would carve the turkey in the kitchen, and she would serve it on a large platter. We also had all of the standard Ohio fixings: stuffing (in the turkey and also cooked separately), mashed potatoes and gravy, noodles, corn, Waldorf salad, cranberry sauce (jellied from a can), rolls and sweet potatoes. (Our family sweet potatoes were boiled, peeled, sliced into large chunks, and then sautéed in butter and brown sugar.) Because it was a holiday, all of the kids got a small taste of sweet wine.

For dessert, we had our choice of usually three kinds of pie: pumpkin of course, cherry (my father Don’s favorite) and mincemeat (the American version—that is, with fruit in it).

After eating, the women would clean up and do the dishes, while the men went into the living room to watch football. Don would invariably fall asleep (unless he was working that day—he was a police officer). My sister and I would occupy ourselves until it was time for Grandmother Vivian to play with us. She taught us a game we only played on holidays. It involved playing cards and chips (or pennies—she had a stash of them in a jar and would let us keep whatever we ended with), and was simple and elaborate at the same time. At about 5:30 p.m., we’d have turkey sandwiches and then, shortly thereafter, completely stuffed and thoroughly happy, we’d go home.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Seven husbands - #3

While a lack of actual history might seem to be an ideal opportunity for a writer to invent, most writers would agree that more often than not, actuality (or fact) provides far more fodder to a creative enterprise. The phrases, “I couldn’t make this stuff up!” or “The truth is stranger than fiction” apply here.

As nearly all of the persons in my story have passed on, and those remaining were children during the greater part of my great-grandmother’s life, I am endeavoring to acquire the facts and then build on them. After all, seven times married between 1913 and 1969 is intriguing, if not sensational, enough to warrant interest. The more historic details I can uncover the richer the texture of this biographical novel I am undertaking. My job, as I see it, is to fill in the details. Knowing how long Leta was married to a specific husband, as well as his background and marriages (before or after) are terrific fodder for the creative process.

So here is an update on Leta’s husbands and marriages (see blog entries of September 9 & 14, 2010 for the introduction). My sincerest apologies for repeating previous information.

Leta Scott (age 19) married Ralph Chetister (age 21) on April 19, 1913. Both were born and raised in Ohio. They had two children (Vivian in 1913 and Dale in 1916). Leta filed for divorce, which was granted on November 8, 1922. Ralph subsequently married Eunice Tinkle (born June 12, 1895 in Moreland, Indiana. She died on August 26, 1934. I do not know their marriage date or location. As he was living in Toledo at the time, I hope a trip to the county courthouse yields the answer.

On November 22, 1922, just two weeks after her divorce from Ralph was finalized, Leta married Albert Mohr. She was 28 years old. Albert was born on June 20, 1885 in Toledo, Ohio. This was his first marriage. He was murdered just outside their home on June 4, 1927.

Six months later on December 27, 1927, Leta married husband number three, Ora Freeman. Ora, a house painter, was born on October 10, 1885 in Michigan. Although he was married previously, I have so far been unsuccessful in locating the dates and details of that marriage. I have been equally unsuccessful in learning how this marriage ended, whether Ora died or they divorced. All I know is that after early 1929, Leta’s children Vivian and Dale moved in with their father, stepmother and grandmother.

Robert Fields, husband number four, was born on November 14, 1893 in Butte, MT. He died on June 19, 1946 of a heart attack, while he was married to Leta. I still do not know when and where they were married.

Leta married Claud N. Bassett, husband number five, on December 30, 1948. He had been previously married to Bertha R. Kohlman, from March 21, 1907 (in Palmyra, Lenawee, Michigan) until after the 1930 census. I do not yet know how this first marriage concluded. Leta and Claud divorced on October 15, 1952, and she returned to the surname of Fields. Claud died on August 11, 1953.

On September 22, 1960, Leta married her sixth husband, Richard Adrian (or Adrian Richard) Eckman. I have not yet been able to ascertain if there are two different individuals, because the information is so similar. Richard/Adrian was born on February 27, 1894 in Toledo, Ohio to Albert and Daisy. On August 8, 1917, he married Sadie Edwards of San Francisco in Lucas County, Ohio. Both noted that they had been married previously. The 1930 Census lists Adrian (born 1894/1895) and Lillian Eckman as the parents of three young children: Richard, Albert and William. I am still trying to sort this one out. Richard/Adrian died on December 27, 1963, about 28 hours before I was born. 

There is still a mysterious seventh husband to whom Leta was reportedly married for one week. As the timeline has worked itself out, it seems more and more likely that this husband would have come between Claud Bassett (divorced 1952) and Richard/Adrian (1960), or possibly in the period between Ora Freeman and Robert Fields. The only other information I have is that it was after her daughter Vivian married, and that was September 14, 1936. Apparently, he was a farmer with 12 children.

Making Whiskey

Having been approved by 36 of the 48 U.S. states (75%), the 18^th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified on January 16, 1919. Although President Woodrow Wilson initially vetoed it, Congress overrode the veto, and the new law went into effect on January 16, 1920.

This Amendment states, “the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into, or the exportation thereof from the United States and all territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof for beverage purposes is hereby prohibited.” In addition, “The Congress and the several States shall have concurrent power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.”

That’s it—Prohibition. While those with initiative and the financial capability created personal stockpiles before the sale and transporting became illegal, others relied on the Black Market, managed by the Mob. And for example, by 1935 in New York City, there were anywhere from 30,000 to 100,000 speakeasy clubs—i.e. secret clubs where “members” could purchase alcohol.

For those not as well placed geographically, financially less capable or simply more enterprising, this meant that if they wanted alcohol to drink after the Amendment went into effect (for it wasn’t illegal to drink alcohol), they had to secretly make their own for themselves. Thus, the sale of implements and even ingredients to make gin, whiskey or beer still became lucrative business, as well. Gin was quite popular, as it was clear and easily disguised with a variety of juices and colorings.

Bricks—or blocks—of wine also became very popular, and accordingly, grape growers in California increased their area about 700% in the first five years of Prohibition to meet the demand for “grape juice.” The juice was packaged and distributed as an actual block with the instruction to dissolve in a gallon of water. The label also included a warning that the liquid should not be placed in a jug away in the cupboard for twenty days or it might turn to wine, thereby providing appropriate distilling instructions.

In November 1922, almost three full years into Prohibition, Leta Chetister officially divorced her husband Ralph and married Albert Mohr. While there is no information on whether she was a supporter or detractor of the law before her second marriage, according to family lore Leta and Ralph built a whiskey still, which they most likely used for their own libation and additional income. (Albert worked in a factory, and Leta took care of their home and her two children.) As far as any in the family know, Leta and Albert managed this enterprise until his murder in June 1927. My current research thus far has yielded no connection between the whiskey making and Albert’s murder.

I do know that in 1925, Ralph filed for custody of the two children, but withdrew his petition two weeks later. I have not yet been able to learn when he married his second wife Eunice Tinkle, so I don’t know if this coincides with his marriage, is related to Leta and Albert’s whiskey-making or he had some other motive. In any case, it is highly likely that the distillery activity ceased either at the death of Albert (when Leta and the children moved) or upon her marriage to Ora Freeman in December 1927.

As for the 18^th Amendment, it was handily repealed on December 5, 1933. Eight months after President Franklin Roosevelt signed the Cullen-Harrison Act, which legalized the manufacture and sale of 3.2 beer. On the day after he signed the legislation, the president received a case of 3.2 beer from Anheuser-Busch, Inc. delivered by a team of the world-famous Clydesdale horses directly to the White House.

Historical & Research Frustration

While I understand that family history research is often a frustrating activity, I am currently stymied by the several dead-ends that I seem to have encountered in my last few forays into the databases and records. And I fear that I am now looping—that is, following the same trails repeatedly.

For example, my father and his siblings all recall an Aunt Mabel, sister to Leta, who lived in Vancouver. In Leta’s Bible, there is even a bookmark from Mabel. However, this is all I have been able to uncover about this sibling. The 1890 census was destroyed, and she is not listed in the 1900 census with the rest of the family. Actually, this census shows Julia Scott as divorced and head of household with four children still at home (Aaron, Nellie, Louise and Leta). The 1920 census has David and Julia as being married with two children at home: Louise and Leta. No Mabel.

Using this information, I supposed that Mabel could likely be a half-sister, born to David and a different mother. This would make her younger than Leta (although if he had an affair with this woman while married to Julia, then she could be older). As she lived part of her adult life in Canada, I went into Canadian birth and marriage records, finding a Mabel Scott with a father named David and a mother named Margaret/Maggie. This seemed to be quite a good lead; however, after some cross-checking, this Mabel Scott (and another I located) were both children in larger families with long-term married parents. These families ran historically parallel to my own, making them unrelated.

And that leaves me with a mysterious Aunt Mabel, most likely born to David Scott, who lived as an adult in Vancouver. I don’t know if she was older or younger than Leta (who was born in 1894), if her surname was Scott, whether she married or not, or how she got to Canada (born there or moved there). Quite a puzzle.

I have also run into several other puzzles, which I have not been able to solve:

Leta married her third husband Ora Freeman in 1927; he was born on October 10, 1885 and divorced. However, I have been unable to learn when and how their marriage concluded—were they divorced or did he die? What I do know is that something happened in around 1929/1930, because Leta sent her children to live with their father and grandmother at that time. I also wonder about his prior marriage and family (if he had one).

Although I know when and how her fourth husband, Robert Fields died in 1946 and that he was born in Butte, Montana in 1893, I cannot find their marriage record or any other information about him. I do know that they were not married in Toledo/Lucas County, because I searched those records.

As for husband number five, Claud Bassett, I know a bit more. He was born in 1886 in Kalamazoo, Michigan, married Leta in 1948 in Angola, Indiana. They divorced in 1952, I would like to know when he died, and about any previous or subsequent marriages.

I know her last husband, Richard Eckman, was married previously, but I am curious about his prior family. Was he divorced or widowed? Although there were children, I do not know how many. One of the points of confusion is that his name is Richard Adrian Eckman, and that I continue to run across Adrian Richard Eckman who may or may not be the same person.

As for the mysterious one-week husband, I am not even sure where in the timeline he falls. I’ve been basically in this information state for over a month.

On the other hand, while reviewing the 1900 census document that listed Julia Scott in Millbury, Ohio, the last name of the first listing on the page caught my curiosity. It is Simon and Nettie Metzker with their four children—Louzetta, Ethel, Willie and Simon. Willie—or William—was my grandfather Edward’s father. Basically, when they were children, my paternal grandparents’ (Vivian and Edward) parents (Leta and William, respectively) were neighbors for a time. As no one in my family has EVER mentioned that, I doubt if they even remembered.

Raisin cookie recipe, Part 2

After an afternoon of card-playing, snacking, a great supper, and my favorite raisin-filled cookies with my grandmother, I felt like the day could not get any better. I pushed myself back from the table, too full to get up, too full to return to my own car, drive home and tackle my home work, too full to even help her clean up the table and sighed in contentment. She smiled at me. She was seated across the table and had basically watched me eat the cookies as if my life depended on it. I think she ate one small cookie herself.

“You better get yourself a piece of paper and pencil,” she said.

“Grandma,” I moaned, “I don’t think I can move.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m pretty sure you’ll want to write down the recipe.”

“What?” I said, perking up.

“I know you are a smart kid, but I don’t think you’ll be able to remember it all.”

“You’re going to give me the recipe?”

“You better get your paper and pencil.”

She kept these in a kitchen drawer with her playing cards, rubber bands, scissors and tape. I had just been in there to put away the implements we used in our afternoon card-playing.

So I sprang up, retrieved the necessary implements and returned to the table.

She was holding a dishcloth.

“Don’t get food on your paper,” she instructed, as she handed me the dishcloth. I quickly wiped up crumbs, a few drops of tea and a splotch of gravy that was hardening. I dried off the semi-wet table with my sleeve. She looked at me and shook her head, but she understood I was excited.

Then she recited from memory her recipe. I am glad I selected a pencil, because she had to adjust a few ingredients and measurements as she went along. At the conclusion, I read what I wrote and she made a couple of adjustments. Like all good recipes a couple of the ingredients depended on whether she had any on hand, and others she varied depending on what she felt might taste better this time.

“You’re not leaving anything out, are you?” I asked, “just so that no one could ever make the cookies you made?” I was a little suspicious, because when we got to the mixing part, she said she put all the ingredients into the bowl at the same time and simply mixed them up with her hands. (“I just roll up my sleeves and stick my hands right in there,” she said.)

“There’s only one way to find out,” she answered.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said. “This is great!”

“You’re welcome,” she answered. Now, don’t you think you better get yourself home to finish your homework. It’s getting late, and you have school tomorrow.

“May I—?” I began before she interrupted.

“Here,” she said. “You can take these home with you. Make sure you give one to your mother.”

While I had been distracted or concentrating on the recipe, she had retrieved a Tupperware container from the cupboard and handed it to me.

“I will.”

Raisin cookie recipe, Part 1

I've never been able to recreate my great-grandmother’s raisin-filled cookies, at least not the expert way that she made them, nor to my knowledge has anyone else in the family. Further, everyone in my family each has a slightly different recipe, which each of us has selfishly protected from each other. We only knew of the differences from a conversation at her wake. And to top it off, in all my travels, adventures and acquaintances I have never heard of anyone else who heard of this cookie, let alone made it.

The raisin-filled was a sandwich cookie comprised of a light and thick pastry with a dense raisin filling. She would roll out half the dough, pour the filling over it and then cover with the other half of the dough, also rolled. Then bake. In the baking process, the dough would absorb some of the sweet tang of the raisin mixture. At least, that’s what we thought, since she never let anyone watch her make them. And she made them entirely from memory.

I know from the time I was in junior high and took up baking that I wanted that recipe. My mother didn’t have it; no one I knew had it. And every time I asked my great-grandmother to share, she actually made the cookies! I learned later from my mother, who for some reason was never interested in the recipe herself, that the recipe was the only one Leta received from her mother, and she only made them as a special treat for Christmas. When I learned this, I was grateful that Leta had elected not to follow that tradition.

One Sunday evening, we were sitting in her kitchen, having just finished an afternoon of card-playing, gabbing, and a terrific dinner of city chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and milk cabbage (which she liked, but I only pretended to in order to keep her from trying to convince me I was wrong), she asked me if I was ready for dessert.

“Sure,” I said, expecting ice cream or perhaps a few pieces of the ribbon candy she always had around. (I had no idea where she got that stuff; I never saw it for sale anywhere. Was there some secret old lady store where she shopped? My sister and I called it “old lady candy.”) Earlier in the afternoon I rummaged through the cupboards for a snack, which she hated, but I did anyway when she was out of the room. All I found was a container of that lousy ribbon candy.

She went into the cupboard where she kept baking supplies and brought out her metal sheet cake pan with the sliding metal top, set it on the table and slid open the lid.

“Raisin cookies!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you even made any.”

“And you weren’t expecting them either, were you?” she inquired with a sly smile in her blue eyes.

“You never mentioned them,” I said nonchalantly, my mouth salivating at the prospect of devouring five or six with my tea.

“Uh huh, but when you snooped you didn’t see them,” she prodded.

“Well, I…,” I stammered.

“I know you snoop through the cupboards when I’m not in the room,” she informed me with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Yes, for a snack—but… but not in that cupboard!”

“I know. That’s why I put them there.”

I suddenly felt like I was five years old and looked up at her in astonishment. Was I that obvious? And then I was concerned. She hated for anyone to go searching through her anything in her house—cupboards, drawers, closets—and I had been snooping for two years, secretly, and she knew all the time. Was she going to slam me for it? Then again, she still gave me the cookies. What was she up to?

“You better start before your tea gets cold,” she said finally.

And she watched me eat. I think she felt no little satisfaction that I could and would eat so many.

Family Changes

On February 27, 1976, Vivian Chetister Metzker, attentive wife, dedicated mother, loving grandmother, devoted daughter, compassionate friend and city leader died from complications after a hip replacement surgery. It was a blood clot. For the surgery, the doctors took her off her blood-thinning medicine, and the medical technology at the time was not advanced enough to scan her for any. It happened quickly on a Friday. She reported having some difficulty breathing during her morning walk, lay down and shortly thereafter passed away.

For her grandchildren—my siblings and I—this was particularly devastating. We were scheduled to visit her in the hospital on Saturday. This would have been the first time we saw her since she went in a week earlier. We had made cards, bought presents, were ready to shower her with healing love. We didn’t get the opportunity. The loss set each of us adrift in her/his own way for many years.

Sadly, even though the circumstance of Vivian’s death was quite clear, there was a lot of blame that rode through the Metzker family. Grief can do that to people. And she, in particular, was the powerful glue that held the family together (and it wasn’t an easy job). For a long time, we all seemed to be a bit disconnected from each other, and we were a small family, which made the sudden apparent distance quite prominent for the duration. We did, however, continue with our tradition of Christmas Day together. Leta even joined us.

In June of that same year, my parents divorced. They had been separated since before Christmas, but with my grandmother’s indomitable will, as well as the Metzker family name and reputation as a kind of beacon, there was still a glimmer of hope that reconciliation was possible. At that time, in a small Ohio town divorce was a bit scandalous on its own. That my family was a “leading family” in the community, and my grandfather Ed Metzker was one of the city’s founders made the situation far touchier.  However, the divorce went through and later that year each of my parents married another.

These two events altered our family relationship with Grandma Eckman--Leta. First, her caregiving and primary family connection moved to her son Dale and his wife Kathryn. Secondly, as she and my grandfather never really got along, what little relationship they had dissipated. Third, my mother was officially not her grand-daughter-in-law any longer. Fourth, my mother married someone else in November and became responsible for blending a new family. My siblings and I lived with our mother and step-father (except for a two-month stint during the winter of 1977, where I lived with my father and step-mother). My step-father had four children, two of whom also lived with us.

However, my mother continued to visit Grandma Eckman faithfully, taking us along with her, as well as her own new little boy Nathan (born in 1978). When we were old enough, my sister and I would visit on our own, even taking our friends with us sometimes. After all, she was our great-grandmother, and we believed in family.

Restaurant Manager, Part 3

While the bar and restaurant owner was checking on his sole waitress Emily, Leta continued her conversation with Emily’s brash young fiancé. She had originally begun speaking to him to diffuse what she sensed might be a physical altercation, it as in speaking to the young man that got her dander up. He was proving himself to be an overbearing and potentially repressive husband, and while she had him to herself, she thought she could help out—gently. The young man had already been drinking quite a bit, so the first step had been to change his beverage from beer to root beer, and now she was addressing his incorrigible behavior. Leta hinted that she didn’t think he was treating Emily well.

 “I do treat her right!” the young man exclaimed defensively.

“You do?” Leta asked skeptically. “You arranged beforehand to pick her up when she got off tonight?”

“No,” he answered sullenly.

“Then you at least brought her flowers to surprise her?”

“No.”

“You walked into the restaurant, smiled and made sure she wasn’t busy working before you started talking?”

“But that trucker was in there alone with her! I—“

“—You got all hot and bothered, didn’t you?”

The young man bowed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t slouch,” Leta said firmly. “It doesn’t become you.”

He obeyed.

“Here’s my advice,” she said. “If you want to keep that girl, if you want to marry her, have babies with her and keep her from resenting you, then start treating her like she’s a person. Or you’re going to lose her.”

“But she loves me.”

“Listen to me,” Leta said sharply. “Sure, she’ll marry you. She’ll have kids with you, but she won’t keep loving you. And you will know the difference.”

In her mind, Leta heard herself add, Or she’ll divorce you and turn out like me. Very rarely did Leta get this flashes of insecurity and unhappiness. Her resolve, her own self-worth, her own instinct for survival most frequently rejected such thoughts before they formed. But sometimes a situation overwhelmed her. Without realizing it, she felt twinges of uncertainty and regret, and if she was in a very dark mood, even blame. Here she was, fifty-one years old, unmarried, with two grown children and four grandchildren, yet all alone in the world. In her current situation, she had little too do, barely enough money to keep her, but not enough activity. And that made her bored, listless and reckless.

However, her darker thoughts were quickly diverted when the owner came storming back into the bar, rolling a string of obscenities that she hadn’t heard from a man’s mouth in a long time.

The young man jumped up to protect his girl, should the need arise, and Leta immediately grabbed his arm.

“Charlie?” she asked loudly. “What is it?”

“A catastrophe is what it is,” he snarled. “I go in there for a simple cup of coffee and to check on Emily, and—“

The young man jumped up again. “—Is she all right?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Leta said, pulling him back down into his seat.

They both looked at the owner expectantly.

“Four of ‘em, can you believe it?” he continued. “Hungry as wolves. What am I gonna do? All we got is soup, and all Emily can make is toast. I’m done. It’s all been shot to hell. How am I gonna get friend chicken?”

“Fried chicken?” Leta asked.

“Yeah, four starving men wanting fried chicken, mashed potatoes—the works. God Dammit all to hell!”

He pounded his fist onto the counter for emphasis.

Leta felt completely level-headed.

“First, do you have any chicken?”

“Four of ‘em.”

“Are they cleaned?”

“In the icebox.”

“You owe me, Charlie,” she said, as she finished off her root beer, gathered her things and stood. She turned to the young man. “As for you,” she directed, “finish your root beer, go home and come back in two hours—sober—with flowers, something, I don’t care what for your girl. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Now, Charlie,” show me where all this chicken is, so I can get to work.”