The Secretary

Leta spent two months in Madison, Wisconsin. Charlie—that’s what she called him—had asked her to be his secretary on a project there, and she liked him well enough that she agreed. She didn’t really have any secretarial skills, but she was a good organizer and paid attention to detail. If he spoke slowly enough, she could take dictation. Charlie didn’t really want her for her secretarial skills anyway.

They had met several times at the Flat Iron when he was passing through on business. He would stop in for a few drinks, and she would talk to him. She was there on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Wednesdays, she would mind her sister-in-law Florence’s children during Bible study. On Fridays, they would have a family dinner at which she would have two or three glasses of bourbon, and then collapse into bed. Sundays was her day off. She would usually go to church, then meet one of her sisters—Louise or Nellie—for dinner, and to give “Aaron and Flo a break” from her intrusion into their household.

She had been staying with her brother and sister-in-law for six months—from September until March—six stressful and lonely months. She knew that she wasn’t an ideal situation, but she had no choice. She had left her husband, taken her children to their father’s and had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t an easy situation for any of them, except perhaps their two daughters. Lucille and June loved having their glamorous aunt in the house. For the most part, their mother Florence was pleased. She had her dearest friend with her, cooking, cleaning, laughing and sewing. Leta could sew beautifully, and assisted Florence in making several dresses for herself and her girls. Her brother Aaron also enjoyed Leta’s company, but disapproved of his younger sister’s behavior with men. She didn’t always approve of his behavior either. He spent two nights per week dealing cards in the backroom of the Flat Iron. Leta didn’t mind the card playing so much, but she feared that with the gambling element, he might be arrested. Over the months, they had several rows.

So Leta took breaks. She would meet a fellow at the Flat Iron or another speakeasy and spend anywhere from a night to a weekend to a week with him. She never asked if he was married, she never asked anything about her companion’s family. Most of their talk was comprised of mindless nothings, easily forgotten, as he was. Some of the men were traveling salesmen, like Charlie. He was based in Cleveland, but traveled throughout Northern Ohio. When he invited her to a business conference in Madison to assist him, she agreed immediately. Her decision was aided by an argument she had earlier that afternoon with her brother. And she had been sufficiently intoxicated to not really think about the choice she made.

Fortunately, it wasn’t a bad decision.

Charlie was a pleasant enough fellow, tall, cheerful and chatty. Most salesmen, she learned, were outgoing and full of stories of their adventures. The two of them took the train from Toledo to Chicago, spent a day there exploring the city, and then another train to Minneapolis, where they immediately transferred to the train to Madison. For reasons that were obvious to Leta, he wanted a sleeping car, but his company would not pay for it, so they sat side-by-side on a regular car. During a good part of the ride, she rested one of her hands in his lap. Three times during the trip, she had to wash her hand, and twice they went into the small lavatory together.

In Madison, Leta went with him everywhere—to every meeting and activity. He introduced her as his secretary. She took notes of the conversations, she filled out order forms, and she charmed his colleagues and clients. Her companion bought her two new dresses, shoes, pocketbooks and an elegant coat. He gave her the money to have her hair styled.

She had the time of her life.

Christmas with the Scotts

First, they went to church. It was Christmas Eve after all. Both girls sang in the children’s choir for the service. June enjoyed it much more than Lucille. Of course, she was only 10; whereas Lucille was 14 and in her own opinion too old for these kinds of things. They were Leta’s nieces, her brother Aaron and sister-in-law Florence’s two children. Leta had been living with them for nearly three months. She had been separated from her husband Leech Hoose and her own children Vivian and Dale for nearly three months. During the first month, she basically rambled, distraught and restless. She spent much of her time in a series of saloons in and around the Toledo area. When one of the gentlemen she met invited her to take an auto excursion with her to Buffalo for a week, she agreed. They passed by Niagara Falls. All that power, coursing in a rush to plummet over the side of a cliff, awed her. He took her further upriver, where she could see how it gathered momentum for its descent. There seemed no purpose in it.

“It is what it is,” her fellow stated matter-of-factly.

“Maybe the river has found an opportunity to rush to the ocean and has taken advantage of it,” she suggested.

“My dear, we are a far cry from the ocean. About 500 miles, I reckon.”

During a period of heavy rain at the beginning of October, she made her way to Aaron and Florence’s. It was late morning, a weekday. Aaron was at work, and the girls were in school. Florence was the only one home.

“Leta!” she gasped in surprise, when she opened the door.

“Hello, Flo,” Leta squeaked, not sure whether or not she would be welcome. After all she had done—leaving her husband Leech Hoose, delivering her own children to their father, and then basically disappearing for a month, giving her life completely over to drinking and men, and not very honorable men either—she wondered if her closest sibling—her best friend—would welcome her back.

“Oh my heavens!” Florence gasped. “You are a sight. You’re drenched through and through. “Come in here and get those wet clothes off before you catch your death of cold.”

Leta was carrying only a small satchel. The rest of her things, few as they were, had been left at the saloon where she had spent most of her time.

Florence took the bag and held the door open all the way for Leta to enter. Once Leta was inside, she closed the door behind them and dropped the satchel on to the floor, where it landed with a wet thud.

An hour later, after a hot bath, Leta sat at Florence’s table, dressed in her sister-in-law’s nightgown with a cup of steaming tea before her.

“I want you to drink down all that tea,” Florence insisted while she prepared lunch for them. “I am fixing you some soup, too. Land sakes, you were soaked through and through. Even your satchel was soaked. I had to ring out everything in it. How long were you out in that rain?”

Leta could not bear to tell her conservative Christian sister-in-law everything, so she told her a combination of truth and falsehood—the truth of leaving her husband, of deserting her children, but the falsehood that she had taken a room, where she wallowed in the misery of her circumstance until her money ran out. She could think of nowhere else to go and hoped that Florence and Aaron would take her in.

“Of course, of course,” Florence stated. When he arrived home, Aaron agreed, feeling a combination of compassion and pity for his little sister, who, after four tries, had not seemed to be able to find matrimony agreeable.

By Christmas, she was one of the family. Florence loved having her dear sister to talk to, cook with, sew with, clean with and go to church with. Leta was always an affable companion. Aaron enjoyed having a drinking buddy who was “a true Scott in a house of tea-totalers.” Of course, the girls were too young to imbibe, but they too were thrilled to have Aunt Leta around all the time. Leta’s playful demeanor and loud laughter had a welcome energizing effect on all of them.

She had earned a little money from sewing, and was able to purchase materials to make gifts for her cozy family. Because Florence insisted that the girls attend church on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Christmas evening, they exchanged their presents on Christmas Eve after the first service. She and Florence had prepared a light but warm supper. It was a frigid night, and Aaron was concerned about their being out in it, not being a churchgoer himself.

Leta made each of the girls and Florence blouses, and her brother Aaron a shirt. From her host family, she received fabric and materials to make two dresses. When she arrived, she had only three, and one had several worn spots. They all had oranges and hard candy, and laughed at June’s song-and-dance routine to “Jingle Bells.”

But when the presents were cleaned up, and the girls in bed, a huge wave of melancholy altered Leta’s mood instantaneously. She ached for her own children, for Vivian’s gentle smiles and Dale’s antics. Whether Aaron knew she was heading into a serious depression or he just wanted a companion, he stood quickly and stated forcefully, “How’s about a Christmas drink?”

Florence declined as usual and headed for bed, but Leta accepted. Over the next three hours, she helped her brother empty a bottle of whiskey, drinking the lion’s share herself. After the fourth drink, the anguish had turned into a dull ache, and by the sixth drink, she had achieved senselessness. How else, she asked herself, am I going to make it through this?

She made it, of course, by remaining in a semi-inebriated state for the rest of the holiday, attending all the church services she could and singing her heart out, and being as ridiculously silly as she could with her nieces. It was only one day after all, and on December 26, she awoke in a fog, feeling nauseous and empty. Her first Christmas without her children had passed, and she survived.

Homeless, part four

"What time is it?" Leta asked, although she was wearing a watch.

The man she had spent the night with was standing outside the bedroom door where she had just been dressing. While there was only one window in what passed as a living room in this small apartment, and the drapes were pulled tight, fairly sealing the residence from the outside world, Leta could see him better and more clearly than she had at the drinking establishment where they connected the previous evening. Plus, she was sober now, or nearly so.

He was dressed in the same clothes in which she met him. They weren’t plain, working man’s clothes, as she had first believed. They were shabby. His shirt was torn in the pocket and on one sleeve, missing a button where his belly protruded, and had several stains. His pants were once black, she supposed, but washing and wear had faded them to a dull gray with worn spots on his thighs and tears in both knees. His eyes were still blue, but bloodshot, and she could smell his breath. He had already had a drink or two since he rose from the bed only twenty minutes earlier.

He burped and didn’t excuse himself. His breath churned in the air so thickly she thought she could see it.

“Around noon,” he answered, inspecting her the same way she had been inspecting him. “Do you want to get some breakfast? I don’t got any food here.”

“Sure,” she answered but immediately regretted her response. What in the world was she thinking? This man held no interest for her? Why was she agreeing to have lunch with him? Shouldn’t she just tiptoe away and forget she had ever been here? Where was her dignity?

She must have grimaced, because her companion looked at her inquisitively. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, showing a slim smile, “I’m fine.”

“Then let’s get a move on,” he said. “I’m starving.”

He turned and headed toward the door. Before opening it, however, he abruptly turned back and put his hand up to prevent her from moving forward.

“Hold on,” he said. “I need to see if the coast is clear.”

He opened the door cautiously, and pushed his eyes into the hallway.

Up until that moment, she had mostly been feeling wicked and ashamed, but now she felt ridiculous. Her companion was a grown man, at least thirty years old. He was responsible for his own livelihood and morals, but instead of behaving with maturity and confidence, he was acting as though he needed to hide his transgressions, but from whom? His neighbors? His landlord?

“Maybe I should—“ she started to say, but he turned quickly and shushed her, pushing her back with his intensity. She simply stood there, like a statue for a few moments. She could almost hear someone in the hallway, maybe a door close.

Her companion turned to her. “Okay, let’s go.” He stooped slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller. Then he took her hand and led her into the hallway. “Be quick now,” he whispered. He quietly closed the door and led her to the stairs. Leta did not realize she had been walking on her toes until they reached them. They were on the third floor, but were out of the front door and on the sunny street before she took another breath. Once safely on the sidewalk, he relaxed completely.

“There now,” he said, as if he had just completed a difficult task. “The restaurant is just a few blocks down the street.”

After their late breakfast, Leta accompanied him to another blind pig, and before she knew it, she was tumbling out of his bed on Monday morning to make coffee before he went to work. When he returned from the shared toilet down the hall, he looked sluggish, and she felt the same. He barely drank a cup before he was grabbing his hat and heading for the door.

“I’m off,” he explained, stating the obvious. “You can take your time this morning, but be sure to turn the water faucet completely off before you go. It’ll drip if you don’t.”

Then he was gone, and Leta was left with the memories and feelings she had been avoiding all weekend—regret, frustration, disappointment, anger. She washed her face and then looked at herself in the mirror.

When she left her home on Friday, she was more concerned with making sure that the children had what they needed. As for herself, all of her clothing and keepsakes were still at the house—Leech Hoose’s house—and she needed to retrieve them. That must be her first task. In fact, she sat down at the table with her cup of coffee and made a list of the things she needed to do:

1.     Get clothes

2.     Find a place to live

3.     Get job

4.     Get children

“There,” she said aloud. “That looks easy enough.”

To be continued.

LauraEllen Denelda Barney Curry Is Also My Grandmother

Please excuse this interruption from my current writing on the period (1929 to 1937) after my great-grandmother Leta left her husband Leech Hoose and her children. You see, I have been thinking about one of my other beloved grandmother’s quite a lot lately, and December 10 is her birthday. If she were still with us, she would be 98 years old.

Her name was LauraEllen, but she was called Denelda, or Dee for short. She was my mother’s mother, and I feel comfortable writing about her here, because she is one of the models I am using for Leta. For example, she was the one who made the extraordinary raisin-filled cookies and lemon meringue pie (as well as to-die-for potato salad). Dee never made anything fancy, but it was tasty.

Laura Ellen Denelda Barney was born on December 10, 1916 in Windsor, Ontario, Canada to Martin and Fanny (Justus) Barney. She was the second of only two children, born two years after her brother Burnard. When she was only a couple of years old, her family moved back to the Toledo area. For much of her childhood, they lived with relatives. Her father taking whatever work he could get. She learned how to help around the house and be frugal.

Here is a side note: After my grandmother retired, she and my mother were going through some of my grandmother’s old things and came across about two dozen quilt blocks. Upon seeing them, my grandmother remembered that she had made them when she was a girl, out of her old dresses. My mother, who had always been a seamstress, thought that she could “do something with them.” She ended up making table runners for my grandmother, herself, and her four siblings. This enterprise launched her current activity as a quilter.

While my grandmother was very quiet about many things, she did finally share that she believed her father was an alcoholic.

She stopped going to school after sixth grade. She met and married William Loyd Curry and then spent the rest of her life in Toledo, Ohio. One of the stories she told me is that when she was a young unmarried woman she got a job working in a factory, and over the period of a couple of years she saved two thousand dollars of her earnings. Her fiancé knew about the funds. So did her father. Shortly before the wedding, her father took the money to buy himself a new car. This did not go over well with her fiancé, but they still married.

Dee never learned how to drive. She always walked, took the bus or relied on someone else. Her first child died in childbirth. She always said, “he was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.” She also shared that when she awoke in the hospital after delivery, she was alone. “I called my mom, ‘Ma! Ma!” and then I called, ‘Bill! Bill!’” Her mother told her about William, Jr. About a year later, she gave birth to my mother, and over the next several years had four more children.

Now, I can’t say that my grandfather never had jobs. During my childhood I knew that he cleaned carpets (in bowling alleys and other commercial establishments) and sold dog food. However, he liked to play cards. (He also liked bowling, but I don’t think that cost as much as the card playing.) Until all of her children were born, my grandmother stayed home to take care of them. I am fairly certain that’s how she wanted to spend her life. However, circumstance required her to go back to work, so she did—at a factory called Save Electric. A neighbor with smaller children would watch out for her kids after school. (A side note: these neighbors are still good friends of my mother.)

My grandfather died in 1970 of cancer. He lived hard, and he died hard. I am old enough to remember him. He would give us pencils (from the dog food company) unlike any we had ever seen. He cut my hair several times. The cut of the day was called a “squirrel tail,” which was basically a buzz cut with light bangs. My older brother wore the brunette version, and I the blonde. (My hair did not start turning dark until I was about seven years old. Then, remarkably, in my mid-thirties I was blonde again for a few years.) One of my childhood treasures is a three-car Playschool train (connected by magnets) that he gave me for my first birthday. It’s a pull-toy; I was already walking. During his funeral in April 1970, my two siblings and I, and all three of our other cousins thus far, stayed with my paternal grandmother Vivian. I remember being dropped off, spending a subdued day there, and then everyone arriving, very well dressed, to collect us all at about the same time. One by one, our mothers came down the stairs to my grandparents’ basement recreation room, where we were playing.

As for my grandmother, she was a marvel. With five kids and a husband who only sometimes brought money home, she took it upon herself to be the provider and primary parent. She was employed. She made sure the bills were paid, including the mortgage on a three-bedroom house. None of her children ever remembered being hungry. They definitely ate inexpensively, but they ate. Peanut butter and spaghetti were staples. If my grandfather wasn’t home when she really needed him, my grandmother sent her oldest—my mother—to retrieve him from his card playing at his favorite hangout. More than once, my grandfather met my grandmother on her way home from work on payday, and took her pay for his own purposes. Even without these very necessary funds, she kept the lights on and fed her children.

Her entire life was about scraping by. After my grandfather died and her children got married and moved out, one would hope my grandmother’s life would be easier. Yes, she was becoming a grandmother over and over again. (In total, she had 17 of us.) But then she had a scare. It was 1974; she was 58 years old. Save Electric, where she had worked for years, shut down. She wasn’t fully recovered from the expenses of my grandfather’s illness and death. She needed a job desperately. She had a sixth-grade education. She had only worked on a factory assembly line. She was 58 years old. She collected unemployment, but she was unprepared to retire. It was a very insecure and scary time for her. However, via my paternal grandfather (Vivian’s husband Ed), she was hired at Champion spark plugs, where she worked the required ten years to collect a full retirement.

During these ten years, she became financially secure, and she began to take trips and have adventures. She sold her larger house for a single story (with basement). She changed her furniture every decade or so. She fully enjoyed her children, grandchildren, and when they came along, her great-grandchildren. During my teenage years and into adulthood, I had a great many enjoyable times with her. I felt—and still feel blessed—that I am from her strong, loving, laughing, smart and clever line.

My grandmother, LauraEllen Denelda Barney Curry, was truly a remarkable woman.

Homeless, part three

Leta was sitting in a blind pig in Toledo, drinking her grief to silence and immobility. She had earlier that day left her husband Leech Hoose, and more importantly, turned over the care and responsibility of her two children to their father, her first husband. She had no other plans for herself. She had just finished her third whiskey—in one gulp—when she heard a man’s voice.

“Hey, now, little lady, that was one powerful sip.”

After the quick alcoholic rush that made all her skin feel warm, she turned toward him.

“Good evening to you,” she said and smiled.

“Would you like another?” he inquired, gesturing toward the empty glass.

Leta gave him a quick once-over. He wasn’t dressed very nicely; his clothes were plain—a white collared shirt and some grayish brown pants. The clothes were worn, and not very clean. Perhaps, she considered, he performed some manual labor and had stopped here on his way home from work. But then she corrected herself. It was rather late in the evening for him to be coming directly from work. Maybe he ate somewhere first. He had a pale face and a rather large head, balding, as many men his age tended to be. His nose was slightly misshapen, as if at some point in his life it had been broken. His beard looked rough, like steel wool. When he smiled, she saw that he was missing two teeth—both canines—on the right side of his mouth. So she looked at his eyes—blue like hers.

After two more whiskeys, she agreed to go home with him. Neither actually said a word about it. They had both finished their drinks at the same time. He sighed and slapped his hand on top of her own. As she slid off her bar stool, he continued to hold it. She felt a little unsteady, and he assisted her by putting his arm around her waist. She grabbed her pocketbook and together they walked out of the joint. The ache of grief had fully retreated, and Leta desired comfort.

But the next morning, as the cloudiness of the alcohol was decreasing, and she was left alone in this strange man’s bedroom to dress and then leave, she could feel her grief swelling inside her. This time it brought with her the anxiety of where she should go next. After all, she only had three dollars.

She missed her children. She wondered if they had slept well or had they spent their night in unhappy tears. Were they angry with her for deserting them? Were they happy to be rid of her? While Leta had little faith in their father to be a good caregiver, she knew that his mother—their grandmother—with whom they were all now living would fill their bellies. They might not get the love and affection only a mother could provide, but they would have plenty to eat, nice clothes to wear and a warm bed to sleep in every night.

Most importantly, Vivian would be safe. A stab of regret and guilt pierced into her heart, and her body went numb. She was not sure how long she stayed that way, but the emptiness—a false peace sort of peace—was interrupted by a slight rapping on the bedroom door.

“You awake?”

The voice belonged to her host. Her companion? Her night’s comfort? She had no words to describe the fellow. Was he a comfort? In any case, she knew that it was time for her to dress and leave. The day was at least half over. She stood and opened the drapes. The sun was fighting for room with a moving cloud cover, but it was high in the sky. The light helped her find the rest of her clothes.

A few moments later, rumpled, but dressed, she emerged from the room.

To be continued.