Leta's son Dale graduated from high school in 1933. Unlike his
older sister Vivian, he was not a good student. Leta always believed he was smart,
only that he was restless and lacked concentration. Perhaps he had been living
with her through his high school years, she might have been able to work the
skittishness out of him, but since eighth grade, he had lived with his father,
grandparents, and, for a short time, a stepmother. While she had no direct experience
of their home-life, Leta strongly suspected that there was very little of the
kind of discipline that Dale needed in order for him to succeed. Nonetheless,
he did finish high school, but upon completion had secured no employment.
Dale’s father Ralph was a postal employee, but Dale was not
interested in a position with the U.S. mail. His grandfather had worked in
manufacturing, but Dale wasn’t interested in that either. Vivian worked as a
secretary and then became a housekeeper for another family, a position that a
boy could never do. Even though Leta was not working when he graduated, she had
several contacts from jobs she held over the past years, as well as many
cousins and acquaintances who would have helped him secure a job, but Dale
gently refused her offers of assistance, also.
For the first six months following his high school graduation,
they were all patient with him. As far as Leta could ascertain, her son was not
a drinking man, but he did enjoy the company of rowdy, drinking men. Vivian
relayed to her that throughout the summer and fall, he was rarely at the house,
and when he was, spent most of his time sleeping after being out all night.
When winter came, Dale’s activities were diminished. With no job and little to
do, he spent most of his time idling in the house with his grandparents and
stepmother, who was ill much of the time.
Finally, in March of 1935, at age 18, Dale made a quick visit
to her. He had a small satchel in his hand and told her that he and a friend
were going to “take to the rails” and “hobo it” across the country. He would
write when he could, and she would see him when he returned. Despite her
questioning of his plan, his mind was made up. She fed him, gave him some extra
food and then let him go.
After he left, she did not sleep for the next three days until
finally the grief and anxiety fell away, and she collapsed into bed and slept
for sixteen hours. Leta was not much of a worrier. Certainly, she missed her
children during those years when they were still young and lived away from her,
and she thought about them regularly. But they were neither a welcome or
unwelcome burden on her mind. Dale’s abrupt departure, however, filled her with
dread. It brought back all the loneliness and self-blame she felt as a small
child when her two older brothers, oldest sister and father all suddenly left
home. While she didn’t remember any of the details, she remembered the
feelings. She felt abandoned.
Dale’s departure brought that abandonment back, and even as
the feelings became less prominent over the first two months, they still
lingered. She received one letter at the end of March, one in April and one in
early May. Each was similar: He reported that he was doing fine, he was getting
enough to eat, and he was having the time of his life. He never shared if or
when he would be returning home.
“What possessed him to do such a thing?” Leta asked her
daughter Vivian, as they were sharing the first letter.
Vivian shook her head and slightly shrugged her shoulders. “Ma,
he’s just a little restless, that’s all,” she answered.
Leta looked hard at her daughter. This was the truth and not
the truth. While there was a certain air about Dale that made him slightly
different from other boys, she would not call it restlessness. Aaron called it
skittishness, “like a young mare,” he explained. Although she agreed in
principle, Leta disliked the comparison of her son to a female animal.
When June arrived, more than two months since Dale left, Leta continued
to worry, but it had a lesser impact on her life. She was working at an office
downtown and living in a boarding house to be closer rather than traveling from
her brother’s house in the country every day. She didn’t really like the job—not
the work as much as the man who owned the company. He spent much of his time
locked up in his office, and whenever he needed something, he would ring a
bell. Leta’s co-worker would look at her, and then she would have to stop
whatever she was doing to cater to the owner’s need. Sometimes it was fetching
coffee or delivering some papers to a colleague in another office. Sometimes,
it was as ridiculous as sharpening his pencils, because he had no interest in
getting out of his chair. At 11:45a.m. every morning, she would leave the
office to get his lunch at a luncheonette two blocks away. He had a routine,
which made the task easier, a specific lunch every day, but he became downright
vicious when the hot meals were lukewarm.
One miserable, dreary Wednesday afternoon in mid-June, as she
was leaving the office and craving a stiff belt of whiskey, she was greeted by
a very familiar voice.
“Well, if it isn’t my beautiful mother.”
Leta nearly dropped her pocketbook. She turned quickly, and
there was her beloved son, standing a few feet behind her with his arms open.
“Dale?” she whispered.
“Ma,” he acknowledged.
He looked scruffy and unkempt. His clothes and face were
dirty, and he was thinner than he had ever been. Leta did not care. He was her
boy, and after three months away, he returned.
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