Reunited

Leta wanted her children to spend Thanksgiving with her. She was living with Aaron and his family again, having moved back after several months of living on her own. She had not spoken to her children since September of 1929, and now it was mid-October 1930. She missed them, but so did their cousins, aunts, and uncles. During the interim, she had girls in her life—Aaron and Florence’s daughters Lucille and June with whom she lived, and Little Leta, her sister Louise’s oldest daughter, who shared many similar qualities with Leta’s own daughter Vivian. But this wasn’t the same as being with her own children.

She did not know how she should contact them. If she telephoned, anyone in the household might answer, including their father’s current wife whom she had never met and never wanted to. She contemplated simply appearing at the house, waiting for the children to arrive home from school, but what if their grandmother or stepmother saw her first? How would she speak to her children when she did meet them? While it was proper for her to speak to Ralph before she approached the children, all she really wanted to do was reconnect with Vivian and Dale. For a woman who was rarely intimidated by others or anxious about her own behaviors, she spent several days in deep thought about the situation. During the day, she assisted her sister-in-law with the housekeeping, but shortly after the family finished supper, she would retire to her room and not emerge until the next morning.

“What is it, Leta?” Florence asked one Friday morning after Aaron had gone to work and the children to school.

“What do you mean?” Leta asked, as she scrubbed the sink. Florence was sitting at the table, writing her grocery shopping list.

“You’ve been quiet all week,” Florence replied. “That’s very unlike you. Something’s bothering you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leta replied and returned to her task.

Florence’s inquiry, however, seemed to have broken the rumination in which Leta had encased herself. She stopped scrubbing again and turned to her sister-in-law.

“I want Vivian and Dale to spend Thanksgiving with us,” she said bluntly.

Florence put down her pencil and smiled broadly.

“That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. “We all miss them so much, and you, I’m sure, most especially.”

“My problem is that I just don’t know how to get in touch with them,” Leta added.

Florence looked surprised. “My dear, just telephone them,” she said.

Leta stood stiffly, looking imploringly at Florence.

“This afternoon, after they get home from school, get on the phone and call,” Florence directed. “I am sure that they are waiting for you to get in touch with them.”

Leta still did not move. All of her energy was focused on absorbing her sister-in-law’s words. She slowly accepted that fear had been her own enemy in this endeavor. The fear of her children’s response to her having deserted them had immobilized her and compounded over the months that she remained separate from them. She was behaving as if she had done something malicious and should be ashamed. She was allowing the necessary although significant act of leaving Vivian and Dale with their father for their own good grow and fester into a large, unwieldy state.

“It’s time,” Florence added.

Leta agreed. She had the tools. She had the capability. She had the responsibility. She would cut and trim her anxiety back into something manageable, and potentially cut it out completely.

That afternoon, while Florence was catching up with her own daughters’ school day, Leta telephoned her children. Dale answered.

“Hello, Dale,” she said.

“Ma!” she heard him cry and then shout, “Vivian, it’s Ma on the telephone!”

When she saw them the following weekend, wanting some time alone with them before they joined the entire family for Thanksgiving dinner, Leta immediately understood that the reunion was permanent. Vivian had filled out more and changed her hairstyle. Her dress was simple, and unflattering, but she had a rich, womanly look in her eyes. Dale had grown at least two inches. While he had never had good control over his muscles and joints, he was even more awkward, manipulating his uncooperative body as best as he could. Both of them, in their own ways, were as happy to see her as she was to see them. Leta immediately felt her maternal love return. The fear and anxiety had been trimmed. The unhealthy parts had been cut away. All it needed now was nourishment to grow stronger, grow the way it should have. She would see to that.

Early Days with Aaron and Florence, part three

Leta never asked Aaron if her children could celebrate Thanksgiving with them, which was in conflict with the family plans anyway. Instead, they were all invited to dinner at their sister Nellie’s. Leta and her three siblings would be partaking, as well as their children. They asked Leta to make pies, and she did—five of them: lemon meringue, cherry, apple, and two pumpkin. She started late on Thanksgiving Eve. Her nieces were in bed, Florence kept her company for an hour or so before retiring, Aaron was at the Flat Iron with the lonely gamblers and drinkers. He would not return until early in the morning and then sleep until they left for Nellie’s.

Once Florence went to bed, Leta retrieved a jug of brick wine that she had made and began sipping. She did not particularly care for wine; it was too bitter and acidic for her taste, but this was all she had available. Fetching her secret bottle of bourbon from her bedroom would disturb Florence, who officially would not permit any kind of liquor in the house. (Leta suspected that Aaron also had a bottle of gin hidden somewhere on the property.) That left only the wine available. Her sister Louise had asked her to make the wine under the guise of “grape juice” for Thanksgiving dinner. Louise liked wine, and particularly when Leta added a little sugar, orange peel and cloves. Nellie also enjoyed a glass or two during large family gatherings. So Leta made two jugs, just in case the sisters were in an enthusiastic celebratory mood. She also made two jugs of unfermented grape juice for the children.

By the time all the pies had been baked, Leta had emptied the jug. While she no longer felt the pain of being apart from her children, she also became sloppy in her clean up. Certainly, she swept the floor, wiped down the counters, washed the dishes and put everything away. She mostly did this as she went along, so at the end of her baking, she did not have much left to do. However, with regard to what she did have to do, she left signs that she was not in her full capacity. She completely neglected to wipe the table. The countertop had several spots of hardening dough, and she poured some remaining flour into the sugar canister.

She awoke the next morning to the sound of her niece June tapping at her bedroom door and softly calling her name. Later, she learned that this was the third time that one of the girls had tried to wake her. First, they called her to go to church. Then they checked in on her again after their return. She had responded, but was either still mostly asleep or fell right back into it. Now, it was nearly noon. They were planning to leave the house an hour later. Leta looked around, her eyes somewhat blurred. She was lying on the quilt, still wearing her house dress and apron. She could not recall when or how she made it into the bedroom. This time, she could hear the family bustling around the house, as they finalized their preparation for the family’s Thanksgiving celebration. She could smell the sweet potatoes that Florence had made and hear the murmurs of Aaron and Florence. If he was awake and functioning by now, surely she had no good excuse. She knew that he had still not arrived home when she went to bed.

When she sat up, her head was spinning, so she paused with her feet over the side of the bed. She looked down, and the floor seemed very far away. She hesitantly brushed her feet against it and could feel the cold, so she stood. She was terribly thirsty, but first she needed to use the toilet. She removed her apron and house dress, dropping them both onto the floor and kicking them under the bed. Somehow she had left her robe on the vanity stool, not its usual place. She told herself that she remembered putting it there some time during the night, although she was not certain she was remembering what actually happened or observing the obvious. She quickly put on the robe and made her way to the toilet, using the wall for support. Fortunately, everyone else was downstairs.

She still felt unsteady, and in the back of her head, an unwelcome headache began to transpire. Once back in her room, she went into the bottom drawer of the vanity, pushed aside her stockings, and retrieved a small bottle of bourbon. Without looking for a glass, she took a large swig, and felt the warm rush through her body. She sat there for a few moments. The opportunistic headache that had been developing was abated. She felt better. Then she took another small swallow of the alcohol, put the bottle away, and immediately began to prepare for the family festivities.

At five minutes to one, she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in her finest clothes and not a hair out of place. She looked poised and ready for anything.

If Leta missed having her children with her for the holiday festivities, she never directly shared it with anyone. She helped lay out the meal, laughed with her siblings and their children, and helped clean up afterwards. She was, everyone attested, as charming and cheerful as ever. Amidst the revelry, however, Leta had four glasses of wine and ate very little.

At the end of the celebration, she declined Aaron’s invitation to join him at the Flat Iron. Instead, she went home with Florence and the girls, and promptly left them for her bedroom. Once she closed the door, her loneliness and grief overwhelmed her. As her eyes filled with tears, she undressed, pulled back the bed covering, and crawled into bed. Almost immediately exhaustion enveloped her, and she fell into a deep, empty sleep.

Early Days with Aaron and Florence, part two

During the first months that Leta lived with her brother Aaron and his family in 1929, she sometimes joined her brother during his evening’s work. He was a poker game dealer, a skill he acquired during his brief time in Reno, Nevada and the Southwest. These games were held in the backrooms of various illegal drinking establishments. While he was in the back room, she sat at the bar, drank whiskey and participated in pleasant conversations with the men who spent their evenings enjoying a drink or two before after a hard day’s work.

They mostly went to the Flat Iron, which was located a few blocks away. It was an inconspicuous place. The front windows were covered on the inside in black muslin. The exterior was covered in peeling paint. The parking lot, such as it was, was gravel. It looked like an abandoned shop of some kind. Two broken down automobiles always sat there, rusting in the changeable weather. Most of the guests parked in the farm equipment dealer’s lot across the street. The front door looked like it was boarded up, but it wasn’t. One needed only to knock, and someone would open it. The front area held fewer than two dozen merrymakers at a time. In the backroom, the proprietor set up a table large enough for six poker players. Aaron drove drive them, and then left Leta to her own devices, while he went into the backroom to deal the cards to the participants.

Leta sat at the bar. There were a few regulars she knew—mostly married men. Occasionally one brought his wife for an evening away from home and children. Two other women, both at least fifty years old, making them older than Leta, also came regularly. One of the women was unhappily married. Her husband worked in Michigan and only came home two weekends each month. When he was home, he expected her to be at his beck and call. When he was gone, she was responsible for caring for his invalid father, an unpleasant man made moreso by chronic arthritis. The other regular female patron was a widow, slowly drinking herself to nothingness. Most of the men were locals. They worked on farms or in small factories nearby. The card game drew some outsiders, but they did not stay in the bar long, unless the table was full and they had to wait until one of the players left to make a space available. These fellows, Leta found, were rather anxious about being there. They did not talk much to her. They kept one eye toward the door and one ear to the outside.

The Flat Iron had never been raided by the county sheriff or federal prohibition marshals.

Sometimes Leta left before Aaron did. A friend would drive her back to the house. Sometimes, when his night concluded, the poker game dissolved or he just became tired, her brother would collect her from the bar and drive her home. Sometimes Leta did not arrive home until a day or two later.

During her evening, Leta would strike up a conversation with another bar patron, and he would eventually invite her to a more private assignation. When this occurred, she would almost always acquiesce.

Over the first three months that she lived with Aaron, Florence and their girls, Leta made a steady shift; she entered a world of temporary male companionship. She found that during her drinking, flirtations and subsequent liaisons, she could disregard or suppress all of her grief, loneliness and solitude.

In November she learned that her children’s father married a woman named Eunice Powers, and she moved in with him, her children and his parents. They met, she was told, at a church function. Eunice pursued Ralph aggressively, and one day they went to the courthouse for the marriage certificate. Ralph’s mother was not pleased, but by this time, Ralph was working and supporting the family. With his children living there, he had become the head of the household.

Leta had been entertaining thoughts of spending Thanksgiving with her children. She was going to ask her brother and sister-in-law if she might invite them to have dinner with the family. She had not seen them since she took them to their father’s, and she finally felt stable and comfortable. She missed them. Then she learned about Ralph’s marriage. Her informer told her that the marriage took place in late October and that Ralph’s new wife had been married previously.

Leta was devastated. Not only had she given over the raising of her children to her first husband, but also he had gone and brought a new mother figure into the house. Ralph’s mother Ida was a grandmother, an entirely different function, but a woman her own age was definitely encroaching on mother territory. She was angry with Ralph for marrying the woman, and for waiting so long to do so. If he had married right after their divorce, when Vivian and Dale stilled lived with her, the woman would have remained a secondary character in their lives. They would not have seen her very often, not been in the place to develop much of a friendship with her, let alone a relationship. There would be no competition. This, however, was entirely different. Now, she—their mother—was the outsider. First, she put her children through the death of their beloved Albert, two terrible marriages, near poverty and living in a perilous neighborhood. Then, with no alternative, she abandoned them, because she could not provide what they needed. This she regretted every day, even as she recognized that this was for their benefit. More terrible, if not unforgivable, was that she had not seen or even spoken to them since the August day she left them. She heard stories and rumors from friends about their health and welfare, but personally, she had removed herself from their daily lives. She was no longer their mother, no longer the providing their primary care. She had become the woman who used to take care of them.

To be continued.

Early Days with Aaron and Florence, part one

When Leta left her husband Leech Hoose and abandoned her children to their father Ralph Chetister in September of 1929, she first moved in with her brother Aaron, his wife Florence, and their daughters Lucille (age 14) and June (age 11). She spent her days with Florence, assisting with household duties, making jam and apple butter, cooking, and enjoying each other’s company. While Florence was an excellent housekeeper, her home never looked or smelled so clean as it did that autumn. This was partly due to Leta’s unlimited nervous energy. While she did not rise very early, once she was awake, she was a force. They washed walls and windows, scoured the cupboards and stove, and even cleaned all the closets. When the girls arrived home from school, the quartet would can vegetables, make jam, and sew. Leta spent an hour or so each afternoon with the girls, needle and thread. Two or three times a week, Leta would bake for them—cookies, pies, cakes, and biscuits. She dug out the front yard and built a small flower garden in which she planted tulips and daffodils to bloom in the spring.

Sometimes she would jump up in the middle of the night, her body in a sweat, gasping in terror. While she never remembered her dreams, Leta understood that whatever was going on in them drove her to a level of panic that would not dissipate easily. She rose, donned her robe, and made her way into the kitchen, carrying a bottle of whiskey she kept hidden in her vanity and deck of cards. For the next two hours or so, she played solitaire and sipped her libation until she was sure her heart had calmed and she could return to sleep. She washed her glass and returned to bed. At other times when she awoke in this state, she scrubbed all the floors—kitchen, dining room and living room, on her hands and knees, using a brush—to dissipate the anxiety.

One night Florence heard her in the living room and came down the stairs.

“Leta, what are you doing?” she whispered. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

Leta had pushed all the furniture to one side of the room and rolled up the carpets to better accomplish her task.

“I can’t sleep, and the floor needs to be scrubbed,” Leta answered without looking up or stopping. She feared that if she did, she would break down into ceaseless tears.

Florence stood for a few minutes, silently showing her compassion for her sister-in-law, who kept working. Her own husband and children were sleeping upstairs; if she had any of them removed from her life, then she would be up nights as well.

“Well,” she finally said, “thank you. I will see you in the morning.”

Very quietly, as if she was a baby’s breath, Florence left Leta to her work.

Just knowing Florence was there made Leta feel better, and she hastily finished her chore and returned to her own bed, where her exhausted body finally overpowered her anxious heart, and she slept.

To be continued.

I Walk

How do you get around?

I walk.

I put on lipstick and a scarf on my head. I leave the house, and I walk.

I walk to the market. I walk to church. I walk to the doctor’s. I walk to the butcher. I walk to the dentist. I walk to the optometrist. I walk to the pharmacy. I walk to the café. I walk.

Sometimes I walk to the bus. I used to walk to the streetcar, but these have all been replaced by buses.

Now that I am old, I feel stiff sometimes. I see old men and other old women with canes, hunched over. I polish my shoes, I comb my hair, I put on earrings, a scarf and a sweater. I straighten my body and push my shoulders back. I make myself be completely perpendicular to the sidewalk. Then I walk.

I may only walk around the block, but I do so standing as erect as I can.

Sometimes my legs ache. My ankles swell. My varicose veins throb. I put on my elastic stockings. I put on my comfortable shoes. I walk.

When I sit, I put my feet up. I sip a Manhattan. I smoke a cigarette. I relax.

The next morning after coffee, after breakfast, after making the bed and sweeping the floor, I walk.

I am older now. My sisters and brother are gone. I am the only one left. The stairs are hard for me. My daughter and I have a plan.

“When Leta moved in with us, I remember, she could walk.”

Every day I can, I put on my housecoat. I put on my elastic stockings. I put on my sweater. I walk around the facility. I walk outside through the garden. I sit on a bench and enjoy the sunshine on my face. My daughter, my son, my granddaughter—someone—arrives in an automobile. I am dressed. I walk to the car. I walk from the car into the office, into the restaurant, into the shop, into the church, into the house. Then I walk back to the car, and back to my room. I take off my shoes. I undress. I sit on my bed. I lie in my bed. I put my feet up. They are sore, and I am tired.

I even am older now. My daughter is gone. I don’t go out as much. Sometimes I am weary. My body aches. My energy has left me. Sometimes my eyes won’t open and breathing happens slowly and loudly. I use a walker. I walk to a chair in the lounge. I fall asleep. I wake. I take my pills. I walk to the dining room. I walk to the chapel. I move so slowly.

Now I am stronger. I feel better. I put on my housecoat. I put on my sweater. I leave the walker behind. I take a long walk down and around the corridors. I sit in the lounge. My great-granddaughter and great-grandson visit me. I walk with them into the dining room for privacy. We sit at a table. We talk. I walk them to the front door. I watch them walk to their car. Then I sit for a good long while. Someone brings my walker. I walk to the dining room. I eat my supper. I walk to my room and get into bed. I sleep.

I am as old as I ever want to be. I am skin and bones. I hurt. My eyes see dimly. I lie in bed most days. I don’t stand. I slide from bed to wheelchair. Someone assists me. I think of my sisters, my brother, my daughter.

I no longer walk. I ride.