The First Write-Through Completed

On the rainy afternoon of November 26, 2016, I typed the words “The End.”

Anyone who is a writer knows that this signals an accomplishment, a completion of sorts. I finished what I call “the first write-through” of Scandalous and Remarkable, the fictional biography of my paternal great-grandmother Leta Marie Scott, who was born in 1894, the youngest of six children of David Scott and Julia Snyder, and died in 1984, two days shy of her 90^th birthday.

In between, she grew up, lived through two World Wars (and several others), the Great Depression, the introduction of electricity, indoor plumbing, home telephones, the automobile, the radio, the television, motion pictures, record albums, 8-Track tapes, cassette tapes, the washing machine, the dishwasher and even the computer. She had two children, seven grandchildren and twelve great grandchildren. She lived through eight husbands and countless other short- and long-term relationships. She held jobs and spent time as a homemaker. Sometimes she was poor and sometimes she was comfortable. She could sew.

The idea of writing about her life sparked in me after she had passed away. I recall I was at a party with friends in New York City where I was going to graduate school (in theater). Shortly before that, my grandfather/Leta’s son-in-law shared with me that she was much-married and “didn’t really know she had a daughter” for part of her life. He handed me some newspaper clips and told me a couple of stories about her, including the first time he met her. At this party, I was talking with my friend Esther and another fellow. In the midst of the conversation, I told them that I had just learned that my great-grandmother was married seven times. The other fellow chose to continue with whatever he was talking about, and Esther stopped him. “What? Jerry, did you just say that your great-grandmother was married seven times?” She wanted to know more.

And so did I. While I knew my great-grandmother for twenty years, I knew nothing about her, not even that her last husband died the day before I was born. I remembered visiting her in her duplex apartment in East Toledo, that she had parakeets, that she gave us candy on occasion, that at some point she moved into a care facility, and that she converted to Catholicism. But her life before me had never come up, nor had any curiosity about her last name, which was different than anyone else’s in the family. But with the advent of this new information, the spark of some kind of creative work began to germinate. And I began to gather some information in bits and pieces. Finally, in September of 2010, I started writing. Over the subsequent two years, I have been simultaneously researching her life (and our family) and writing the story of it.

Over the ensuing years, I have spent countless hours at Oakland’s Family History Center, in the Toledo Public Library, in Ohio’s Lucas County Court House, on Wikipedia and a dozen other Internet sites, and countless hours speaking to family members on the telephone. My intention is to be as authentic to my great-grandmother’s life as I possibly can, as well as historically accurate. I have recorded my findings, organized my thoughts, speculated ideas and written actual pieces of the book as blog entries. This entry is #363, each one at least one page long.

And now here it is—the first write-through of the book. Eleven chapters (one for each husband, her childhood, her independent years and her senior years), and 397 pages (single-spaced, double-sided).

Now comes the rewriting. I believe that the best writing comes from contemplation, energy, the writer experiencing the story and re-writing. That is the craft. So I will begin.

Dear readers, thank you for journeying with me thus far. Over the next months, blog entries will diminish. I will endeavor to write one per month, but it all depends on how the rewrites go, as well as the status of the novel itself.

Onward!

Reliving the Impossible

I wasn't there.

On March 2, 1976, my fraternal grandmother, Vivian Faye Chetister Metzker, was laid to rest at Willow Cemetery in Oregon, Ohio. She was only 62 years old and died unexpectedly from a blood clot. She was on blood thinners, but she had ceased to use them, temporarily, when she went into the hospital for hip replacement surgery the week prior. From all accounts, the surgery went well. She was up and moving around. Then on Friday morning, February 27, she started to share that she was having trouble breathing and feeling weak. She returned to bed and died shortly thereafter.

I was 12 years old and in sixth grade. My brother Jeff was 15 and in ninth grade. My sister Michelle was 10 and in fourth grade. Our parents were separated at the time. My dad was not living with us. We learned of her death on Friday after school. We were devastated. Her funeral home showing was all afternoon and evening on Sunday, February 29. (It was a leap year.) I remember many things from that day—standing before the open casket for the first time, all the flowers (including bouquets from the mayor, City Council, School Board and police department), the funeral wreath for the “grandchildren,” so many people that we expanded into another room, my Uncle Larry touching her hand, Grandma Eckman sitting on one of the couches and telling anyone who talked to her that “You never expect your children to go before you,” wondering why my grandmother’s best friend stayed so long and behaved as if she was one of the family, my mother being there but not coming with us, and my dad’s girlfriend showing up.

Jeff remembers thinking she was moving and telling everyone, which resulted in a firm talking to. Michelle remembers that no one thought about having snacks for the family and for a short period of time, Dad took us to the garage of the funeral home, where the funeral director, Mr. Meinert, gave us each a can of generic pop.

That is the end of my memory. My grandmother was buried on Tuesday, March 2, 1976. I was at a weeklong camp with the rest of my grade at Starr Elementary. I am sure this was not an easy decision for my parents to make or for me. The previous year another elementary school in the district booked their sixth graders for a week at camp. The event was so successful that my school decided to do it, too. While neither remembers, my parents undoubtedly made the decision on the basis of what else would I do for the entire week. My siblings went to school on Monday. On Tuesday they went to the funeral, and then they were back in school for the rest of the week. Had I followed this same schedule, I would have spent my week sitting in the principal’s office alone. So I went to camp.

I don’t remember that I talked much about my grandmother’s recent death while at camp, but I carried it with me and some guilt that I wasn’t with my family. I remember that on Tuesday morning, I felt some sadness. But the week was very busy, and I enjoyed myself.

As for what happened with regard to my grandmother, I have interviewed five people—both of my parents, my brother and sister, and my aunt. The most comprehensive answer was, “It’s a blur. I just remember being so sad.” But I could piece some of their memories, scant as they were, together. My sister remembered not wanting to leave the funeral home for the cemetery. My brother remembered that the funeral procession had a police escort and was the longest one in my hometown’s history. My mom remembered that she did not attend. My dad remembered that after the funeral, they went to a roast beef restaurant. The little card they had noted that our former pastor officiated.

Then I got to writing this section of the book. And it took some time to recreate the scene based on the limited memories of my family, my own experiences of other funerals, and what I could draw out of my heart. I also had to write from my great-grandmother’s perspective. She lost her daughter; I lost a grandmother. I didn’t expect this to be easy. But I also didn’t expect that I would only be able to write in 20-minute sections, because my eyes would fill with tears and my heart begin to hurt. But I wrote, and it is my sincerest hope that if I haven’t re-created the funeral exactly, I have done a respectful and admirable job in loving memory of my grandmother—Vivian Faye Chetister Metzker.

Leta Becomes a Roman Catholic, part two

Leta waited long enough, 30 minutes more than the usual drop-in time of her Lutheran pastor. He was not coming. He was not bringing her communion, he would not ask after her health, he would not pray with her. He had not telephoned. She had been waiting in the lobby for him for the better part of two and a half hours.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon. The residents of the senior home were starting to make their way to the dining room for supper. While they weren’t served until 5:30pm, some of the women liked to be ready. And many of them had little else to do.

Leta walked back to her room slowly. She felt more tired than she had in a long time. There were several other residents sitting in the hallway. Two were moaning for no obvious reason, only their way of expressing their unhappiness of being uncomfortable all the time. Usually she would get their attention and instruct them to cease, which was successful for a while. Today she didn’t care. Another lady, who was barely 80 but degenerating quickly, was hunched over in a wheelchair and drooling. If Leta’s nose was accurate, she had also soiled herself. Again, Leta’s practice was to inform one of the staff, but this time, she felt the pain in her heart and walked on.

For most of her time in the nursing home thus far, she had separated herself from many of the other residents. After all, she could still walk. She had her faculties. She took care of herself. She was nearly 80 years old and in good shape. But for the first time since arriving, she felt old and forgotten.

While she had been considering all the implications of converting to Roman Catholicism, she had not made up her mind to do it. Circumstance and a neglectful Lutheran minister had done it for her. The next morning, she went to the priest’s office.

“Father Anthony,” she said, “I want to be a Catholic.”

The priest didn’t flinch. He had heard such intentions before from residents. Some were serious about adopting the Roman Catholic faith. Others feared a rapidly approaching transition to the afterlife. Some were already people of faith, unable to attend services or activities at their prior places of worship, seeking a religious community.

“Tell me, Leta,” he inquired. “What brings this on? Aren’t you a Methodist?”

“Lutheran,” she corrected.

“Ah, yes, that’s right.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time,” she continued. “And I want to be a part of a religious community. I miss going to church. I miss praying.—“

“—Now, Leta,” he interrupted, “you can pray any time anywhere. You don’t need to be in church to do that.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, raising her voice slightly. “But it doesn’t feel the same as being in church. I need to go to church, and I need to take communion.”

“I see,” he said, folding his hands together. “And you think you can do that as a Catholic?”

“Of course,” she answered.

The priest eyed her for a few minutes.

“Let me give you some information on what it means to be Catholic,” he said. “You can read it, think about it, talk to your family and then if you’re still interested, we can talk more.”

“Father Anthony, I do not need to read anything or talk to anyone,” Leta declared. “I have thought this over. I have prayed about this. And this is my decision. Now, how do we get this process started?”

Five months later, Leta joined the Roman Catholic church. The process, she was told, took up to one year, nine months at minimum, but, she pointed out, at 80-plus years, she didn’t have that much time. Interestingly enough, only one of the members of her family objected strongly. If the others, those on Vivian’s side, did, none told her. Her son-in-law was as grim as always, but he had disapproved of her behavior—and sometimes of her—for years. Her grandson Larry, however, became angry and protested. In his thinking, being a Catholic was tantamount to joining a cult. He vowed that he would take her to church every Sunday, even though he rarely attended himself. For two months, he refused to speak with her, and whether or not he actually grew to accept the situation, Leta never knew. His mother put a stop to his behavior and her faith choice was never discussed again.

As for Leta, she was pleased to be able to attend services once or twice a week, interact with a faith community and maintain her relationship with God. Even as she declined in her late 80s, being able to participate in the religious life of her nursing home was a great blessing to her.

Leta Becomes a Roman Catholic, part one

Leta missed going to church. All her life she had been a practicing Christian, and while she never considered that going to church was the beginning and end of a person’s faith, she did miss the worship. For Christmas and the following Easter she went with Vivian and Ed. Their parish had an early morning service that better suited Vivian’s temperament. Her grandson Don’s family attended the same parish, but went to the second service. The early service was too early for her, and she would never impose upon her granddaughter-in-law Pat to take her with them. In fact, if she understood Pat’s Sunday morning schedule correctly, it began with taking the children to Sunday school, where she taught one of their classes, and then they attended the later service. The younger two sang with the children’s choir, which performed twice per month in the service. Afterward, they would have a hot lunch. Pat would make them soup, macaroni and cheese or grilled cheese sandwiches, foods they could not have for lunch during the week because of school. “We like welsh rarebit,” her oldest grandson Jeff told her. “That’s our favorite.”

Before she moved into the nursing home, Leta used to attend a Lutheran church regularly. However, as the Home was owned and managed by a Catholic order with strict rules, she was not welcome to the weekly services held by Father Anthony Cuthbert. There was a chapel in the residence that she could use for prayer or meditation when it wasn’t being reserved for morning matins, evening prayer, the weekly Sunday service or funerals. She attended many of the funerals. This enabled her to participate in some worship. Once per month her own pastor arrived to serve her communion. He would ask her how she was doing, pray with her and then fidget until his twenty minutes had concluded.

She also had the opportunity to watch religious programming on the shared television in the lounge. There were two different television lounges, and on weekend days, the staff left the broadcast of various preachers and Bible studies. Leta preferred Billy Graham, but he did not broadcast regularly. She found some of the other preachers to be overbearing and judgmental, but others delivered wonderful messages. Sometimes she participated in the televised Bible studies, using a Bible her sister Mabel had given her.

Still, she wanted more, and she felt like there was more available to her at the Home, if only she were allowed.

Would God be angry with her if she became a Catholic? she wondered. There were Roman Catholics in her family. Her son Dale converted years ago to marry Kathryn. They were raising their children in that faith.

If she became Roman Catholic, she would not be allowed to participate in the Lutheran communion. This was a tremendous change. Members of her daughter’s family would no doubt be unhappy with her if she followed through with her conversion. They were staunch Lutherans, partly owing to her son-in-law’s German heritage. She also wondered if she would be required to pray from the rosary or learn the names of saints or other things that Roman Catholics did that she had always considered rather pagan.

At the same time, she knew that she did not need to attend church services to be a faithful Christian. She also knew, as her pastor told her, that after attending church so regularly throughout her life, she had “done her part.” She could still lead a prayerful life even if she did not attend church. However, it still seemed to her that she was not properly practicing her religion. To do that, she needed to go to church. After all, that was the basis of a Christian life.

This perplexed her, but not all the time, so she continued to think about it and go about her life for some time. She had many other activities in her life to occupy her time and thoughts.

One Tuesday afternoon, she was up and dressed, sitting in the lobby of the home, just near the entrance and waiting. This was the day her pastor was scheduled to visit. She was hungry for payer and communion.  He usually arrived between two and four, depending on his schedule, so she got herself ready after lunch. She checked her watch every ten minutes or so, even though there was a large grandfather clock that kept good time in the corner, right in her line of vision. At 3:30pm, she started to feel anxious. She also grew tired of sitting in the same chair. She rose, told the receptionist her intention and then took a walk around the interior of the facility. Ten minutes later, she returned to the facility’s entrance, where the receptionist told her that no one had called for her. They chatted for a few minutes, and then, it was 4:00pm. This was the latest her pastor had ever arrived. She sat and waited another 30 minutes, growing more despondent with each passing second. The grandfather clock chimed, the receptionist started to pack up her things to leave, and Leta stood.

To be continued.

Leta Gets a Parakeet, part seven

For her 71st birthday, Leta's gentleman friend Delbert Henderson gave her two tiny birds in a cage.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed on the evening he left the covered cage outside of her front door and she took away the cloth to reveal the two creatures. “What is this?”

Immediately, the birds began to chirp.

She squatted to get a closer look. One of the diminutive creatures was bright green with a yellow head, tiny blue beak and tiger stripes extending from the back of its head down to its tail feathers. This one was hopping around the cage. The other was sitting on a perch. It was primarily white with small patches of sky blue feathers on the top of its head, just above its shoulders and near its rump mostly hidden by its wings.

“They’re parakeets,” Delbert said. He had appeared out of nowhere, although she suspected he was somewhere close.

“They’re beautiful,” Leta whispered, as if raising her voice would disturb the joy and love she suddenly felt. “Hi, budgie,” she said, waving one finger at the creatures.

“Since you like birds so much, I thought…” Delbert explained haltingly. He realized he didn’t need to go any further. Leta was enraptured.

“They’re wonderful!” she exclaimed and stood. “Thank you so much.”

Leta could not remember a more enjoyable evening. Once she could tear herself away from her new pets, they proceeded to a birthday dinner and then returned to her apartment for dessert, conversation and gin rummy. While Delbert preferred to play whist, Leta always won, so to keep his spirits as lively as her own, she insisted that since it was her birthday, they play gin.

They talked about many things, but mostly family, and their concerns about their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Delbert was looking forward to baseball season. He and one of his sons were fans of Toledo’s farm league team, the Mud Hens, and had season tickets.

“I’d like to take you,” he said apologetically, “but my son won’t ever miss a game.”

“That is very thoughtful,” she said, “but I learned long ago to never interfere between a man and his son, especially around sports.”

She also admitted that she was more of a Cincinnati Reds fan, and he declared that he would take her to a game before the end of the season.

By the time he left later that night, well after midnight, Leta was convinced that he would soon ask her to marry him, and she would definitely accept. However, the proposal never came. Instead of spending more time with each other and growing closer, he began to call on her less and less over the next two months. It was a gradual rather than an abrupt dissolution of their relationship. A week after Leta’s birthday, one of their card-playing friends died unexpectedly of a stroke, which resulted in that club being disbanded. Delbert came down with bronchitis shortly after that, and after he recovered he was unable to drive for several weeks.

At first, Leta thought she would be dismayed and lonely, but as the days passed and she did not hear from Delbert, she learned that she was content with her life the way it was—grandchildren and great-grandchildren, watching a little television, keeping her house clean, reading the morning and afternoon newspapers, and going to church. This was fulfilling enough for her. She did not need the company of a male companion, whether husband or lover or even friend to give her life value and purpose. She was 71 years old, and she had two adorable parakeets to keep her company. That was enough.