Daddy’s eyes dance with images of the future he wants us to have. “I’ll help you. Maybe it’s time for you to break away from your grandmother. She had her chance; now it’s you and me. We can have a lot of fun!”
It’s wonderful to learn that my father wants me in his life. I’m still confused about the kissing, but that man seems so different from this one, who has proper, fatherly feelings for me and wants to help me get on in life.
Too soon it is time for him to go. I watch him pack, the old ache near my heart reasserting itself. I memorize him—the stubble darkening into a beard, the rumble in his throat, his quick movements on gazelle legs. I wonder how long he will live. Will we get another twenty years to make up for what we’ve lost?
At the station, I weep in spite of my resolve. We stand together, faces to the bitter wind, arms linked. The train whistle blows; train men bustle with suitcases. My father turns to me. The look on his face speaks of the power of machines and of the dreams we can make come true.
Memories float like ghosts inside my head as my chest turns to liquid. Daddy’s going again. I am losing him.
His sparkling green eyes and big smile are to help me, I know. He doesn’t want to leave me looking desolate. “I am proud of you for leaving Enid and being on your own,” he says. “You’re doing fine, but from now on I’m going to help you.” His arms bury me into his thick, manly coat. He turns to board the train, then looks back for a moment. “You know I love you.”
Parts of my lost self knit together. The sky is rose and lavender, the colors of hope, as the sun eases itself down past the western horizon.
Endings and Beginnings
It is December in Iowa. The Mississippi River is frozen and the day is gray with spitting snow. Arching above the river is the old bridge joining Iowa to Illinois. The heater in Willard’s car blasts hot air onto our feet. He turns up the hill, leaving behind the river and railroad tracks.
“Mama used to talk about crossing that bridge in a horse and carriage,” murmurs Edith. Gram has been crying all morning. Blanche is dead. Willard is driving us to the same funeral home where family members have been laid out generation after generation. I look at Gram, her mournful early morning cry still in my ears. “Mama, oh Mama,” she wailed. “How will I ever live without you?”
Earlier she sat smoking at Edith’s kitchen table, staring at the empty rocking chair by the window. I stared too, expecting Blanche to reappear and take out her embroidery. She would wear her gold-rimmed glasses; she would sew for half an hour, then haul herself out of the chair. She’d find something to do—hang the laundry on the line, peel peaches, or snap beans. She’d hoe the weeds and pick the rhubarb before breakfast. She used to say that if she ever stopped, she’d die. Now, at ninety-two, finally she is still.
The funeral home is crowded with Blanche’s seven children and their spouses, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Men whose normal garb is plaid flannel shirts and work pants with thick boots look awkward in their shiny suits, starched shirts, and off-center ties. I don’t remember ever seeing my great-uncles so dressed up. Everyone lines up to pass by the coffin.
I am afraid to look, afraid of death up close. Gram nudges me, but I hang back and stand in line beside Edith. Eventually, I move forward and look at Blanche: a lifeless, deflated body, all bones and sharp angles, her tiny head with coiffed white hair sinking into the pillow. I remember her singsong voice as she talked to the flour, the fire, the dumplings in her potato soup. I feel bereaved but so grateful as I say goodbye.
Uncle Hal, his thick shoulders lumpy under his Sunday coat, breaks down. I’m relieved to see his tears and the tears of the other men, men who never express emotion, men so even-keeled, so full of jokes that I never imagined them being so tender-hearted.
Gram wipes her eyes. “Why aren’t you crying? Don’t you care?”
I stare at her, fumbling for words. “I do care, I’ll miss her a lot, but she lived a full life. She was ninety-two. Edith told me she was ready to die.”
“How dare you talk like that? Shame, shame on you,” she hisses. I move away from her, sick of her constant venom. It makes me feel old and heavy myself. I make a vow as I skulk away: I won’t let her negativity affect me any more.
A young minister comes to the podium. He talks about everlasting life, reads some scripture. Blanche had a Bible, but I never saw her read it. She was a practical person who appreciated the eruption of life in her garden, the birth of grandchildren and great-grands, but I don’t know if she believed in God. In the stories she told about her life, she never needed a supreme being; she always saved herself.
Loving Blanche wasn’t always easy. I have chosen to forgive, or forget, her grouchy side, the side of her that complained, cried, sighed, and cheated at gin rummy. I remember, instead, what she taught me. Because of her, I know how to grow potatoes, strawberries, and tomatoes. I know how to make potato soup and egg noodles from scratch. If I had to, I could start a fire and bake a cake in her old cookstove. I have gleaned a lifetime of woman’s wisdom from my hours with Blanche.
Shortly after I return to campus from the funeral, Mother sends me a letter typed on yellow legal paper. I read the letter many times, tears running down my face, surprised by her openness with me. I begin to believe that there could be a new chance for us.
Dear Miss Pudding,
I have been thinking lately about my childhood. Blanche had a farm, and I used to visit. I remember home-baked bread, warm milk from the cows, and a group of ladies quilting in the parlor; having a lot of fun with Gram’s half brothers and sisters, homemade ice cream being made in the yard on a Sunday afternoon; thunder and lighting at night, and being scared. Little chicks being hatched, and horses, and oh all sorts of things that are fun to remember.
And when I was little, I lived with my great-grandmother Josephine in town, and Blanche would visit. I used to be so happy when she came, as I think I was very lonely. She always had a silk dress on, but when she was on the farm she wore aprons and sunbonnets, and worked in the garden.
I am surprised to hear that Mother has the same fond memories of the farm and our Iowa relatives as I do.
I would look for my father, who used to come to Muscatine every Saturday night without fail. But sometimes he didn’t see me. I used to walk along the street looking for him, and he was usually there somewhere.
Mother went looking for her father? My chest hurts as I imagine my mother as a little girl, with the same feelings that I had. I can picture her as an innocent child, instead of the wild woman I know. How lost she sounds.
My mother used to come from Chicago to see me. This was wonderful, like a dream. She was very beautiful and soft and lovely, and I had a hard time after she left, because I missed her. She didn’t come very often. Later, when she married Burt, I came to live with them.
It was nice to have my mother, whom I didn’t know very well. I think perhaps I was very difficult. I am not sure, but I think so. Or else my mother wasn’t used to being around children. I didn’t know a single playmate, and I was so bashful and didn’t know what to do, and everyone was so strange. Ugh, I hate to think of it. I was very backward, and didn’t know anything, and sometimes I think I still don’t.
I am getting older. It is very hard for me to realize I have a grown daughter. I am sorry that I didn’t remarry and have you to live with me like my mother did, but it just didn’t happen. Now I am worried about my future. I have always been very dependent on others.
I am not at all efficient, and sort of bungle things up. I didn’t seem to be able to get things straightened around, so I just live day to day and do the best I can. I hope you have a direction to go toward. I guess your grandmother has trained you far better than I could have done, and I guess you know the things that you should know.
I never did know much about life, always too protected and too unknowing about everything. I don’t know whether people realized this or not, and I don’t think I have changed much. I always thou
ght people were different from the way I found them.
Anyway, your Gram is a very smart woman, and I would have just dreamed the time away. I am an idealist and a dreamer, and I would have taught you nothing practical. I sort of go around in a mist or something. I think perhaps you will know how to live and face life. I never could have taught you this, and you will need it. I am sure you will be a success, which I have never been. I know a little bit about everything and not much about anything.
My mother reveals so many things I’ve never heard before—how much she missed her mother, that she often felt awkward and uncertain. Did she remember her own childhood when she used to visit me? She always seemed decisive and stubborn—certain of what she was doing, not listening to anyone else. I know about this mist she talks about—sometimes life is cast in a thick fog for me, too. Did mother know that she’d never come back when she left me with Gram, or was it an accident, everything that happened to us?
Somebody always did it for me. I think others have even lived my life for me—I just went along for the ride, hither and yon. Very good, but now not so good, because no one is living for me. I am living myself, but don’t know what I am living for—something? Somebody? Where am I going and what am I doing? Rather confusing.
Mother seems so lost, my heart aches for her. She thought others lived her life for her? Gram made so many decisions for mother, and in a way ran her life.
I am very sorry that you didn’t have a mother and father together in the same house, but I think your father tried very hard under the circumstances—I know he loves you very much, and you are his only child… I didn’t live with my father, ever, either, but this in no way impaired my love for him, and so must it not with you.
I suppose you have heard a lot of wrangling among adults through your little life, but don’t pay any attention to this—people just do this sometimes. The adults’ anger wasn’t your fault. Everybody just loved you a lot. Too bad people can’t be calm, but they haven’t this much consideration. I have, but most people haven’t. Adults didn’t mean to quarrel in front of you; nothing ever was your fault. Everyone loved you and was vying for your attention.
This I can’t accept. They fought for their own reasons. In her own mind, those fights have been rescripted. I don’t buy her explanation, but I know it’s her way of telling me she’s sorry.
Anyway, you were conceived and born in the most welcome way. You were very much looked forward to, with a great deal of impatience, both by your father and by me. You were the most wonderful miracle that ever happened. I have never been the same since.
I just couldn’t make things work right afterward. I got married for the express purpose of having you. I was married very soon after meeting your father, six weeks to be exact, and I said the first thing I wanted to do was have a baby, and so my wish was granted and you came into being, and it was all very wonderful, and I was very happy. You were born very quickly, nearly too quickly, one cold March morning, about 5:10 to be exact. It all happened so fast that it seemed it didn’t happen at all. Truly, it was years before I could believe it.
My mother wanted me! She says I was her miracle! Some long-parched desert inside me soaks up her words, even as I struggle to understand them. I write her a long letter in response, asking her questions and sharing some of my own old feelings. I keep reading her letter, holding it to my heart like a talisman. Maybe our having shared these things will make the future better. Maybe the past can be over now, and we won’t have to keep revisiting it.
I look through pictures from her childhood that I’ve tucked away. There she is at two years old, her hands folded as she sits in front of her grandfather’s house in Wapello, her eyes telegraphing sorrow. Where is her mother? In another photograph she holds a baby and perches in a rocking chair, her eyes glittering. My little mother is a sweet-looking child. She was like me: small, lost, and at the mercy of her family. How did that little girl become the kind of woman she is now?
I want to know more so I can learn from her mistakes. I must not let it happen to me.
Leaving at Last
I am in the Norman train station with several suitcases, wearing a brown suit with a hot pink lining, hose, new pumps, and a hat. Decked out like this, I feel ready for sophisticated Chicago. I’ve kicked off all traces of the small-town girl.
Sometimes it seems I have spent half my life at train stations, waiting for my dreams to be fulfilled. Again and again, throughout my childhood, I would imagine a thrilling reunion with my beautiful parents, only to be disappointed by the tarnished reality of them.
Now I am a grown woman and understand that Mother and Daddy aren’t perfect, no one is. In Chicago, I will get to know them as real people. Most significantly, my time with them won’t be marred by my grandmother’s influence. I can no longer endure her misery and the guilt she wants to bury me in. For the sake of my spirit’s survival, I have put great distance between Gram and myself. Now, at last, there’s space in my mind and heart for my parents.
I hold onto my hat as the train roars into the station. A gracious conductor helps me into the car and I find a seat just before the train lurches forward. Soon we are clicking along on the tracks. I gaze out the window, waiting for the special station, Perry, a place of so much childhood longing. When it appears, it’s just the same. Clutches of people swarm the train; men climb off and sweep children into their arms; women cry and wipe their eyes. I watch a small girl with long hair who reminds me of myself as she stands back and waves, her face etched in sadness. How I understand that look.
The train pauses for only a moment, then resumes its journey, hurtling me toward my future in an unknown place. I whisper goodbye to my grandmother. I don’t wish her ill, despite all the years of abuse. I sincerely want her to be happy, but it will have to be without me. She is part of the past I am eager to leave behind. Still, her “Sugar Pie” echoes in my heart. If only she could let me go with love.
The train passes empty fields that have just been planted with wheat. I will miss the golden sea of grain rippling in summer wind, the songs of whippoorwills on telephone poles, the red earth of this prairie. It is dark when we click-clack into Kansas, leaving Oklahoma and my childhood behind. In the morning I will gaze at the skyscrapers of Chicago, no longer just a city in my dreams. I will spend time with my father in his own home, a first for me, and with my mother in hers. They will take me to wonderful places in Chicago and I’ll become a part of their lives. At the same time I’ll make my own way at a whole new school where I’ll meet new people and make new friends. I can’t wait to get to know my parents away from Gram. Through knowing them better, I’ll find out where I came from so I can know where I’m going.
Anticipation zips like a current through my brain. I sleep very little as the train rocks me back and forth in its wonderful way. As the night passes, I imagine all the great things that lie ahead: a loving mother and father, a husband and children of my own, music and art and literature, the further ripening of all my gifts.
Some of this will indeed come to pass, but life is never quite as we imagine it.
Don’t Call Me Mother
The sharp bite of wind off Lake Michigan initiates me to the city that deserves its nickname—the Windy City. All my life I have yearned to see Chicago, and here I am. I feel triumphant as I stride next to my mother, holding up my head, proud the way Joan of Arc might have felt leading her troops. The battle here is not religious, though it is spiritual: my search for the Holy Grail that is my mother is over. Finally, at the age of twenty, I am in her territory, in the city where I was born and where she’s lived all the years we were apart.
Crowds of intense Chicagoans hustle along with serious faces, heels clicking on sidewalks, wind plastering their clothes to their bodies like epoxy. My mother and I brave the wind, hunching over as a sharp gust bursts between buildings. We make our way slowly down the avenues between tall buildings that rise like mountains in this blustering city with its brilliant edges.
/> I sense my baby self as I walk here, imagining a little girl and her young mother living together in a small apartment on Armitage Street, before the severing of our bond when I was four, the event that broke our future and defined our lives. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if we had stayed here, if mother had not left me with Gram. Perhaps Gram raised me to make up for abandoning my mother so many years before. I shake my head to banish these thoughts. There are too many what ifs. Here I am now, eager to taste and feel all that I have missed.
I love the electricity of the city, the palpable energy coursing along its streets. I love the marble floors in skyscraper office buildings, the bustling cafés. People wear suits and stylish dresses, with an air about them of the big city, brisk and no-nonsense, talking with that nasal Chicago accent. This is nothing like plain-Jane Oklahoma where I grew up. I lift my head, hoping I don’t give off the scent of red dirt and buffalo, hoping I won’t embarrass myself or my mother.
My stomach trembles from the onslaught of new culture as I try to keep up with mother’s quick, brisk steps. The wind blows her dyed auburn hair awry. She clutches it against her head with one hand, an unlit cigarette held between gloved fingers of the other.
She leans toward me, lecturing. “Hold your shoulders up. Don’t slouch. A girl should always have the best posture and decorum. You don’t want men to think you’re dumpy, do you? And when you go into a restaurant, don’t smile all the time. Just look ahead and make them take you to the table. All that chit-chatting—it’s silly.”
“But Mama, that’s just being friendly.”
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