The GI Bride

by Simantel, Iris Jones

  Later that first day, Bob’s sister, Roberta, came over with her husband, Mike, who was Ukrainian, and their baby, Clarice. They sat around us while we opened our presents. Their generosity was overwhelming and I didn’t know what to say. Between them, they had bought us everything and I do mean everything we needed to start our home. It felt a little odd to be opening Christmas presents in March, with the sound of carols playing in the background. I must have sounded like a broken record, saying, ‘Thank you,’ over and over again.

  When Roberta and family left, we piled all of our presents around the edge of our small bedroom, then crawled onto the bed.

  ‘Well, honey, what do you think?’ asked Bob.

  ‘I’m in a state of shock. I’ve never seen so much stuff it’s embarrassing. I don’t know what to say to them it’s just too much, Bob.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it. In this family, if one person gets something new, everyone gets the same. Relax and enjoy it.’ But how could I enjoy it when I knew how little my own family had?

  The following weekend, the Irvines threw a big welcome-home party for us. Relatives and neighbours poured in to meet me and greet Bob. The house was crowded with people chattering, laughing, asking me questions and feasting from a table laden with food, most of which was unidentifiable, at least to me. My senses were already being assaulted by the stink of cigar smoke but add to that the smells that went with all that ‘foreign’ food, and I felt queasy. I wasn’t used to the scent of German and Polish sausage, sauerkraut, pickled herrings and cheese. Little did I know that marrying into a German family, some of whom were Wisconsin dairy farmers and who had brought the stinky cheeses, meant I needed to develop a much stronger stomach than the one I had.

  Again, family and friends showered us with gifts and I felt welcomed by their many kindnesses, although I was annoyed and embarrassed to overhear a conversation Bob’s mother had with another woman.

  ‘She’s quite pretty,’ said my mother-in-law, ‘but so frail-looking.’

  ‘She doesn’t look as if she’s ever had a decent meal,’ said another.

  ‘Yes, she’s pathetically thin,’ my mother-in-law replied, and I wondered how they would feel if they heard me saying, ‘Ooh, she’s pathetically fat.’

  ‘She comes from a very poor family,’ came yet another comment.

  ‘Stupid cows,’ I mumbled, under my breath.

  ‘What was that you said, honey?’ someone asked, but I just shook my head and walked away. Then someone tapped my arm and pulled me towards a small group of visitors.

  ‘Say something in English, honey,’ she said.

  For a second, I didn’t know how to respond. I wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘I’m talking English,’ I replied. ‘English people speak English.’

  ‘Isn’t that just the cutest thing?’ she remarked to the group, who laughed, but I still didn’t know what the silly cow meant.

  ‘Has she had much schooling?’ I heard another old biddy ask my mother-in-law. ‘It doesn’t sound as though she has.’ I didn’t hear the response, but by then I’d heard enough from behind their cupped hands and I went outside, wondering if there was anything right about me or the way I spoke. ‘Just going to get some fresh air,’ I told Bob, but I was seething and fighting back tears of hurt and anger.

  Some of what they were saying was true, but I certainly didn’t need to be constantly reminded of it. I’d thought I’d left all that behind.

  Linguistic differences often made people laugh or ask for explanations. I could understand that, and didn’t mind being teased or corrected, but I didn’t need to hear whispered criticism of myself it was as if I had the plague.

  In my early days in America, simply telling someone the time often brought laughter and teasing. For example, I would say it was five and twenty past ten, or five and twenty to ten; Americans would say twenty-five of ten, or twenty-five after ten. There were many similar examples of the differences in our supposed same language. Parts of cars had different names: the British ‘bonnet’ for the American ‘hood’, ‘boot’ for ‘trunk’, ‘petrol’ for ‘gas’ and ‘wings’ for ‘fenders’, to name a few. Most people know and understand those differences now because of television and other media, but back then, those little differences were new and even somewhat entertaining. In America, ‘fanny’ referred to someone’s bottom, while in Britain it meant ‘vagina’. I had to be vigilant while I was learning to speak American-English. I just hoped that in the company of the Irvines or their friends I wouldn’t make a complete fool of myself by inadvertently saying something dreadful.

  My in-laws, who were first-generation German immigrants, obviously thought that their new European daughter-in-law would fit their preconceived notion of Hausfrau because among the gifts I received were several ‘housedresses’ in size sixteen! They were unbelievably ugly. In large pastel plaids and floral designs, they zipped up the front and had two large patch pockets. I weighed just over six stone and wore size six, so those dresses would have gone around me twice, if I had ever worn them. I modelled one for Bob, and fortunately, he saw the funny side of it and we had a good laugh about them.

  ‘That’s what you get for marrying into a German family,’ he said. I soon discovered it was just the tip of the iceberg.

  5: A World of Contrasts

  During the next few weeks, things went reasonably well. The Irvines took me out in the car to see some of the sights and familiarize me with the area. On the first trip I was introduced to supermarket grocery shopping. I had never seen such huge stores or such a variety of goods. There was aisle after aisle of shelves and refrigerated units containing merchandise stacked almost to the ceiling. I was used to little British shops in which everything was lined up on shelves behind the counter and the assistant handed you what you wanted. Alternatively you could give them your shopping list. Then they would gather the items on your list for you and place them on the counter. American supermarkets also sold meat, vegetables and fruit; in the UK, those items came from separate shops, such as the greengrocery or the butcher’s. I wondered what my mother would have thought of such a ‘super’ shop she’d probably have got lost and had a nervous breakdown trying to find what she wanted. Oh, and the shock of having someone actually pack your purchases in large brown paper bags, then offer to carry them to the car for you! Mum always shopped at the customer-owned Co-op shops because you got points for what you bought. I can still remember her Co-op number because it was important: it paid dividends.

  Still on the subject of groceries, I was amazed by the Irvines’ vast stockpile of food and household necessities. When shown around their house, I saw shelves in the basement laden with canned goods, paper goods, laundry and cleaning products. Stacked up the edge of the attic stairway were staples such as sugar, flour and boxes of cereal. In the attic itself, which used to be Bob’s bedroom (his desk and bed were still there), there were still more household supplies. Did they think there might be another depression or war? Struck by the extreme contrast to home life in England, I pictured Mum’s pantry in which you would usually find a small bag each of flour and sugar, perhaps a tin of corned beef for emergencies, a bag of soda crystals for use in the bath and laundry, salt and pepper, a sack of potatoes and little else. Mum went to the shops every day, to buy the food for that day’s meal. There was no money for extras and, of course, you could only buy what you could carry home in your shopping bag or basket since hardly anyone we knew had a car. My goodness, I thought, life is certainly different here in America, and it was going to take some getting used to.

  The next important visit was to the family burial plots. At first I thought the Irvines took us there for Bob to pay his respect
s to his deceased relatives because he’d been away for two years but, no, it was for a far more (pardon the pun) cryptic reason. They went to check the ‘grave blankets’, which were rectangles of woven pine branches to keep the graves warm in the winter, I supposed. To me, that was just plain weird. I couldn’t conjure the image of a dead person or ghost shivering with cold and reaching out for a blanket. Later, when I researched the strange custom, I discovered that grave blankets were also available to celebrate a variety of occasions. You could (and apparently still can) buy birthday blankets, Christmas blankets, Valentine’s Day blankets, and more. I still have no idea how the custom originated but I had to give credit to the good old American entrepreneurial spirit. They certainly knew how to make money, even out of their dead.

  Driving around in the suburbs was a strange, almost surreal experience. It bothered me that nothing looked permanent. All of the shopping areas, or strip malls, as they were called, were single storey and strung out along concrete parking strips. Little of the construction was in bricks and mortar and most buildings reminded me of the prefabricated houses built in Britain after the war. I remember wondering why they didn’t construct multi-storey buildings, as they did in Europe and in the larger American cities, where shops usually had apartments or other businesses above them. Bob said it was because there was more land to build on in America. Everything reminded me of what I’d seen in movies about the old Wild West, except that there were proper roads and the shops had modern frontages. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to live in that wasteland: I needed to be somewhere that felt more lived in, where I didn’t feel so unattached, so disconnected, like an untethered balloon blowing about in the wind. Those wide-open places, which looked barely used, didn’t seem very different from ghost towns. Years later, watching the American television series The Twilight Zone, I was reminded of my early impressions of Chicago’s newer suburbs; there had been something eerie about them back then.

  The most important visit of all, as far as the Irvines were concerned, was to the church that the family attended. They were Lutheran, a denomination I had never heard of before. Mrs Irvine worked as housekeeper to the minister and his wife, which surprised me: every vicar or minister I had known in England, not that I had known many, was poor. They could not have afforded a housekeeper, and certainly wouldn’t have been driving a brand new Cadillac or spending their winters in Florida, as this minister did. I was also shocked that members of the church had to sign a pledge as to how much they would give it each week or year since the church’s budget was based on projected income. Apparently, the pledge could be as binding as any other contract. I remember thinking how mercenary it sounded. It was definitely not my idea of religion. American churches seemed to operate like businesses and I hated the idea.

  I was amazed again when I saw how Bob’s mother and sister dressed for church on cold days. Along with their Sunday dresses, full-length fur coats and high-heeled shoes, they wore white ankle socks over their nylon stockings. I found that most unattractive and peculiar and hoped they wouldn’t expect me to follow suit. I’d rather have died than wear socks over my nylons.

  Every Sunday after church, the family would gather at the Irvines’ house for midday dinner, and then at Roberta’s for the evening meal, or supper, as they called it. I would mentally hold my nose against whatever strong food smells prevailed and pray for something I could eat without gagging.

  At first I thought it was nice that the family spent so much time together, but soon the obligation became a nuisance. They expected us every Sunday, which gave us no freedom to do anything else at weekends, especially if Bob was working overtime on Saturdays. Those Sunday meals, always served on the best china, crystal and silver, meant lots of washing-up afterwards: every piece had to be cleaned individually, by hand, never allowing one to bang against another. Then, each item wrapped in its special protective cloth, it all went back into storage until the next Sunday. The process took hours and, believe me, I dreaded the routine; there were times when I would have given anything for our old Sunday dinners back home, when Mum dished up the food in the kitchen to make sure each person got the appropriate quantity, according to their place in the family, and we shared one glass.

  I was soon experiencing problems after I’d eaten some of the rich food, especially the heavy German dishes prepared by my mother-in-law. I had to refuse some, asking if I might just have some toast, and she would be offended, often bursting into tears.

  ‘No one’s ever insulted the food I prepared for them,’ she would choke out between sobs. I felt awful about it, but what could I do? I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings and certainly couldn’t control my physical reactions. ‘Please, Bob,’ I said, ‘could you explain to her about the simple diet I’ve always been used to? I can’t just change overnight. Please try to make her understand.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but my mother’s a stubborn German and I doubt she’ll be willing or able to change either.’

  Poor Bob. I remember how frustrated he became with both of us. He and I had little private time together and even our lovemaking was strained: we were always concerned that his parents might hear and know what we were doing; I mean, did we really think they didn’t know? Occasionally we ended up laughing at our fumbling efforts to be quiet under the covers.

  ‘Is everything all right in there?’ we’d hear from next door. It wasn’t easy to sleep in the bedroom adjoining theirs, knowing how thin the walls were. It had been different when we were with Mum and Dad: we joked about it through the wall and had some good laughs. I was beginning to think that those people never laughed. They seemed devoid of any sense of humour.

  ‘Do you think they’ve ever done it?’ I asked Bob. I tried to imagine it and ended up giggling.

  ‘Nah, I musta been adopted,’ he said. ‘There’s no way I coulda come out of those two.’ I was glad he was different from the rest of his family.

  Bob had told me his sister had learning difficulties and had attended a special school. He also claimed that his mother had been instrumental in Roberta and Mike getting together. Apparently Mrs Irvine had worked with Mike and had arranged the whole thing, even their marriage. I didn’t intend to allow our lives to be dictated, as theirs obviously had been.

  It soon became apparent that our living with Bob’s parents wasn’t going to work. I was terribly homesick, which no one seemed to understand or have the slightest sympathy for, and I began to feel quite ill. I was constantly hurting my mother-in-law’s feelings by not eating the food she’d prepared or staying in my room to write letters or read, sometimes just to cry. The situation worsened when, just a few weeks after our arrival, I received word that my granddad had died. I was devastated and inconsolable for days. My poor husband was at a loss to know what to do. There was no one to share my grief with so I buried my head under the bed covers and wept.

  At about that time, and perhaps to take my mind off my grandfather’s death, Bob announced that he was taking me away for a few days. He had realized that I needed a break from all the stress and we really did need some time alone together.

  He didn’t tell me where we were going. It was a surprise, he told me, and it certainly was.

  ‘I need to give my car a good workout,’ he said. ‘Dad did drive it occasionally while I was away, just to keep it in order, but it needs a real road-trip to get it in good shape.’ I’d been thrilled to learn that Bob had a car and felt as though I had taken a giant step up in the world. I don’t remember what make it was, but it was huge compared to British cars.

  We drove to the neighbouring state of Wisconsin. First, we stopped to see some relatives who were dairy farmers. There, I helped gather
eggs and learned how to size them and place them in cartons. Although Bob’s aunt Freda was his mother’s sister, the two women were as different as chalk and cheese, just like my mother and her sister, Iris. Mum was blonde and chubby, still had a Cockney accent and was a messy housekeeper, while her sister was dark-haired and slender, her speech was refined and she kept an immaculate home. Here on the farm, the family worked side by side, seemingly enjoying each other’s company, but best of all, laughter echoed throughout that old farmhouse. Why couldn’t Freda and her husband have been my parents-in-law? I thought. They were much more like my own family. I was sad when we left, but soon cheered up when I discovered the next of Bob’s surprises.

  We left the flat farmlands and soon the terrain became a little more rugged and hilly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Wait and see,’ replied a grinning Bob. ‘It’s a special surprise and I think you’ll really like it.’

  We drove into a town called Wisconsin Dells and I loved it as soon as I saw all the old, mostly white clapboard houses, many surrounded by white picket fences. This is more like it, I thought. None of the buildings was new, like the California houses in movies. They were old and had real character.

  The main street through the town displayed numerous advertising signs for local attractions. Among those I remember was the Tommy Bartlett Water Show, Duck Rides on the Wisconsin River, and the Authentic Indian Ceremonial. The latter caught my attention and made my heart somersault.

  ‘Can we really see Indians here? Are they real Indians? Can we go to the Ceremonial?’ The questions tumbled out, one after another. I was as excited as a child at Christmas.