6
And Then Came the Day
When I was seven years old, my mother and I boarded a train and left my grandmother and Tiny, my little dog, behind. We traveled for five days from Illinois to Oregon. Our traveling companions were young men going home after the war who gave me pennies. Mother was going to Oregon to marry Mike, the soldier she chose. He had presented a good story of his little hometown of the Dalles, Oregon, and how he wanted to go back after the war, and he convinced Mom to follow him.
Mom enthusiastically explained the trip to me, how much fun it would be, and we would ride a train, and I would get a new dog.
Grandmother cried when we left—the first time I had seen her cry. She knew something I did not.
We would never see each other again.
We lived with Grandma from the day I was born until we left for Oregon. She was gone briefly, although I don't remember the separation. I remember her lovely white house in the country and her new husband, who had a mustache. I had never seen anyone with a mustache and observing him wipe it with a napkin fascinated me. He seemed like a lovely man and would take me with him when he filled his car with gas, as the gas station gave away peppermint sticks.
Before Grandma married Mr. Dicus, Dad drove the four of us through the countryside, where Grandma saw a lovely large white house on a farm. She casually commented that she married for love the first time; the second time, she wanted to marry for money.
My father somehow got the farmer's ear and introduced them. Mr. Dicus invited Grandma, Ma Bertsch, we called her, out for ice cream. They got married. That's all I know. Except that he died a short time later, his kids took the farm and the money, and Grandma returned to our little house.
Grandmother was a great cook. She basted fried eggs; I have never had an egg soak into toast as she prepared them. I remember sucking on pork chop bones, and when I first learned to talk, I called all meat "Bone." I loved chip beef on toast. Do you know that you cannot buy chip beef the way we had it as kids? When I found that it didn't taste as it did when Grandma prepared it—Mom did too after we moved to The Dalles, and I did later. Suddenly, the meat looked different; it was pressed into around shapes and not shredded as it had been. I Googled it and found you can't buy what we had earlier, although it comes in the same-looking little glass jar. Just thinking of the saltness of that dish makes my mouth water.
I had a friend who believed chip beef on toast was so Bourgeoise. That was not a compliment, although the Bourgeoisie don't sound bad to me—merchants, political activists, artists. However, they were highly maligned by the hoity French. And I won't tell you what the soldiers called chip beef on toast. SOS, you figure it out.
Everything Grandma made was delicious, even a sandwich made of mustard and onion, which seemed odd, but I liked it. Her dill pickles were the best I've ever tasted, and pickled crabapples were so perfect, even Mom couldn't match them.
I don't remember playing with Grandma much; I went shopping and to church with her and to funerals. Once shopping, she got so mad that a clerk short-changed her that we found something of equal value and took it. They were a pair of panties for me. I was shocked.
I remember lying in bed with her, looking up into a tree, and finding animal shapes in the branches.
After the supposedly fun adventure of our trip to Oregon, the reality of it sank in later.
I remember crying in bed at night because I missed Grandmother. And thinking about it, I can't imagine what Grandma felt like losing her only grandchild after living with her for seven years.
Mike was my stepdad. I always called him Mike, never Daddy; I just couldn't do it.
In December of my second grade, I found myself in front of a nun, sitting all prim and proper in a white blouse and navy skirt, with the other students. I wasn't prepared for the structure of a Catholic School, and I was expected to write cursive, but didn't know how. I had an artistic eye, so I drew writing by copying the alphabet printed on eight by-twelve-inch pages that encircled the room. They had a printed letter and a cursive one on each page. I didn't read well either, and I was embarrassed to stand beside my desk and read aloud. One poor little girl standing in front of the room peed her pants.
When I was reading and stumbling over the words, the nun threatened to keep me after school; I was humiliated. She didn't make me stay, though; perhaps she realized she had pushed a bit too far.
My fourth-grade teacher, Sister Mary Michael Francis, was an exuberant young woman. She was an artist who exhibited her paintings in the room where I copied them. She would tie up her long black skirt during recess and play baseball. I never liked baseball, but I liked Sister Mary Margaret Francis. And I believe she liked me because we were both artists.
Once I commented to someone that I had a crush on Sister Mary Michael Frances, and I remember the look that flashed for one second.
I never considered my attraction to Sister Mary Michael Frances anything but fan based. I didn't know about Gays. I knew I was a girl, and I liked little boys. I never questioned my sexuality. I fear that nowadays, with all the Gay, Trans, BI's, and questions of what pronouns are, you have confused many young people who have a hard enough time with life anyway. I'm not saying people of various persuasions ought not to be honored; it's just that there is more in our culture than one would biologically expect.
I left the Catholic church before the church affected me much. I had my first confession at the Priest's knee in the confessional; it was not such a good idea considering what had transpired since then, but he was a gentleman. I was innocent enough to think that was all right. I did wonder why, though; I was in there while most of the people went to confession on the other side of the divider.
And then came Protestantism and the doubting years.
Those were the growing-up years, the questioning years, the molestation years, and the headache years. I thought I had a beautiful childhood, for I loved the little girl I was who ran, played, and rode horses and was mentored by the neighbor girl who owned King.
Now I see that those years did affect me. I was an innocent thrust out into the real world of questioning. Why did we leave Grandma? Why did we leave Tiny? I was disappointed in Grandma because she didn't take care of Tiny after we left. Mom's sister, Marie, told Mom a lady down the street had taken her in, so she was better off there. She must have felt abandoned—she was. People sometimes disappoint you, but then maybe I expect too much.
I never grieved over what I lost by leaving Illinois—my Father, Grandma, Tiny, Aunt Marie, and the Metcalf Family—feeling happy. Instead, I joined the great unwashed horde of people who think they aren't good enough.
What a motley group we are, and so wrong. We are good enough. We just need a little help in this process of life.
Mom and Mike were married on December 21, two months before I turned eight. I specifically remember the date as Mom suggested they not buy presents for each other that year. Mike had already purchased a stereo system, so he gave it to her on December 21.
One day, Mom got a call from Mike, or so she thought. They were newlyweds, and apparently, so was the caller. He said, "Hon, what have you been doing?"
"I was on the scaffolding."
"What?!"
It was not Mike, and Mom had been fixing up the house.
I had almost forgotten about the war rationing. For a time, certain critical items, like shoes, were in short supply and in great need, so the US rationed them and sent coupons to the citizens, which indicated how many they could buy. It didn't affect me much, and I never hear of it anymore, so probably many people don't know of it. That first year in Oregon, rationing was still in effect. It was Christmas time, and my mother wanted to make candy as a gift for Mike's family, so Mike's mother donated her sugar coupons to the cause.
Grandma wrote that she was happy I was in Catholic school as she was Catholic, but Mom had nothing to do with the Catholic Church after the nuns questioned why her last name and mine were different. Mom's second marriage was not honored by the church; thus, she never attended mass again.
I wanted the same name as my mother, so we changed it to Willett, although not legally. The people who knew me thought Willett was my name until I graduated high school and felt that legal representation should be on my diploma. Then, the kids wondered who Glenda Joyce Metcalf was because I went by Joyce Willett throughout school.
Since Willett begins with a W, and in school, we sat in alphabetical order (dumb), I usually sat in the back of the room. There, I drew pictures whenever I could get by with it. I remember seeing some boys sitting up the aisle from me, drawing planes in aerial fights.
Kindred spirits.