1

Alone in the World

 

April 13, 1962

Dear Mary Love,

We were so relieved to hear you made it to the hospital in time.  A blizzard in the middle of April of all things! We know how disappointed you must be, as we are, that Beth was not a boy.  We were hoping for Doug’s sake that this one would be it. Timmy and I are off again, this time to Spain to visit some friends.  We will write and be in touch soon.  Give the girls a kiss for us.

Love, 

Mercedes

 

Why couldn’t I have been a boy?  I thought it would be easier.  People didn’t really care if boys were ugly.  Besides, my dad wished so too.  My mother told me he had wanted a boy, not another girl.  My grandmother’s letter said the same thing.  So there you have it.  From that moment on, I never felt good enough.  My father would come to confirm my feelings in later years by adopting another woman’s son to carry on his family name.

 

I will never forget the disappointment I felt when I found this letter as an adult.  I was stunned.  My father’s parents were upper class socialites and were always on the go.  They were very important people so I believed their opinion mattered.  After all, they were my grandparents and I wanted them to love me.  Isn’t that what all children want, to be happy and loved?

 

I do have some happy memories of Minneapolis: the snow piled so high I could never see over the top, the pond in our back yard we all skated on, and the bicycle that gave me my first ride and my first fall!

 

The winters were bitter cold.  They felt like dry fire on my skin and my lips were always cracked and bleeding. Once inside and warm, the pain would slowly subside until eventually I could feel my face and the tips of my fingers.  But life during those winters was still good (except for the time I froze my tongue to the chain link fence or the time my sister disappeared in a snow drift)!

 

My father was an only child, raised by his three old-maid aunts, because his parents were always traveling.  He played hockey in college and loved to duck hunt.  I would often find him piddling in the garage working on our old car.  I would sit on his workbench and try to connect with him by playing with his tools.  “The garage is no place for a little girl.” He would say and then he would shoo me out and send me on my way. 

 

I don’t know where he went to college, or really much about him, except what I’ve been told by my mother.  He was a thin man with dark hair and black glasses.  He liked to drink and smoke cigarettes. When my mother was not around, he smiled a lot.  He always called me “Beth Old Girl”.  I feared him, though, and tried to stay out of the way when his temper erupted.  I learned at an early age to pick up tension in a room.  He stayed angry a lot, but I didn’t understand why, not until later.  Many nights would go by when he would reduce me to tears at the dinner table. 

 

“Well, what has your mother thrown together tonight?  I hope it’s better than last night.  It seems like she could learn how to cook more than three recipes.”

 

My sisters and I glanced at each other with our heads down.  I could feel it coming.  My mother stayed silent.

 

“What do you think, Beth?”  He was staring at me.  “You need to eat your peas.”

 

I pushed the peas around with my fork.  I didn’t like peas.

 

“I didn’t say scatter them around on your plate. I said eat them!”

 

I felt my cheeks getting hot.  My sisters were eating their food as fast as they could.  I raised my fork to my mouth and the peas rolled off, back onto my plate.

 

“You’re not going to sit at this table and eat like a pig!  If you can’t navigate with a fork, then use your spoon.  Eat like a little baby.”

 

I felt the tears well up in my eyes.  I looked at my mother, begging her to come to my rescue.

 

“Doug, please.  Just leave her alone.  She’s only six and she’s doing the best she can.”

 

“You shut up!  I wasn’t talking to you and I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

 

I couldn’t hold them back any longer.  They rolled down my cheeks.  I tasted the saltiness on my lips.  I knew I had to endure it, though.  Eventually everyone got quiet and the rest of the meal was finished in silence.  It was puzzling.  I never understood why he picked on me.  After all, I was only a child.  I believe that this early and frequent berating led to my feelings of insecurity and unworthiness later in life.  In spite of it all, I managed to remember a few good memories of my father.

 

Sunday mornings with my dad were the highlight of my weekends.  Upon wakening, I would go to my parent’s bed and skim underneath the sheets until I landed beside my father.  It felt so good to snuggle with him and rest my head against his unshaven cheek.  The smell of Irish Spring still makes my heart tingle.  He would tickle and cajole me under the covers, always teasing, always laughing.  It was during those moments that I felt safe, loved and secure.

 

I was always full of anticipation at breakfast time.  It was a ritual for me to sit on my father’s lap while he methodically read, with great gusto, the funny papers.  His voice soothed me as he took on each comic character and made them come alive. 

 

“That works great!  Open the toy chest Joey.” He would say in his make believe voice of Dennis the Menace.

 

I often giggled so hard I would have to hold on to his knee to keep from falling.  I hated when it finally ended.  I could have sat there for hours.  While the weekend days were fun, the evenings were not.

 

A few times, I had the privilege of his company when he drank his sherry after dinner.  He would withdraw and become quiet, like he was another person.  I felt uncomfortable and it wouldn’t be long before he would push me away.  We all knew that when the sun went down and he retired to his study the drinking would start.  My mother would try to keep out of his way and would spend time with us upstairs.  No one knew when his mood was going to change.  It was safer to just stay in our rooms and not bother him.  It was during those times that she talked to us about God, saying that with God in our lives everything would be okay.

 

My mother prayed regularly and was always reading the bible.  Going to church three days a week was just a way of life for us.  She often quoted scripture and told us bible stories.  I would sit and listen to her while she would go on and on about baptism, salvation and hell while she cooked in the kitchen, but the food was the real reason I was there!  I thought she was the best cook in the world!  I looked forward to coming home from school at lunchtime. 

 

The bus would pull to a stop in front of my house.  I’d jump off and run through the snow and up the steps.  My mom always left the front door open and I knew what was waiting for me.

 

“Mom, I’m home!”  Brrrrrr, I thought.  I was glad to be indoors.

 

I threw my bag on the sofa and hurried down the stairs.  Captain Kangaroo was on T.V. and a place was set up for me on a small lunch stand.

 

“I’m so glad to see you!  How was school today?”  She maneuvered her way down the stairs with a bowl in one hand and a plate in the other.

 

“It was fun!  We cut out snowflakes.  Want to see mine?”

 

“I do, but let’s eat your lunch first.”

 

She placed a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of me and then put a perfectly toasted grilled cheese sandwich beside it

 

 “Ummm.  That smells so good.  You’re the best Mom!”

 

She smiled lovingly at me.  Whenever she cooked, she was always happy. 

 

“Thank you, honey.  I need to get back upstairs now and finish cleaning.”

 

I ate and then took my plate to the kitchen.  My mom was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. The house was always spotless. I didn’t understand her need for perfection.  It wouldn’t have bothered me to eat off the floor, it was so clean.  I later grew up to realize that ironing bed sheets and underwear was not normal behavior. 

 

I was the younger of two sisters.  Terri was eleven years older, and Lynn, five. Terri had long, straight, brown hair that felt as soft as bird feathers around her shoulders.  She used to iron it on the ironing board to make it perfectly straight. I was always jealous of her hair and paid close attention to everything she did to hers.  Mine was thin and stringy and it never managed to get long.  I seemed to have a weak hairline at the back of my neck, as the sides would grow out but the middle would not.  Over the year’s I took every vitamin I could get my hands on, but nothing helped. 

 

Terri was always giggling.  I admired her and longed for her attention.  She wore cats-eyed glasses, which was a sure sign to me that she was very smart.  Because she was so much older, we didn’t spend a lot of time together.  Unfortunately, we grew apart emotionally.  Physically we separated when she went away to college.  I was only eight. We ended up estranged and that left a huge scar on my heart.  I could feel the indention, but I couldn’t do anything about it.  Fortunately, I still had my sister Lynn.

 

My Dad called my middle sister “Leonard”.  I thought she was his favorite because she looked like him and had his middle name.  They both had dark features and my sister had a dimple in her chin just like my father.  She was beautiful and the boys thought so, too!  She had a perfect figure, like my mom.  She was shapely and had legs like a Gazelle.  Her hair was black and lustrous and her lashes were long like a movie star. In high school she always dated cute jocks and was voted homecoming attendant her junior year.  On top of being pretty, she was intelligent and excelled in math.  I was terrible at math and barely passed Algebra.  I thought I could never live up to her accomplishments.

 

I was tall and gangly with freckles.  At an early age, I had to get glasses and from that point on, I felt like a big fuddrucker.  My sisters were attractive, but I was the “ugly” one.  I sucked my thumb until I was in the fifth grade, which gave me bucked teeth.  I vividly remember my sister chanting, “Buck Teeth Beth, has bad breath.”

 

Lynn and I had a love/hate relationship and were typical sibling rivals.  She was a constant barb in my side and I would try to get back at her by spying.  Her bedroom was in our unfinished basement.  She had more privacy than I did and could come and go without anyone seeing her.  I didn’t think it was fair and would peep through the window to try and catch her doing something bad, like kissing boys!

 

I would cup my hands around my eyes and peer through the window.   She had an orange and white parachute hanging from her ceiling and I wanted it for my own.  It billowed, the way clouds do in the sky. I watched her change into her gym clothes.  What a great athlete she was!  I wanted to be just like her. 

 

One day I ran around to the back of the house, came through the basement, and knocked on her door.

 

“Whatta you want?”

 

“Hey.  Watcha doing?”

 

“Go away.  I’m getting ready to go shoot some hoops.”  She pulled on her Adidas gym shorts and tried to ignore me.

 

“Can I go with you?  Please?”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I promise I won’t bother you.  I just want to practice basketball.  You promised you would teach me.”

 

“All right, I guess, but hurry up.  I’m ready to go.”

 

I ran upstairs and changed into my shorts, which were ratty and torn.  I didn’t mind though.  I knew that the more time I could practice with her the better I would be.  She was fast and could make the net swoosh.  At least we had height and speed in common. 

 

In high school, I developed severe acne.  It got so bad that my mother took me to a dermatologist.  Back in the day, they sprayed your face with liquid nitrogen to combat breakouts.  It was so cold that it burned.  I was certain the flame was searing a hole through my skin.  Afterwards my face turned beet red and then days later started to flake and peel.  I felt like a snake shedding its skin.  The other kids made fun of me.  They whispered and snickered to each other and gave me scornful looks.  Often it was so unbearable I would stay home from school.  On some of those day’s I would spend time with my grandmother.

 

My grandpa’s real name was Robert or Bob.  When my sister, Terri, was very little, she could not pronounce his name and thus the name “Bobo” was born so we called my grandparents Mandy and Bobo.  They were very well respected and traveled all over the nation. He was a top executive of Boy Scouts of America. I liked spending time with them and often found my grandfather cooking in his kitchen in the garage.

 

“Hi, Bobo!”  Aromas of homemade fruitcake and peanut brittle filled the room.

 

“Hello, Beth.”  He was busy wrapping fruit cakes in wax paper.  I knew after that he would cover each one in Christmas paper and then affix his seal.

 

“How many fruit cakes have you made so far?”

 

“Oh, this is my third shipment, probably about 800 or so.”

 

I walked along the counter until my eyes landed on the candy.

 

“Can I have a piece of peanut brittle?”

 

“Okay, but then you need to run on.  I’m busy and have to get these to the post office by 4:00.”

 

I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth.  It was still warm.  I loved how it crunched between my teeth and then slowly dissolved into sugar.

 

He put his head down and continued working.  He was a man of few words.  I slipped out the door and went upstairs to look for Mandy. 

 

My grandmother was very meek and the kindest woman I have ever known.  I never heard her say an ugly word to or about anyone.

 

Again, the smell of food filled the room.  She was standing at the stove stirring something in a black iron skillet.

 

“Hi Mandy!”

 

“Oh, Beth!  Back already?”

 

“Yeah, Bobo was busy and said he had to get to the post office.”  I peered underneath her arm to look inside the skillet.  “Ymmmm!  Golden fried chicken.  My favorite.  I’m starving!  When is dinner?”

 

“Oh, I’m just cooking this ahead of time.  Get yourself a cookie out of the jar to tide you over.”

 

My grandmother’s cookie jar was always full. I reached in to get a cookie.  Her back was to me so I pulled out two instead. 

 

“Mmmm,” I thought.  Snicker doodles.  My second favorite!

 

“When I get done with this chicken do you want to sit by the fire and talk to me while I sew?”

 

“Sure.”  My grandmother loved to sew and made decorative trashcans for people.  She would buy metal cans and then take fabric and cover them with various patterns such as flowers or teddy bears. 

 

We walked into the den and I sat down on the hearth.  There was a big black bible sitting on the edge.  The pages were worn from years of use.  We sat together through the afternoon, just the two of us.  Days like this one were perfect, but it made me think about my other grandparents.  I wished I could spend more time with them, but they were so far away.

 

I know very little about my dad’s parents.  We called them Merc and Timmy.  They always appeared happy and well-dressed and spent their last years in Arizona.  I only visited one time.  They bought me a cowboy outfit, complete with a cap gun and holster.  I have a fond memory playing cowboys and Indians behind the cactus. 

 

My grandfather worked for the Chamber of Commerce.  Somehow, he managed to get my dad a job at the Minneapolis Chamber.  My mother was so relieved about this. Little did I know that the job would be short lived, like the others.