| Biographical Non-Fiction posted May 4, 2018 |
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A defining memory through an eight-year-old's eyes
Of Memory and White Lace Gloves
by Mrs. KT
As a child, growing up in a small Midwestern suburb during the 1950s, I knew my parents loved me unconditionally. However, when it came to family conversations that dealt even remotely with sex, divorce, sickness, or death, I was considered a non-entity. Even between my parents, those topics were discussed in hushed whispers or behind closed doors. Today, such veiled-secret parenting would be deemed excessively archaic, yet these topics were considered taboo for my young ears for reasons that only my parents understood.
When my uncle was killed in a horrific accident aboard a cargo ship in May of 1961, I was a few weeks shy of my eighth birthday. I was told that “Something terrible has happened to Uncle Archie,” and that we needed to attend his funeral “up north.”
Of course, I asked my parents what had happened, but I was told gently, but firmly, "That's all you need to know."
Eventually, I did learn the devastating details. My uncle had been the helmsman on a freighter that was docked in Frankfort, Michigan, a quaint little village on the shores of Lake Michigan. While assisting the crew in the loading of railway cars onto the freighter, one of the cars slipped off its loading tracks, decapitating my mother's thirty-three-year-old younger brother. He left behind my aunt and four cousins, the eldest of whom was six at the time.
However, that day all I knew was the following:
My uncle and his family were strangers to me. I vaguely knew they existed, but our families never visited with one another.
I had never been "up north," a place my mother dismissed as being "God's country, and God can have it," and teeming with mosquitoes, "as big as your eyeballs."
I had never attended a funeral or been exposed to the societal euphemisms and inherent rituals surrounding death.
And yet, my uncle's tragic death served as one of the most memorable events of my childhood. To this day, I recall significant moments of my uncle's passing as vividly as I remember the white lace gloves I wore to his funeral...
About half an hour outside of my hometown, tent worms' sticky webs began to appear on countless infested maple trees and scrub bushes along the lone highway we traveled four days later en route to my uncle's services. I pressed my face to peer at the webs through our Ford’s semi-opened windows, horrified at the crawling parade of clustered worm-filled webs. I wondered, silently, if the worms were capable of flying into our car's opened windows and weaving their webs around me. Worse yet, was the thought that if these worms were so near our home, what kind of torment could the up north mosquitoes inflict upon my person once I stepped out of our car?
I knew better than to ask.
I do not recall my father speaking to me at all during that long ride. My mother spent her time telling my father to slow down or checking the road map through tear-stained glasses. Occasionally, she turned in her seat to silently assess if my dress was wrinkled.
Both the dress and I were a hot mess of wrinkles.
Small beads of sweat were collecting under the straw hat my mother had instructed me to wear, as well as the elastic band under my chin that secured the hat. The backs of my legs were sticking to the car seat. My blue, dotted swiss dress scratched my sunburned arms. And my patent-leather shoes squeezed toes that were unaccustomed to their hosts' unyielding newness. But I had the whole back seat to myself, my Jack and Jill magazines piled by my side, and my Wendy doll to keep me company and quiet.
I was too warm to read or play with Wendy. I was too hot to do anything but stare out the windows and count the tents of worms as they flashed by our car.
At one point, Mother told me to take off my white lace gloves and place them in my small, black patent leather purse.
“Don’t get them dirty,” she admonished. “We’ll be there soon. Put them back on when we get to the church. You want to look fresh when Grandma McNeil sees you. And be sure not to laugh or make any noise. Just act like a young lady.”
Nearly three hours and one grimy restroom stop later, the sweet, heady fragrance of lilacs hung heavily in the air as we walked into the small, white wooden church.
I clutched my mother's hand and quietly inquired, "Where is Uncle Archie?"
My mother leaned down to me and whispered, "He's sleeping. Up there," and she gestured to where a group of people was standing.
As we began to walk up the aisle, I saw what looked like a large flag-covered box placed at the front of a raised area. Mother attempted to shield my eyes with her white-gloved hands. A tall woman wearing a dark green suit was standing by the box, but she needed help standing. Her hat appeared to be slipping off her head, just like I wanted mine to do. We approached the box, and my mother turned my face into her chest and held me there. "Just look away, Diane."
I could barely breathe.
When I finally managed to loosen my mother’s grip on me, I turned to see my grandmother.
She was standing next to the lady in green. I could tell Grandma needed help, too. But Grandma didn’t hug me. Grandma hadn't noticed I was wearing white lace gloves. Grandma didn’t even seem to know I was there.
So many people were crying…
I had never been in the presence of such sadness and crying. But I didn’t cry. I was afraid, thirsty, and needed to go to the bathroom, but I was also determined to “act like a young lady,” and that meant, in my mind, not crying or being a bother to my parents, especially my mother.
We walked back to a pew where my grandfather was sitting all by himself. I sat down next to him. He offered me a faint smile, but I noticed that every once in a while, he wiped his eyes with his white cotton handkerchief and exhaled deeply. I scooted closer to him and linked my arm through his. We sat like that throughout the entire service in spite of the heat.
A man in black flowing robes stood up in front of everyone and said something about “God’s will,” but the sun was shining through pretty glass windows, and I kept looking at them trying to figure out why a man was hanging on a wooden cross.
Afterwards, my father and some other men carried my uncle's box outside and placed it in a long black car. The rest of us entered other cars and drove a short distance to a cemetery high up on a hill that overlooked a huge, sparkling blue lake. I had never seen anything like that before in my whole life. The lake sparkled with magical diamonds, of that I was certain. "God's country" wasn't ugly at all; it was beautiful.
Grandpa held my white-gloved hand as I helped him navigate the rocky parts and uneven ground.
"Do you see any mosquitoes, Grandpa?" I quietly asked him as we gathered with my parents and the others under a small tent-like structure.
"No, honey," he replied. "It's too early for mosquitoes. They're not out quite yet."
I squeezed his hand tighter and breathed a bit easier.
We stood by a huge hole in the ground. To my horror, my "sleeping" uncle and the box that contained him were lowered into the hole as the man in black recited more prayers. I closed my eyes, bit my lower lip, and held on to my grandfather's hand tighter than I ever thought possible.
Someone began playing a song on bagpipes and gave the lady in green the flag that had covered the box.
She was still crying as were my mother and grandmother.
We began to walk back down the hill when I spotted a dandelion on the ground. I removed one of my gloves, and I bent down to pick it. I gave it to my grandfather, and he put it in his pocket. “For safekeeping,” he whispered.
"For safekeeping," I whispered back.
Later, I sat outside at a long table with my grandfather. His white handkerchief was rumpled and wet. He patted my almost eight-year-old knee and said, “It’s going to be a hot one this summer; that’s for darn sure.”
We ate cold ham sandwiches and potato salad. The potato salad didn’t have any eggs in it, but I ate it anyway. We drank watered-down orange Kool-Aid out of colorful tin glasses. My glass was slippery, so I held it in both of my still-gloved hands. I leaned over to my grandfather and told him that I knew how to make better Kool-Aid than what we were drinking and that the next time he came for a visit, I would make him some. We smiled at one another, and he started to say something to me, but just then, someone bumped me when she came over to tell my grandfather how sorry she was that my grandfather had lost his only son. Orange Kool-Aid spilled all over my white lace gloves.
Only then did I cry.
<<<~~~>>>
Sometimes, the remembered moments of childhood weave themselves into the very fiber of our being and form who we are as adults and how we see and relate to others and the world around us.
Without a doubt, my uncle's death was such a defining moment in my life.
To this day, I have never again worn white gloves of any material, nor did I ever force my daughter to wear them when she was a little girl. I wouldn't wish dotted swiss anything on anyone. As for hats, I simply refuse to wear them, even during the winter months. Lilacs, however beautiful and fragrant, remind me of death, and while I admire them from a distance, I don't arrange them in bouquets for our home. The sight of tent worms still makes me cringe. And I politely refuse Kool-Aid of any flavor.
Ironically, my husband and I have lived "up north" for nearly forty years. We raised our family on a beautiful bluff overlooking the sparkling blue waters of Grand Traverse Bay in northern Michigan, not too far from where my uncle's death and funeral took place. When my parents were living, they visited us as often as possible, in spite of the specter of mosquitoes.
Eventually, my uncle’s death brought my family closer together. My parents mellowed as I grew older and became more receptive to sharing their feelings and opinions. In spite of their oftentimes rigidity and overprotectiveness, ours was a relationship that I treasure to this day. Following my uncle's death, I finally met my aunt and cousins and visited with them throughout my childhood. While I have never really unfolded and understood the complex details surrounding the disconnectedness between our two families before my uncle’s death, we cousins remain in contact with one another to this day.
As for my own children, my husband and I included them in family discussions even when they were youngsters, and we made a point of answering their questions or allaying their fears when it came to the deaths of their grandparents and assorted cats and dogs. Few, if any, topics were ever discussed in hushed whispers or behind closed doors in our home. I never once told my daughter to "Act like a young lady." And crying? We freely cry when we are sad or joyful no matter the situation.
And each spring, every time I spy dandelions, I smile as I think of my grandfather. I always pick one, and I place it in my pocket "for safekeeping."
<<<~~~>>>
True Story Contest contest entry
As a child, growing up in a small Midwestern suburb during the 1950s, I knew my parents loved me unconditionally. However, when it came to family conversations that dealt even remotely with sex, divorce, sickness, or death, I was considered a non-entity. Even between my parents, those topics were discussed in hushed whispers or behind closed doors. Today, such veiled-secret parenting would be deemed excessively archaic, yet these topics were considered taboo for my young ears for reasons that only my parents understood.
When my uncle was killed in a horrific accident aboard a cargo ship in May of 1961, I was a few weeks shy of my eighth birthday. I was told that “Something terrible has happened to Uncle Archie,” and that we needed to attend his funeral “up north.”
Of course, I asked my parents what had happened, but I was told gently, but firmly, "That's all you need to know."
Eventually, I did learn the devastating details. My uncle had been the helmsman on a freighter that was docked in Frankfort, Michigan, a quaint little village on the shores of Lake Michigan. While assisting the crew in the loading of railway cars onto the freighter, one of the cars slipped off its loading tracks, decapitating my mother's thirty-three-year-old younger brother. He left behind my aunt and four cousins, the eldest of whom was six at the time.
However, that day all I knew was the following:
My uncle and his family were strangers to me. I vaguely knew they existed, but our families never visited with one another.
I had never been "up north," a place my mother dismissed as being "God's country, and God can have it," and teeming with mosquitoes, "as big as your eyeballs."
I had never attended a funeral or been exposed to the societal euphemisms and inherent rituals surrounding death.
And yet, my uncle's tragic death served as one of the most memorable events of my childhood. To this day, I recall significant moments of my uncle's passing as vividly as I remember the white lace gloves I wore to his funeral...
About half an hour outside of my hometown, tent worms' sticky webs began to appear on countless infested maple trees and scrub bushes along the lone highway we traveled four days later en route to my uncle's services. I pressed my face to peer at the webs through our Ford’s semi-opened windows, horrified at the crawling parade of clustered worm-filled webs. I wondered, silently, if the worms were capable of flying into our car's opened windows and weaving their webs around me. Worse yet, was the thought that if these worms were so near our home, what kind of torment could the up north mosquitoes inflict upon my person once I stepped out of our car?
I knew better than to ask.
I do not recall my father speaking to me at all during that long ride. My mother spent her time telling my father to slow down or checking the road map through tear-stained glasses. Occasionally, she turned in her seat to silently assess if my dress was wrinkled.
Both the dress and I were a hot mess of wrinkles.
Small beads of sweat were collecting under the straw hat my mother had instructed me to wear, as well as the elastic band under my chin that secured the hat. The backs of my legs were sticking to the car seat. My blue, dotted swiss dress scratched my sunburned arms. And my patent-leather shoes squeezed toes that were unaccustomed to their hosts' unyielding newness. But I had the whole back seat to myself, my Jack and Jill magazines piled by my side, and my Wendy doll to keep me company and quiet.
I was too warm to read or play with Wendy. I was too hot to do anything but stare out the windows and count the tents of worms as they flashed by our car.
At one point, Mother told me to take off my white lace gloves and place them in my small, black patent leather purse.
“Don’t get them dirty,” she admonished. “We’ll be there soon. Put them back on when we get to the church. You want to look fresh when Grandma McNeil sees you. And be sure not to laugh or make any noise. Just act like a young lady.”
Nearly three hours and one grimy restroom stop later, the sweet, heady fragrance of lilacs hung heavily in the air as we walked into the small, white wooden church.
I clutched my mother's hand and quietly inquired, "Where is Uncle Archie?"
My mother leaned down to me and whispered, "He's sleeping. Up there," and she gestured to where a group of people was standing.
As we began to walk up the aisle, I saw what looked like a large flag-covered box placed at the front of a raised area. Mother attempted to shield my eyes with her white-gloved hands. A tall woman wearing a dark green suit was standing by the box, but she needed help standing. Her hat appeared to be slipping off her head, just like I wanted mine to do. We approached the box, and my mother turned my face into her chest and held me there. "Just look away, Diane."
I could barely breathe.
When I finally managed to loosen my mother’s grip on me, I turned to see my grandmother.
She was standing next to the lady in green. I could tell Grandma needed help, too. But Grandma didn’t hug me. Grandma hadn't noticed I was wearing white lace gloves. Grandma didn’t even seem to know I was there.
So many people were crying…
I had never been in the presence of such sadness and crying. But I didn’t cry. I was afraid, thirsty, and needed to go to the bathroom, but I was also determined to “act like a young lady,” and that meant, in my mind, not crying or being a bother to my parents, especially my mother.
We walked back to a pew where my grandfather was sitting all by himself. I sat down next to him. He offered me a faint smile, but I noticed that every once in a while, he wiped his eyes with his white cotton handkerchief and exhaled deeply. I scooted closer to him and linked my arm through his. We sat like that throughout the entire service in spite of the heat.
A man in black flowing robes stood up in front of everyone and said something about “God’s will,” but the sun was shining through pretty glass windows, and I kept looking at them trying to figure out why a man was hanging on a wooden cross.
Afterwards, my father and some other men carried my uncle's box outside and placed it in a long black car. The rest of us entered other cars and drove a short distance to a cemetery high up on a hill that overlooked a huge, sparkling blue lake. I had never seen anything like that before in my whole life. The lake sparkled with magical diamonds, of that I was certain. "God's country" wasn't ugly at all; it was beautiful.
Grandpa held my white-gloved hand as I helped him navigate the rocky parts and uneven ground.
"Do you see any mosquitoes, Grandpa?" I quietly asked him as we gathered with my parents and the others under a small tent-like structure.
"No, honey," he replied. "It's too early for mosquitoes. They're not out quite yet."
I squeezed his hand tighter and breathed a bit easier.
We stood by a huge hole in the ground. To my horror, my "sleeping" uncle and the box that contained him were lowered into the hole as the man in black recited more prayers. I closed my eyes, bit my lower lip, and held on to my grandfather's hand tighter than I ever thought possible.
Someone began playing a song on bagpipes and gave the lady in green the flag that had covered the box.
She was still crying as were my mother and grandmother.
We began to walk back down the hill when I spotted a dandelion on the ground. I removed one of my gloves, and I bent down to pick it. I gave it to my grandfather, and he put it in his pocket. “For safekeeping,” he whispered.
"For safekeeping," I whispered back.
Later, I sat outside at a long table with my grandfather. His white handkerchief was rumpled and wet. He patted my almost eight-year-old knee and said, “It’s going to be a hot one this summer; that’s for darn sure.”
We ate cold ham sandwiches and potato salad. The potato salad didn’t have any eggs in it, but I ate it anyway. We drank watered-down orange Kool-Aid out of colorful tin glasses. My glass was slippery, so I held it in both of my still-gloved hands. I leaned over to my grandfather and told him that I knew how to make better Kool-Aid than what we were drinking and that the next time he came for a visit, I would make him some. We smiled at one another, and he started to say something to me, but just then, someone bumped me when she came over to tell my grandfather how sorry she was that my grandfather had lost his only son. Orange Kool-Aid spilled all over my white lace gloves.
Only then did I cry.
<<<~~~>>>
Sometimes, the remembered moments of childhood weave themselves into the very fiber of our being and form who we are as adults and how we see and relate to others and the world around us.
Without a doubt, my uncle's death was such a defining moment in my life.
To this day, I have never again worn white gloves of any material, nor did I ever force my daughter to wear them when she was a little girl. I wouldn't wish dotted swiss anything on anyone. As for hats, I simply refuse to wear them, even during the winter months. Lilacs, however beautiful and fragrant, remind me of death, and while I admire them from a distance, I don't arrange them in bouquets for our home. The sight of tent worms still makes me cringe. And I politely refuse Kool-Aid of any flavor.
Ironically, my husband and I have lived "up north" for nearly forty years. We raised our family on a beautiful bluff overlooking the sparkling blue waters of Grand Traverse Bay in northern Michigan, not too far from where my uncle's death and funeral took place. When my parents were living, they visited us as often as possible, in spite of the specter of mosquitoes.
Eventually, my uncle’s death brought my family closer together. My parents mellowed as I grew older and became more receptive to sharing their feelings and opinions. In spite of their oftentimes rigidity and overprotectiveness, ours was a relationship that I treasure to this day. Following my uncle's death, I finally met my aunt and cousins and visited with them throughout my childhood. While I have never really unfolded and understood the complex details surrounding the disconnectedness between our two families before my uncle’s death, we cousins remain in contact with one another to this day.
As for my own children, my husband and I included them in family discussions even when they were youngsters, and we made a point of answering their questions or allaying their fears when it came to the deaths of their grandparents and assorted cats and dogs. Few, if any, topics were ever discussed in hushed whispers or behind closed doors in our home. I never once told my daughter to "Act like a young lady." And crying? We freely cry when we are sad or joyful no matter the situation.
And each spring, every time I spy dandelions, I smile as I think of my grandfather. I always pick one, and I place it in my pocket "for safekeeping."
<<<~~~>>>
Eventually, my uncle’s death brought my family closer together. My parents mellowed as I grew older and became more receptive to sharing their feelings and opinions. In spite of their oftentimes rigidity and overprotectiveness, ours was a relationship that I treasure to this day. Following my uncle's death, I finally met my aunt and cousins and visited with them throughout my childhood. While I have never really unfolded and understood the complex details surrounding the disconnectedness between our two families before my uncle’s death, we cousins remain in contact with one another to this day.
As for my own children, my husband and I included them in family discussions even when they were youngsters, and we made a point of answering their questions or allaying their fears when it came to the deaths of their grandparents and assorted cats and dogs. Few, if any, topics were ever discussed in hushed whispers or behind closed doors in our home. I never once told my daughter to "Act like a young lady." And crying? We freely cry when we are sad or joyful no matter the situation.
And each spring, every time I spy dandelions, I smile as I think of my grandfather. I always pick one, and I place it in my pocket "for safekeeping."
<<<~~~>>>
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