Serial marriers are not born. They are carefully crafted through a series of teachings and events that start most likely at the moment the first breath of air is sucked into our lungs. So, as with all stories, "in the beginning"...
I am the child of a woman from the land of two names. Dorothy Glen. No, Glen is not a last name it is a middle name. It is pronounced, "Dawtheglen", in the small Kentucky town where she was raised. Born at home many weeks premature in 1926 her chances of survival were slim . When the doctor finally arrived he advised my grandparents not to name her as her time here would be so short. "Baby Girl" would suffice on the headstone. My great grandmother wrapped this tiny 3 pound baby in a blanket, put her in a box and set her by the warm stove in the kitchen. Late at night the county Seer, an old black woman from the hills outside town, came to the backdoor and knocked. My grandmother was not one to believe in magic, omens or Seers and she was leery of black people coming to her door. She listened with a certain amount of irritation as this ancient figure told her, "dat baby gwanna live, Miz Forest. You needs ta rest so you kin raise yo princess".
And princess she was. She was a lucky child of her generation. The first and, as it turned out only, child born of her parents she was treasured. She was the first grand baby in the family, living with her parents in her paternal grandmother's house on Main Street. Her maternal grandmother lived just around the corner with her sons, mother's uncles, who adored her. They called her "Snooks"'. Her dad owned the town's car dealership/garage with his brother. This sounds much more impressive than reality. Grandad and Uncle Guy probably bought more cars for themselves than they sold. This tiny town cradled less than 800 people. It was mostly rural and the actual town was there to support the needs of the farmers. A grocery store, post office, court house, doctor's office, two churches, a school - grades 1 through 12 - and a funeral home. Everything you need to be born, exist and die in six square blocks.
Mother has great stories of growing up in her little town. Right on a river, her dad and another family owned a house boat so they could cruise the cool river in the summer and spend nights in the breeze under the stars. There were several little girls her age in town and they were best friends from birth. Riding horses, trick or treating in extravagant costumes hand made by the mothers, going to town picnics, burgoo dinners at church and all things Mayberry-like. As the depression tightened it's grip, grandad took a job with the government as a rural postman. They always had what they needed. Yes, life in Kentucky was good.
My dad was also born in a small town on a river. This one in Utah. Life in Utah was not good. There was nothing idyllic or charming about his childhood. One of 7 children he was raised on a small farm where as soon as you could walk you had chores and responsibilities in the fields. The farm was one of many in the area that grew sugar beets for the Idaho-Utah cooperative. Sugar beet plants are sharp, prickly, sticky little monsters that have to be thinned to thrive. Thinning the beets was the boys job. (My father never allowed beets in our house.) Dad's family lived in a two room farm house on their small plot of land. There was no toilet but one outhouse shared by the family. Pigs were slaughtered and hung on the side porch to provide meat for the family. The 3 oldest children, all girls, had married and started lives of their own by the time dad was born. The 4 boys shared a room and I do not know where my grandparents slept. One of the boys died at the age of 7 when his broken arm became infected with gangrene. They held vigil at the farm and had the funeral there. A small casket in a dimly lit room haunted my dad for years.
My grandfather had a nasty habit of cashing in the crop at the end of the harvest, going to town, getting drunk and spending or losing all the money. When times were real hard in the depression grandad would work as a conductor on the train. Times got harder as my dad got older and by the time he was a junior in high school he was running the farm with his little brother. Grandad worked the railroad, his older brother joined the army and became a pilot who would go on to fly gliders in the war starting in Normandy through The Battle of the Bulge. Dad graduated from high school with honors, joined the Navy and left home.
Oh yeah, somewhere in there Dad became a musical genius. Well, genius may be a stretch but not by much. He became a piano virtuoso and wrote arrangements for the school band. To this day this fact amazes me. His family lived on cornmeal mush some seasons, (this is now called polenta and you can pay big bucks for it in chic restaurants). He had one pair of clothes for school, he had a funeral suit and overalls to work the farm. They had no phone, no plumbing, no refrigeration but they had a piano. All the kids took lessons. I asked him about this once when I was kidding him about having to eat gruel as I called it and yet all the kids took music lessons.
"Music was very important in my family. Mother and dad both believed that it was worth the money to give their children a gift that would bring them pleasure for their lifetime. Food was just a meal", he replied.
Mom and dad met in Missouri when she was going to Central Methodist College as a music major. Dad was there at Mizzou going to school as part of his Officer's training in the Navy. They were set up on a blind date and married just months later. Mom was 19 and Dad was 20. Five years later they had my brother. Three years and five days after his birth I made my entrance. Somehow I am sure it was quite an entrance complete with a "ta da" and jazz hands at the end. It was 1953 and our little family was complete.
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