Early Lessons, #5

When I was little, I knew a girl named DeDe Walmsley. You'd always see DeDe and her mother and little brother, ghosting around town together in subdued colors (gray, dark gray,... grey) with stricken (DeDe), mournful (her mother), and malevolent (her brother) looks on their faces. The word wraiths comes to mind now. I wouldn't have known that word back then.

DeDe's mother had immigrated to Byesville from Hungary after her children were born. Her name was Lujza, pronounced LOO-sha. Everybody in Byesville said Luh-WEE-shuh--closer to what we thought was a name.
 
The Walmsleys were Roman Catholic but not in the way the American Catholics I knew were. My mom said that Lujza came from the "Old Country." That could account for it. In hindsight, she did have an overpowering Vlad air about her. You just knew that Luzja Walmsley wasn't one for fun and games. Her children bore visibly the conditioning of strict Catholic confession and penance. It played out daily in their lives in the family home. 

So then, DeDe. 

DeDe was, in her own right, strange in appearance and demeanor. The former was due, in part, to the gray/grey swathes of material she wore where the rest of us little girls in town wore the light, bright greens and pinks of the 60's, with flower patterns and groovy stripes and swirls. 

As to DeDe's demeanor--so hard to describe from a child's memory. It seems to have so much more portent now. When I picture DeDe, I see her forever hanging back, sitting off to one side, at the fringes of every classroom seating chart, peering into a room from behind the door, standing at the back of every line. She is not just sad-looking; her mouth forms a small "o"--as though she is horrified but not at things present, only past and future. And she is judging: you wouldn't want to break any of God's rules (as we knew them then) with DeDe Walmsley looking on at what you'd done.

DeDe and I kind of knew each other, more than the other kids in our school knew DeDe. She often cast me a look through lowered lashes at school because we spent time together privately when I went with my dad to deliver groceries. For years, my dad, who owned the local grocery store, delivered people's groceries for free if they asked, and that included to DeDe's mother's great gray and dusty kitchen every week. I was usually with him, part of the journey home from school. 

We'd go in by the back door with the grocery bags. I'd go over by the kitchen stairs to talk to DeDe. She was always sitting on the steps, half-cloaked by the shadows there. There wasn't much to talk about and DeDe wasn't offering, but I was not the kind of child that let lack of content keep me from going on about something. I pulled out some topics on my mind and generally chatted DeDe up while my dad helped unload groceries. DeDe smiled some, and even snorted a little. I guess she thought I was funny and that's why she'd cast a glance my way at school. The interaction pleased me in its private and special nature.

But there was another, darker incident that involved me and DeDe and being back by those dimly lit stairs. It's what I thought of that led me to write this post in the first place. I can't put my finger on what brought it to mind though.

One time I went to DeDe's house with my dad, and DeDe wasn't on the back stairs. I looked around and saw her in a small room under the stairs, like a broom closet. I peeked in and saw that DeDe was standing on her knees, on the cement floor.

I inched closer and peered in. "Are you prayin'?" I whispered. 

She startled a bit. But without changing position she said, "No. I'm kneelin' on beans."

I leaned down and looked. It wasn't beans per se, looked more like cracked corn. ("Cracked corn is worse than just old beans or rice," DeDe told me later.  "Feels like glass and makes you bleed.")

I was bewildered. I'd never seen a punishment like this, but it was clear that was what it was. It hurt me to think about it. DeDe kneeling there--for how long?--like she felt nothing.

"What did you do wrong? What are you being punished for?"

DeDe thought a moment. Sighed. "I don't know. Lotsa times I don't have any idea." 
   

Earthquake!

One of those rolling, sickening earthquakes. I could see the walls shuddering. And the sound made it worse.

New England reported little or no damage over all, but here in Portland, Maine, there were some signs to be seen:

Postcard La mano poderosa, where it fell during the earthquake. (Location: tapu's kitchen.)

Wall from where La mano poderosa fell. (Location: tapu's kitchen.) X marks the card's original spot.

No injuries have been reported.

I don't see how this counts as winning.

dateline Florida: 

Man collapses, dies after winning roach-eating contest

<snip>
None of the other contestants
showed any signs of illness
after the contest, Siegel said.  <snip>

Geez, if ever there was an appropriate time to be a sympathy puker....

Read more here: http://www.miamiherald.com/2012/10/09/3040873/man-dies-after-winning-roach-eating.html#storylink=cpy

None of the other contestants showed any signs of illness after the contest, Siegel said.

Geez, if ever there was an appropriate time to be a sympathy puker.

Gone a-Missin'

I may have mentioned that Mary Belle, my mother, was one of 12 siblings -- 9 girls + 3 boys. Given the age-spread, there wasn't a lot of time they lived together under one roof, but home base for all of them was Lore City, Ohio (pop. 305 in the 2000 census).

What would 12 kids be like? There'd be these 5 here...

and 5 more like them...

and then another 2 like these.  Imagine...

Not my Grandma Littleton, but like her.
Like the place and time, too.

The siblings were all full sisters and brothers. Their mother, whom I like to call Grandma-Littleton-may-god-rest-her-soul-how-in-god's-name-did-she-do-it raised them in a big old falling-down miners' house in Lore City. Sometimes another relative or an older sibling themselves took in one or two of the younger ones for a spell. The father of all these kids, whom I like to call Who's-that-old-man-at-Grandma's-funeral? (since that's the only time I ever saw him), was apparently around mostly for conception intervals. 

My mother stayed admirably close to her siblings through younger adulthood, though they were far-flung and always falling in or out of various states of poverty, illness, domestic crisis, or incarceration. She was particularly caring toward my Uncle Donald, her younger brother. He gave her the nickname "Gunk" when they were little. He could always make her laugh with that.

Uncle Donald was a drifter, I realize now. One time he visited, he was coming off work as a lineman out west. (Hey, maybe Wichita, yuk, yuk. That song was popular right then.) 

They were insulators, off the line.

I remember he brought me two glass "doorstops," one a clear blue, the other milky white. I loved them instantly -- the shapes, the weight -- but I was unsure how to use them. Since I revered Uncle Donald, I probably placed them around my bedroom door even though I didn't need to "stop" it. 

It sunk in what they were a couple of years later; I don't remember being told or anything. I do remember noticing them everywhere after that, being used for all kinds of things and especially for decoration. That's what people lined up on their shelves, to show off something pretty. They still do.

It was during this stay that things started going bad for Uncle Donald. He was staying with Grandma Littleton for a while, but my mom saw a diary where Grandma was writing that she was afraid of him when he come home drunk at night. My mom made everybody agree that Uncle Donald had to leave there. So then there he was at my house for a while. I was scared sometimes too. Just afternoons and in the evening. I was afraid what he was going to yell when I went through the dining room to the back door.

One day my dad showed me something that felt strangely dark and icky. I didn't all the way get it back then but I understand now. Even then it seemed just... icky. There were 5-6 bottles shaped like Elvis and they were all hidden back behind the wood pile.

The Elvises had had whiskey in them before now. I knew where my dad kept them, up in a cupboard over the sink. I don't know why he had them, just to collect them I guess. I didn't know at all what it meant that Uncle Donald had drunk them.

What it seemed to mean in the bigger picture was that Uncle Donald wasn't going to be staying any longer with us either. Mary Belle "had had it." My dad found someone who would give Uncle Donald a garage to live in on the edge of town. I used to go by it and think, "My uncle lives there." Of course, it's not all that bad or unusual a thing back there. 

And now for the final (maybe) chapter in Uncle Donald's saga. When Uncle Donald was in his late 40s, I think, he was back in town living in that same garage again. (Guess that worked out pretty well for everyone.) 

One morning early, the Sheriff came by to see my mom. He said that Donald had been driving drunk as a skunk the night before, caused an accident that hurt the other person pretty bad. A couple deputies chased Don down Wills Creek but they lost him. 

I forget how much time passed with no word or sighting of Uncle Donald, but the deputies felt sure that he had died out on the creek. You see, it was winter and there was a lot of snow and ice and somebody said maybe Don had a heart attack or something. 

We would hear once in a while that Don had been seen by someone, in another town and with a woman, or whatever. One time, about 10-12 years after he went missin', my mom swore that she saw him in the mall in West Virginia and she ran me around there for an hour or more. But no Don. 

Not too long before my mother died, she had her Brother Don declared dead. She had to for several reasons and I know she did believe he was dead. She loved Uncle Donald so much. We all loved him.