Graduation and the Generations

My son graduated from high school last weekend. I didn’t feel a thing. There is some truth to that. I grew up hiding my feelings and pushing them aside. Now it is so automatic that sometimes I don’t feel when I want to feel. That is how it was the night before his graduation. I found myself being confused, thinking I needed to be productive and ‘get ready’ but going in circles, not sure how to be most effective. I felt the importance of the event and I didn’t want to mess up by being late or forgetting something. But I also thought, “Shouldn’t I be feeling something?” I searched and all I found was that confusion. I went to bed.

In the morning, I got up earlier than I thought I needed to because I am always running late. My plan was to leave for the school to wait in line half an hour before I thought I should. Emotion hit me while in the shower as it often does. In that most private of places with warm water running over my face, first there was the thought, “I wish my parents were here for this,” and then the surge of emotion. A multitude arose together: my loneliness, my loss, my grief, my desire to share an important moment with people who loved me, my pride for my son, my own accomplishment as a single parent, again grief over a failed marriage, some of the anger for my ex, sadness, my own insecurity, and back to the desire to have my parents there to tell me I had done a good job and to be that extended presence of support for my son. Then I cut it off to continue getting ready.

My thirteen-year-old son stood in line with me. We had half-an-hour to wait until the doors opened and two hours to wait until the ceremony began. With surprise, he realized I was wearing nylons. “I didn’t even notice,” he said. “Good. They are supposed to look natural,” I educated him. “Then why wear them at all,” he asked? The woman in front of us laughed and commented, “And so begins the educating of men!” 

Sitting in the bleachers, he joined me in observations of the band, people walking by, looking through the program flier, pointing out names we recognized from my graduate talking about them, pointing out people in the crowd that he knew, playing with the camera. We decided to text his brother every few minutes to annoyingly ensure he was up and making it to the school in time. My young son said, “If he doesn’t show, I will go up and accept his diploma for him!” The graduate sent a text, “I am here.” I informed him of his brother’s offer. The return text was, “Nice.” I was impressed by the consideration just exchanged between the boys when much of the time they complain of each other’s lack of consideration.

Their father sent a text saying he and his wife were sitting up above if I wanted to join them. I declined. While waiting, I felt that loneliness again. And again when the presenter had all grandparents rise and next all parents rise. If we were still married, we would have been sharing that moment with joy and pride and the knowledge of all we had been through to get to that point. In the back of my mind, I noted another loss. I also noted that too much had been revealed in our relationship for that congenial image to exist in reality. Again, I wanted someone to share the moment with me. I became aware of my son sitting next to me being a very enjoyable companion. I found myself thinking, “It is different than it is supposed to be, but it is still good.” I regained my balance as a single, independent, capable mom.

Young son and I arrived at their dad’s house for the after graduation reception party. I carried meat and cheese trays and was sans nylons. I appeared pleasant, relaxed, and casual. For the most part, this was real. There were some awkward moments. At one point, I felt I was acting as hostess in his fancy home as I would have done in the past. His sister’s and their spouses talked with me as we always would have, but years had passed since we had actually been around each other in this way. My own sister was there and told me my dress suited me well. She wouldn’t say it if it weren’t so. It was nice to have that feedback as I proceeded as an individual.

The graduate didn’t give me an opportunity to get a picture of him with just me.

But before I left for home, he informed me he had been invited to two different graduation parties. “I want to go to both, do you mind?” I offered him my confidence and trust in his judgment with the freedom to be out as long as he wanted. I also told him he could call me if he needed a ride home. I joked about him being a light weight and he let me know he might have more experience than I thought. I was satisfied with the respect he had shown by discussing his plans with me rather than just doing as he pleased.

Later that evening, my young son and I watched a comedy with Ben Stiller. We ate popcorn and more cheese from those cheese trays. He had discovered that day that he liked pepper jack cheese. So do I. Here was something new we could enjoy together.

Formica Fire

My grandmother’s log home still had old amenities. My mother had grown up there with an outhouse. I don’t know when the bathroom was installed. It was straight across from the entry with the kitchen to the right and the living area to the left. It had a bathtub without a shower. With my parents getting ready for work and me for school daily over the past winter, it was getting a lot of use. My mother was worried about mold and mildew setting into the walls. If any repairs were to be done for the rest of my grandmother’s life, it would be my dad doing them. My parents decided to install a Formica tub surround.

The day of the installation, I played outside in the grass under the pine trees. My parents busily prepared their work areas and my grandmother fussed around them. It was my job to stay out of the way, so I casually watched. I sat in the grass pulling out strands and tying them into knots. I could hear the adults talking through the door left open for ventilation. “Here is a bucket you can put your paint brush in.” “We’d better put our cigarettes away, no smoking near the glue!” “Can I help? What do you need?” “No, Mom, we’re fine. We’ve got it.”

I found a ladybug and carefully lifted it on a piece of grass, let it crawl onto my finger, then onto another piece of grass until it flew off. Suddenly, there was a low, loud, “Whoosh” which caused me to look up. The window to the living room glowed orange. My mother yelled, “Jim! Jim!” in a scared, panicked voice I had never heard from her. I ran to the door. To my right, my grandmother was at the phone pushing buttons, “Hello! Is anyone there?” She clicked the receiver down and tried again, her fingers shaking and glancing off. To my left, I watched my father pick up a large rectangle of flaming Formica while my mother opened a door leading out to the street side. Dad carried it out yelling “Damn it!” He dropped it onto the ground. Then he was flapping his hand and grabbing it. My mother rushed by his side and they headed into the kitchen. “Run cold water on it!” My mother turned on the faucet while my dad put his hand under the water. “Ahh! Jesus Christ!”

The linoleum in the living room was singed brown over about four feet. My mother’s eyebrows were singed off. My dad had large blisters on his hand. The gas forced air heater which I loved to sit in front of had set the fire. My parents had forgotten about the pilot light. My mother worked in front of it, spreading glue across the panel with fumes filling the room. Fear was replaced with humor. “Aren’t we so smart, get rid of the cigarettes but forget the pilot light!” “How do I look without eyebrows?” Out of earshot of my grandmother, Dad said, “A lot of help she is when she is scared! How could she mess up dialing the phone?” They laughed together about Granny being flustered. Added to it, they had taken care to shut down the entry furnace but had forgotten the one in the living room.

My Dad had a bandaged hand and blisters for a week or so. At that time and whenever the story was re-told, he was the Hero who rescued my mom from certain injury. The fear and danger were real, as were his gallantry and bravery.

Three Generations of Lucretia, About 1975

My mother, her mother, and myself are all living in Hailey:

                   Joe Anne Lucretia (Donahue) Reed, age 40

                                    Lucretia Reed, age 8

                         Lucretia (Tribble) Donahue, age 80

                             Spending time at Grandma's

                           The day of my first communion

Riding Bicycles with the Neighbor

I was at the neighbors’ house playing. There was a five-acre field between our homes. The neighbors had six daughters. Well, at that point in time, they had five daughters. I was used to a quiet house with a slower pace. When I walked through the entry of their home, I was met with a number of coats, hats, boots, scarves, and gloves, bags stuffed with stuff all strewn around, piled on and falling off of a bench. You could tell that people came and went in rushes. To the left were split stairs going up to the main living space and down to the basement family room. Already, there was a decision to make. When I was there, I was generally half confused, trying to take it all in.

         (Me becoming a country girl. The tree from my house is behind me as I sit on the neighbors' fence. 1975)

This day, we were outside. Their home was set far back from the main road and had a long, paved driveway with a circular turnabout in front of the house. We were riding our bikes fast down the driveway and whipping round the turnabout. My bike had a hard plastic molded seat and pedals of the same hard plastic. It also had training wheels which rattled as I road it. This bike had been fine on city sidewalks. Now, I lived with a dirt and gravel road in front of my house, no sidewalks. Others had ridden their bikes off to the side of the gravel road and worn trails. These trails were more solid, but they also had a lot of rocks sticking through. When I road my bike on the trail, I hit these rocks and bounced up and down on that hard plastic seat. Or, my wheels glanced off of rocks and jostled me side to side. I frequently had to stop and get myself going again.

Riding bikes at the neighbors was much more fun. This day, one of the older daughters, Mary, asked me, “Don’t you want to get those training wheels off?” “Uh, I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Here, you can use one of our bikes. I’ll teach you!” she said. I was terrified! But I didn’t want her to know. My shame at being afraid was stronger than my fear of getting hurt. I didn’t say that I didn’t want to do it. I found myself on a bike with a cushioned, banana-style seat. The handle bars curved back towards me and the pedals were rubber. It was so comfortable, I was happy just sitting on it. Mary had me at the end of the driveway and explained that she would hold the back of the bike as I pedaled. We got going, as the bike wobbled, I could feel her hand on the back edge of the seat helping to steady it. “Keep pedaling and don’t stop,” she urged me. I kept pedaling and it smoothed and straightened. “Keep pedaling,” she yelled. I kept pedaling and the smoothness felt good. Then I realized she was hollering at me from a distance behind. She was no longer holding onto the seat and running with me. I don’t remember stopping. I don’t remember crashing. I must have done ok.

I tended to play with one of the other daughters, Angie, who was closer in age to me, just a year younger. I became proficient at riding and had my own purplish, wine-colored bike with a banana seat. We rode our bikes downtown in that small country town. It was only two or three miles. We rode to the library to return books and to pick out new ones. Then Angie wanted to go to the store and buy some candy. “I don’t have any money,” I said. I knew I was dampening the fun. “Just go ask your dad for some!” she exclaimed. She was matter-of-fact, casual about it. That is what other kids did, they asked their parents for money. I never had done so. I wondered if he would get mad at me. I had a sense that I shouldn’t ask for money. She waited for me as I rode over to my dad’s store. Since we were living in what was supposed to have been his shop, he had rented a store space on a side street off of Main Street. My parents had painted the outside in wide red and white stripes and named it Reed’s Appliance and Repair. 

When I rode up on my bike, my dad was standing by one of the front bay windows talking to a man. Dad was relaxed, shirt sleeves rolled back, occasionally smiling as they talked. I waited patiently. He turned to me and asked, “What are you up to?” I explained I was with my friend and “Could you give me some money to buy some candy?” I asked. He hesitated. I knew I was putting him on the spot by asking in front of the man. It felt wrong. Dad looked serious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter which he handed to me. This was a grave transaction. I knew I shouldn’t ask again in the future. I joined Angie and we bought our candy. She enjoyed hers without a care. I enjoyed mine, but knew this would not become a habit.

                       (You can see the corner of the TV here in the lower left of the photo. Close living space.)

We lived in the small space that had been meant to be my dad’s repair shop. I would come home from school and sit on the floor to watch TV.  At one point, the TV stopped working. It was the old kind which had a fuse. I think the fuse went out. Whatever the cause, my parents couldn’t afford to fix it right then. We went at least a month, maybe two, without a working TV. Even when it was working, it received its signal from an antenna on top. I could barely get three channels clear enough to watch. A year or so down the road, my teacher at the time wanted us to watch a certain TV show and do a class assignment. I went down to my friend’s house to watch the show because I couldn’t get it. She also could watch the Muppets and I could not. Even though the Muppets show was popular at the time and it aired for several years, I only saw it a couple of times total. I told myself it didn’t matter.

One day after school as I sat and watched TV, I heard a loud pounding on the wall to my left on the other side of our entry door. Then a cracking sound and part of the wall board pushed through as a jagged arch. “What is happening?!” I thought as my heart stopped for a moment. The pounding continued as well as ripping and tearing. When enough of the wall was removed, my parents’ friend, Jim Riggin, looked through with a smile and said, “Hi, Cretia! How are ya doin’?” Jim had managed the construction of the original shop section and he now was managing the construction of an addition to the home. He was friendly and nice, so I figured him tearing our wall to pieces was ok. I went back to watching TV.