IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN.....OR OLIVE

My mother phoned last week to let me know how much she had enjoyed a recent visit with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "Caitlin was wearing a hot pink cardigan and she looked so beautiful," Mom gushed.

My mother's closet is organized by color. Each outfit has its own color-coordinated hanger.

Mom continued her one-sided conversation without pausing. "I asked her if she knew what her colors were, but she didn't. I knew the moment Cristin was born that she was a "Summer" but I'm not sure about Caitlin. I told her that her Aunt Rebecca needs to send her some color swatches."

My sister wrote about painting her house in a November, 1983 letter: "But I want to repaint the entry---don't like the leaf green in there now. I'll go for apricot or peach instead." Only someone in my family would know that there is a difference between the colors apricot and peach.

At one point during the phone call I casually mentioned that I was wearing a lot of black. I might as well have told my mother that I had been lying out in the sun every day for months, slathered in Johnson's baby oil.

"You do not look good in black," she said in a voice that let me know I was the stupidest person on earth.

I give Mom props for being diplomatic at my wedding. I know she thought my champagne-colored dress and yellow-flowered wreath were very unflattering colors on me. Two weeks before the wedding she sent money for a manicure and this advice about nail polish: "Even if you choose a pale pink, be sure it is a warm tone. With your coloring, wouldn't a coral be pretty? At any rate, you don't want any blue in the formula."

She immediately launched into a tirade that sounded a lot like Vice President Joe Biden lecturing the public on how to avoid the deadly swine flu: I would not go anywhere in confined spaces. I would not ride the subway. I would not get on an airplane. I would not wear black with olive-colored skin.

"It's just so easy," I said, a little defensively, even though I know she could care less about practicality. "The girls were not sure it was you when they saw earlier pictures, so keep that in mind," Mom said. I wasn't sure what she meant and I didn't want to ask. Questioning Mom is like questioning her credentials.

Years ago my mother purchased a red-orange hutch from a model home sale. It was a personal favorite of hers. This letter to my sister is a typical example of Mom bequeathing something to her grandchildren. For the last 25 years she has refused to own anything that is not "in my colors." (Feb. 1987)

For as long as I can remember my mother has been obsessed with color. Years before it became popular to personalize colors based on the seasons, she carried in her purse a collection of color chips that she got from the paint store. The samples were hooked together at one end with a brad and opened up like a little Chinese fan. Before she made any purchase---towels, sheets, dishes, furniture or clothes---she would spread those paint chips out and hold them next to the item. Nothing was taken off a hanger or removed from a store's shelf until it passed the Ameritone color test.

If you ask my mother today what I was good at as a child, I have no doubt she would say, "Kathleen could tell the difference between magenta and pink when she was only two years old." I used to think I was born precocious. But now I'm sure Mom used that fan-shaped color wheel like a deck of flash cards to drill me on my colors so I could spare her any future embarrassment.

When I was in 8th grade I had a 'D' in Science on the first report card. At the Parent-Teacher Conference my mother asked what subjects we would be studying next. When Mr. Phend said ' prisms,' she assured my very skeptical teacher that I would have no trouble passing the course. "Kathleen is very good with colors," she told him. Mr. Phend was so shocked that I raised my average to a "B" that he even initialed the report card, just in case my parents questioned the grade.

Not surprising, the first word I learned to say was a color word---yellow. (Or yeh-yo, as I pronounced it for more years than I care to admit.) I loved the color yellow. Mom even indulged me on my third birthday with "The Yellow Party." Everything at the party was yellow---the tablecloth, plates and paper cups. Everything except my party dress. I was not allowed to wear yellow, birthday or no birthday.

Mom dubbed my third birthday party THE YELLOW PARTY. On my birthday she always had my second cousin Cheryl sit to my right, in the honored guest position. My best friend and next-door neighbor Robin always sat to my left.

About the same time I was expressing my preference for the color yellow, I was taught that while yellow is "very pretty," I must learn to enjoy it from a distance. I must NEVER EVER wear anything yellow. "You have olive skin," my mother explained to me with the same tone of voice that she used to warn me not to talk to strangers. "You cannot put the color yellow near your skin."

I remember examining the skin on my arm for the very first time and trying to understand what she was saying. Olives were a slippery black food that I stuck on the ends of my wiggling fingers before popping them one by one into my mouth. Was there a connection between what I ate and the color of my skin? My mother must have sensed my confusion. "Your skin is the same color as your Aunt Judy's," she said, trying to reassure me.

Comparing me in any way to my father's younger sister only caused me more distress. "Don't ever go anywhere alone with your Aunt Judith," I was cautioned my whole life.

My dad's half-sister has been the family's problem-child for as long as I can remember. When I first heard Cary Grant utter the famous line, 'Judy, Judy, Judy,' I was sure that he too must be trying to fix a mess created by my irresponsible aunt.

When I was seven years old I remember standing in a dressing room in a Broadway department store with my mother and sister. Mom wanted to buy us new dresses for Easter. Becky and I were posed in front of the mirror, silently gazing at ourselves in identical outfits. We might as well have been staring into one of those crazy, distorted amusement park mirrors. We were so different in so many ways that just seeing ourselves dressed like twins looked bizarre.

I could tell that Mom really wanted to buy those dresses. She was pleased with everything---the matching two-tone gloves, the little white drawstring purses, and more importantly the price. But she kept standing over me with the Ameritone color samples fanned-out above my shoulder and shaking her head. "I just don't like this navy blue on you," she said. "It's too dark for your olive skin."

Easter Sunday, 1960. After our family's egg hunt we always dressed-up and visited my Jewish great-grandmother.

I didn't say a word. I wasn't raised so much with the philosophy of "children should be seen and not heard," as the admonition to "shut up and do as you are told." Sharing my opinion was never really an option. I remember being a little hopeful about the prospect of getting a new dress, but any excitement was dulled by the fact that my sister was getting the exact same outfit too. After all, I wore her hand-me-downs. I would be wearing this dress for a long, long time, no matter how fast I grew.

Finally Mom came to a reluctant compromise. "The trim on this dress is a true winter white," she declared. "And because the collar is white and it is near your face, I think it will be okay for you to wear it."

My sister's birthday party, October 1962. I am standing between my sister and my best friend Robin.

I did wear that navy blue dress for a long time. Not just for Easter, but for birthday parties and even at the LA County Fair. And after I grew out of it I inherited the same navy blue dress from my sister, which I wore to school for many more months.


But I don't think there was one time that I put that dress on that I didn't think about my skin color. I never wore that dress without worrying that maybe not everyone else would notice that the color white was near my face. On those days I secretly hoped that my complexion didn't look quite as olive and that my dress didn't look quite as navy blue as I knew they really were.

1960 Los Angeles County Fair, Pomona, California.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

CINSES TAYKUR KNEEDED

I spend a lot of time looking at census records. I also spend a lot of time alternately cursing or blessing the enumerators who interviewed our ancestors so many years ago. There are many times when I just know that I could have done a better job recording this data for future genealogists. So a few months ago I decided to apply for a job with the U.S. Census Bureau. My thinking was, why merely look at these documents when I could actually be creating them? And who knows, maybe I'll have an inside advantage and get to view the 1940 U.S. census before it's released to the public in 2012. Hey---that background check they put me through should be worth something!


Before I filled out an application I decided that I better do my own background check on the U.S. Census Bureau. Their website is colorful and alluring. I was promised "flexible hours, paid training, and the chance to work within your own community. You'll earn a place in history, as well as work experience you can add to your resume."

I really liked the part about being a part of history. Wow! Seventy-two years from now someone just like me will see my name at the top of some census form! They will praise my beautiful elementary school teacher's penmanship and the uncanny way that I inserted maiden name, birth city, and port of entry into this oft-insufficient instrument.

The website also informed me that as a census taker I'll play "a vital role" in helping to determine my representation in government. If there ever was a time that I felt misrepresented by my government, this is the time. Being told that "your community is counting on you!" and "opportunities like this don't happen every day!" was the final push I needed.



I showed up at Goodyear City Hall at the advertised time, only to be turned away (with many others) because I didn't have an appointment. Undeterred, I phoned the Phoenix office and after enduring some jokes about being "a Goodrich living in Goodyear" I was given a new testing date in Tolleson. I was told that I would be evaluated on my map skills. So I was very surprised to open up the test and find only a few questions in that category. I was tested on reading comprehension, organizational abilities, clerical skills and supervisor strategies. I was asked to define words like transcribe and controversial. Most of the math problems were basic operations with decimals, though some questions were a little more involved:

Your new cell phone battery needs to be charged for three hours and 45 minutes before using it. If you plugged the battery into the charger at 8:20 a.m., you should wait until what time before using it?

I was stunned that we were not tested on our handwriting legibility, our hearing acuity, our spelling accuracy, or our ability to know when a woman is lying about her age.

Richard, the Recruiting Assistant who was administering the test that day, kept reading something he called The Verbatim. I've never been read my Miranda Rights, but I imagine it sounding a lot like The Verbatim. We were told that we had to climb stairs, work in all kinds of neighborhoods, and had to be able to ask personal questions of strangers. He said that preference for jobs would be given to veterans, high test scorers, those that lived in neighborhoods that needed census takers, and those with bilingual abilities. I looked around the room and decided that the odds were against me. The only category I thought I had a chance at was to do well on the test. However, many people that afternoon were retaking the test, trying to get a higher score. I know as a teacher that each time you take a test you will do better.



After the Field Employee Selection Aid (i.e. test) was over and everyone else had left the room, I hung around to ask Richard some questions about the 2010 census itself. When he told me that it was going to be a very brief questionnaire, I just about decided that I did NOT want to be an enumerator. It made me irritated that there was going to be very little genealogical value to the 2010 census.

Then I noticed that he was stuffing his papers and things into this very unique bag. I paused for a moment: Had I ever seen a bag like that, even in a government surplus store? I realized that the only way to get that cool bag was to swallow my concerns and get the census job! I asked for my application back so I could make a few changes. I put down my availability to work as every day and night, even Sunday. Hopefully, I rationalized, the Lord will view census taking on the sabbath as a form of family history. I marked each box under the question How will you travel? (car, ATV, boat, plane or bicycle.) I let Richard know that I was a genealogist and that it was very important to me that the census was taken seriously.

This strategy (and the fact that I scored 100% on the test) seems to have paid off. Thursday, while on the road travelling to California, Michael from the U.S. Census Bureau phoned to ask me if I could start training on Tuesday! He read something that sounded a lot like The Verbatim that Richard had read to me last December. He told me to report to the Avondale DES office at 9:00 a.m. Being the consummate researcher that I am, I asked for the exact address. "Just a minute," Michael replied. "No one else has ever asked for that. I'll have to get it for you." I could tell by the admiration in his voice that I was practically supervisor material already.

When we got home I looked up the Department of Economic Security address on their website and compared it to the one Michael had given me. It was NOT a match! Not even close! Now I'm wondering if this misinformation is really a deliberate attempt to test my problem-solving abilities at finding a location. I'm convinced that locating Tuesday's training site is just the first challenge, of many more to come, that I will experience as an employee of the United States Census Bureau.



copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I CANNOT CARE (conclusion)

As Mom began her litany of complaints against the Orange County females who attend AA meetings, it was soon apparent that when she told me, "I have added two young women who are very helpful," she wasn't talking about hiring someone to help her with daily living concerns. The two young women she was referring to are Janet and Jennie, AA members who have volunteered to give her rides home from meetings. Her collective loathing towards most of the women in AA is based on their reluctance to be her personal chauffeur. Not only does she expect a ride home from the meetings, but she finds it perfectly reasonable to assume that the driver will stop along the way and let her run errands.

My mother and me on a trip to the Grand Canyon the year I turned two

"I have some very nice gentlemen who take me home from the Saturday meeting," she eagerly informed me. "One night they dropped me off at the market and said 'take as long as you like.' But I came into the program when men worked with men and women worked with women and I don't understand why I cannot get rides home from the women. When I first went to the Friday morning meeting I looked around and there were about forty women. I said to myself, 'I will not have trouble getting a ride home here.'"

"And that's another thing, Kathleen," she suddenly veered off-topic without missing a beat. "I would like to have the car working, in case of an emergency."

"I looked around the room when the meeting started," she continued, "and I announced that I had taken a taxi and I would appreciate a ride home and I told them how close I lived. And do you know that NOT ONE woman came up to me! NOT ONE!" Her voice expressed a perfect mix of indignation and hurt. "One woman said, 'we are going to lunch first and you are welcome to join us, and then I would be glad to drop you off.' But I said, 'not at this time.' I didn't want to go into the fact that I had my heat going off, and I had had an argument with my granddaughter and an argument with my son, and it was time to get home."

If she expected me to make a comment she left no opening. Mom didn't even pause to breathe. "And after the meeting, one by one, as everyone left the room, I saw three women by the coffee, besides the one who had invited me to join them for lunch. And I went up to them and said, 'could one of you take me home?'"

"Only Mom can make a question sound like an order," I thought to myself as I heard her imitate the tone of voice she used with the other women.

"They all said 'no' except Janice," Mom said in disgust. "I am telling you that it is something I am still working on, Kathleen. I accept it intellectually but I have not accepted it where I need to. It is no small thing. I know now that it is not me. It is not me." She repeated the last sentence emotionally, like an actress concluding a crucial monologue. Using language to convey drama is her signature.

My mother and me at my sister's wedding, Los Angeles, California

I was twenty-three years old.

Suddenly her voice turned upbeat. "You still haven't said if you can come, if you can just be with me for awhile." I wasn't swayed by her playful tone. She reminded me of a spoiled child: 'I know I'm getting that toy anyway, so stop teasing me.'

"I cannot come," I responded. My voice was flat, but I secretly enjoyed the alliteration. "I have a conference in Yuma this Saturday, and next week I'm starting two new classes." It felt good to have a real excuse.

"Would you come if I was in the hospital?" Her voice was suddenly frosty, her words biting. Her abrupt metamorphosis was straight off an index card for a Joan Crawford recipe: mix two parts accusation with equal parts disdain. Sprinkle liberally with self-pity.

I couldn't help but laugh out-loud. "I came last time you were in the hospital." I was almost daring her to talk about the unmentionable topic she warned me to never talk about. She backed down. "I just do not have the feeling that you care about me. You do not understand why I stay here. I stay here because I have a doctor."

That elicited another impulsive laugh. "Oh, that's right. You have to stay by your doctor!" My tone was actually humorous, not sarcastic. I couldn't believe how funny not caring was.

"You're right. It's never perfect." Mom was choosing her words carefully now. Her icy voice was dropping in degrees by the second. She was working herself up to a double batch of that Joan Crawford recipe. All she needed was some wire coat hangers. "I just wish I could hear from you occasionally."

"Didn't I just call you last week?"

"I would set a timer if some in my family would call me regularly. All I am really asking for is a very brief call. All I am really asking for is to know that you are thinking about me. Do you check it off your calendar? I haven't talked to her for two weeks, so I need to phone now?"

"Mom, I need to say something."

"NO! YOU DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS!" She shrieked into my ear.

"I cannot care that you are having a hissy fit, I thought wearily. I continued pacing the hallway without missing a step. I cannot care shouldn't mean that I cannot set limits, I reasoned. I decided to try again to get her attention.

"Mom, I've listened to you talk for over fifteen minutes without saying anything," I interjected in my reasonable counselor voice. She became abruptly silent. I knew it wasn't out of respect. She was a commanding officer, regrouping for another attack.

I took a deep breath and started talking. I tried to keep it simple and unemotional. I pointed out that her own mother had relocated to northern California to be closer to Mom's sister. Eventually Milt and Marlene cared for Grandma in their home for nine years before she died. It was a sacrifice for everyone, but Grandma never fought the family over anything.

Mom with her younger sister Marlene and their mother, 1975. Marlene took care of Grandma and Grandma's sister Mayme in her home for many years.

I asked Mom if she knew anyone in a similar situation to hers---living alone and hundreds of miles from family, not driving, not cooking, lots of medical problems and the need for frequent trips to doctors; unable to take care of basic home maintenance. I said that I didn't know anyone in the same situation, but if she did, I wanted to talk to that person. I explained how difficult and frustrating her phone calls were for both me and my brother.

"Mom, you won't move closer to family so we can help you do things. You aren't even willing to try any kind of different living arrangement so you aren't such a burden on your family," I stated, trying to keep it real. "When you tell us that you won't make any changes because of your doctor, then you are telling us that you are putting your relationship with your doctor above that of your family."

"I cannot care that I questioned her insane devotion to Doctor," I told myself. I was in no mood for tip-toeing on eggshells. I was more than ready to take on her I-can't-possibly-leave-the-one-man-who-has-kept-me-alive-all-these-years argument.

"You need to let me talk," Mom suddenly cut-in. I knew she wouldn't let that comment about her doctor be the last word. "Maybe it is something that I learned with the 12 Steps and all the years that I helped others," she stated like she was presenting her resume. "I needed to just talk."

She said the last sentence without fanfare, but I knew it was major. With just five little words she had taken a squeegee to anything incriminating she might have said earlier. She wanted to make sure there was not one drop of evidence that her behavior was anything but rational. "And now what I will do, when I feel the way that I do, I will talk to somebody else," she said gallantly.

"Thank you, Mom, I appreciate that."

She didn't acknowledge my response. Gratitude wasn't what she expected to hear. We both knew she wasn't trying to help me by offering to confide in someone else. She was trying to punish me.

"But I would still appreciate just a very brief call," she said coldly. "Having lost Peter would have been humongous, but I have had two or three other things as serious to deal with, and I have dealt with it. And I will tell you one thing," her voice was becoming Joan-Crawford-like again. "Mom told me at one time that she would never live with her children. When she moved up North, Bob and I did not hear about it until we drove out the day she was packing up. It was not a sacrifice for Marlene."

"It wasn't a sacrifice?" I asked incredulously, before I realized that I had broken my own rule about asking for clarification.

"No. It was not a sacrifice because they did not have to take her into their home." By now she was fairly hissing out each word.

My mother with me and my oldest daughters, about 1982. Shortly after this picture was taken Mom decided to cut-off all contact with us for nearly 20 years.

"I have not yet found another woman," she continued with less anger, but with no less intensity, "who has lost her husband, and nobody in her family came to hold her and nobody in her family was there to hold her and to console her." She paused dramatically. "So I too have a situation that I have not found a si-mi-lar-i-ty." She emphasized each syllable of the last word like a snooty scrabble player. "So I think this is a good time to say that I am glad that we shared and I will not call you again with problems." Her mood was triumphant as she hung up the phone.

"Love you, Mom! Talk to you soon!" My voice was casual and pleasant. It was like I was dropping off my dry cleaning. I couldn't believe how insincere my voice sounded and how little it bothered me that it sounded that way. I realized that I must truly be at the point where I cannot care.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I CANNOT CARE

My fourth birthday party, Los Angeles, California

When the phone rang I automatically glanced at the corner of my computer monitor and noted that it was exactly 8:55 a.m. I resolutely reached for the receiver. Even without Caller ID, I knew who was calling. When she calls it is always five minutes before the hour; any hour. Her voice was weak and strained, yet strangely composed.

"Kathleen Dear... I...I...I am not doing well, Darling. I need...I need you to come be with me." My mother's voice was turning throaty. I knew she was struggling to swallow her sobs and talk at the same time. "I am feeling so over-whelmed. So...so depressed. I just feel like I am alone. I feel like I am floating alone." There was just the slightest pause. "My body has broken out into something and she told me there is very little that can be done about it."

I cannot care. The words came into my mind without prompting. I first heard them a week ago when my friend Bess and I were discussing strategies to break the bonds of co-dependency in our lives. "A good friend of mine who grew up in a rather dysfunctional family used to say that," she shared.

I accepted the phrase like a gift, not sure whether to keep it or return it. "I have to think about this," I said honestly. "It's not quite empowering enough, is it? Shouldn't it be, I choose not to care?" I didn't want to come across as ungrateful, but practicality is very important to me.

"I don't know," Bess responded without taking offense. "That's what she used to say, I cannot care."

"Well, I like how it sounds," I admitted. But I still wasn't ready to take it out of the box and use it.

I cannot care. The phrase was now muffling my mother's guttural gesticulations. I cannot care. I liked the alliteration. It was even 4/4 time like How Firm a Foundation, one of my favorite hymns. Suddenly Mom's voice picked up both volume and velocity. "I am trying to move ahead, but it has been difficult. I wanted to call you last night, but I felt that you would not be interested."

I cannot care that you read my mind, I told myself as I automatically opened up a new Word Document. It has become my habit to sit at the computer and type what my mother is saying during our phone conversations. I am a genealogist after all, and that's what we do: record family history. There's nothing like mixing business with pleasure.

At Big Bear Lake, the summer I turned three.

"The man who will fix the heater and air conditioner left me a message that his truck is supposed to be ready sometime today," she droned on. "I got the phone number of a realty Lee and David know, and I thought I can find out from him, how to get a lock box, and then I will have to get it. I don't want to spend my life taking taxis. I know that I need a lock box and I haven't talked to anybody from Life Line. She hooked me up, but I know that until it is connected, it is no good. I am feeling that I better be connected."

I cannot care that you are not making sense, I told myself as I forced my fingers to keep up with her rapid verbiage. Sometimes during these dictation exercises my curiosity comes out and I want to ask questions like, Who is she? Why do you need a lock box? And What does this all have to do with taxis? But I cling to the security of my keyboard like a life preserver. Stopping to ask my mother for clarification is like getting dragged underwater by a drowning person.

In our backyard in Palos Verdes, the spring before my thirteenth birthday.

"Yesterday when I woke up and found two more places that had broken out, I was going to call Doctor, but I read my book and read about having more faith. I felt that I would go through my videos again, that it is probably time to let go of them again. I found the Salvation Army number..."

As she spoke I twisted my head and pulled the phone out from under my bent neck. I hit the speaker option and set the receiver upright on the desk. I readjusted my position in my ergonomically-correct chair. I realized that I would need a doctor, or at the very least a chiropractor, if I didn't prepare for these phone conversations like I was preparing for strenuous physical activity.

"I told Coco that I need an extra hour from them. I found the earthquake things and I want them to take them out and put them back again. I know that there are some battery-operated radios. I talked to Bobby and I want to get a new paper cutter."

This is where the real insanity starts to kick in: Mom trying to use my brother, who lives in the mid-West, like a delivery boy. "But I just still feel like I am floating alone and I need someone to be here with me." She finally stopped talking and I knew it was my cue. Despite her desperate plea in the Opening Act, it was obvious that she didn't want me there to hold her hand; she wanted me there to run her errands.

I pushed myself away from the computer and the comfort of my cushioned chair. If I was going to be part of the dialog I needed to be doing something more active than just tapping my fingers on a keyboard. Moving my body is one way to keep my head from exploding while carrying on a conversation with my mother. When my feet hit the tile I kept walking until I came to the end of the hallway, then I turned automatically and walked in the opposite direction. My dad's a pacer, so I blame the habit on him. Maybe it was just his way of surviving Mom too.

My mother's baby shower for Bobby. I was almost four years old.

"Gosh, Mom, I feel terrible about all these problems you are having, trying to run a household, getting rides to the doctor and the store. My voice was modulated, yet pleasant. Chuck calls it my counselor voice. "But I don't know what I can do to change your situation."

"KATHLEEN!" She reinserted herself into the conversation with a characteristic blend of annoyance and condescension. "We helped Peter's mother get established, in what you want me to do, and it was very lovely. She had her own apartment, which was complete with a kitchen, a bedroom with two large closets, and a smaller sitting room, because they had such a beautiful lobby downstairs. The restaurant was on the top floor, and it was beautiful: linen place mats, and a choice of two or three entrees. But you are deluded, because even there, they will say, 'we are going to the mall today, whoever wants to go to the mall may go today.' Or, 'make your doctor appointments in a certain time slot.' But there is no ready, available transportation, and that is what you do not understand."

"And it isn't the house. I am not always going to have to find a lock box," she continued without taking a breath. "Kathleen, some of these things are one thing only, just like I will not have to bury another husband. But right now, I do feel over-whelmed and moving into a community is not the answer."

My mother leaving the hospital with me as a newborn.

"Life isn't perfect, Mom. Every thing's a trade-off. But I'm not talking about moving into a community. Maybe you need someone there all the time to help do these things for you."

"I have added two young women who are very helpful," she stated matter-of-fact, like a business owner taking inventory. But she quickly digressed into her favorite topic: chronically her difficulties getting other Alcoholics Anonymous members to give her rides to and from the meetings.

I patiently continued typing, forcing myself to stay interested in yet another retelling of the same tale of rejection. The way she talks about it, she's the octogenarian counterpart of Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls.


(to be continued...)

copyright 2009 Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

THAT THING YOU DO

Mother and Modesty are two words I have never been able to use in the same sentence. My mom has always had a thing about showing off her body. A few weeks ago I was brazenly reminded that aging has done nothing to diminish this characteristic.

If I ever write a book about my mother the title will be: I'm Ready for my Close-up (May 1992)

The week after Thanksgiving I spent the night at my mother's. If this event doesn't seem remarkable to you then you don't know my history. I decided it was the longest period of time we had ever been alone together. I arrived at 5:30 in the evening clutching my own dinner. I knew the only food I would find at her house would be milk, yogurt, butter, orange juice, tea, and a bag of Trader Joe's Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies. I hastily stopped at Panda Express and bought a serving of chow mien and Beef and Broccoli. Not only did I crave something warm, but I needed something I could easily share if necessary.

As a child I remember my mother bragging that she needed to get her legs insured. The back of this photo says: Please note $33.00 Beauty Salon job. The Dunes, Las Vegas, August 1955.

Mom wasn't impressed with my meal. She preferred to wait to eat at the Wassailing Party at the library. I was relieved. I had escaped one of the ways my mother complicates even the simplest of tasks. There are certain things she won't do; eating out of a Styrofoam container with a plastic fork is one of them. First she would have heated up some stoneware plates in the microwave, then heated up the food in its Styrofoam container and then transferred the warm food to the warm plates. Correction---she would have hovered over me as I carried out her explicit instructions.

Mom in her Go-Go Girl outfit (Redding, California 1969)

As I tentatively began eating my take-out food she chattered away about the holiday program we were going to at the library that evening. "This is how Peter and I always started The Season," she reminisced. "And I bought a beautiful new silk dress to wear." Christmas, like Easter, has never been a religious observance for my mother. It's all about the pageantry.

As she spoke, I noticed that she was wearing a loose-fitting robe. She kept fiddling with the sash around her waist. "Maybe she is going to adjust it a little so she can cover herself more discretely," I wishfully hoped. I couldn't help but recall what my brother said just a few months ago when we spent the night together at her condo. I asked him what he thought about Mom walking around in a scanty negligee. "I didn't even notice anything," he responded honestly. "I learned a long time ago to avert my eyes."

'

This was as close to the water as Mom ever got. Although she never learned to swim, she also never failed to pack a swim suit when travelling. " I am very decorative around the pool" was her reason for always having a bathing suit handy. (Salt Lake City, 1958)

Suddenly Mom untied the sash once and for all, quickly slipping the entire robe off her shoulders and into her fidgeting hands. There she was, standing in front of the refrigerator wearing only her underwear. She never stopped talking about the holiday program. In a moment of self-preservation, I instinctively followed my brother's advice: I averted my eyes. I promptly became very focused on my chow mien. I frantically searched for strands of bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, or even a sliver of carrot---anything to save me from making visual contact with an eighty-year-old woman in black lace panties.

Mom enjoyed sunbathing in public. When I was younger I was often embarrassed by her habit of unhooking her bathing suit or pulling down her straps to avoid unsightly tan-lines. (Salt Lake City 1972)

I have no recollection of what the conversation was about after that moment, but finally she excused herself to "go and take a sponge bath." I groped my way to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of cold milk. I was just settling back down into my chair at the kitchen table when she reappeared in the doorway, chattering away as usual. I made the mistake of looking up. This time even the black lace panties were gone. Mom was drying off her bare torso with a small towel. I jumped up out of my seat. "I need to go get ready!" I practically ran to the guest bathroom. My mother never paused as she continued with her one-sided conversation. I cracked the bathroom door. "I can't hear you, Mom!" I called out. "I'm getting DRESSED!" I emphasized the last word like a command.

Mom says this outfit is perfect for her visits to the spa, just a short walk down the street from her condo. (with Peter's grandson in Huntington Beach 2006)

I started singing God Bless America under my breath. At that point it was the only way I could safely say the word God without lapsing into uncontrollable swearing. I was just finishing my make-up when her voice penetrated the closed door. "Kathleen Dear, may I come in? I want to show you something."

"Just a minute, Mom," I pleaded. I squeezed an extra squirt of Colgate onto my toothbrush and jabbed it into my mouth, brushing hard. "How do I avert my eyes when I am in a well-lit bathroom surrounded by mirrors," I desperately wondered. I braced myself for a screaming-in-multiple-images-moment straight out of the classic movie The Fly.

I reluctantly opened the door. "I just want to show you this lovely slip that came with my dress." She stood in the doorway, striking a model's pose.

"Yes, it is very pretty." I forced my head to nod up and down as my mouth foamed with toothpaste. Mercifully, she was wearing the full-length slip.

Although they wore matching shoes to my wedding, Mom and her sister Marlene have little else in common. (September 1976)

When we returned from the library, Mom, who had been complaining all evening about being cold, slipped out of her dress with its plunging neckline, removed her open-toed high heels, and put the lovely slip back into her lingerie drawer. She met me in the hallway wearing only a lavender push-up bra and matching panties. She then led me around the condo on an informal tour as she showed- off her new silk flower arrangements. She paused outside the guest bedroom. It was getting harder and harder to keep my eyes averted and I was anxious to get in my own room and finally relax.

I thought this was my opportunity to say 'good night' but she was just getting warmed up. "You know, I never thought of myself as pretty," she remarked in a totally unconvincing tone. "But I told Doctor that something must be wrong because I am putting on this weight, and it is all in my stomach. From the front I look fine, but from the side I look six months pregnant!" She turned to and fro in front of me as if I was a full-length mirror. "And look at my arms!" She thrust them out vertically and then horizontally like a cheerleader. "I'm not putting on weight anywhere else. It's just in my stomach. I told Doctor that this isn't what happens in our family. This isn't how we put on weight."

My Quintessential Mom: Perfectly posed for the camera in her signature decollete dress with the hemline hiked up above the knee to reveal an ample view of her shapely legs. Maybe it's just my imagination, but it looks like a lot of eyes are being averted in that front row. (September 1976)

She paused for dramatic effect then gave me a look that told me she was seriously worried about this mysterious weight gain. I realized that I was probably one of many that she had shared her concerns with. "Ummm...I think it's normal to become more pear-shaped or apple-shaped as we age," I offered, trying to sound reassuring yet factual. "I believe this even happened to Grandma and Aunt Mayme." I was hoping that the injection of family names into the discussion would bring it back to reality. The thought of either my grandmother or her sister prancing around in brightly-colored lingerie and fretting over their geriatric body proportions made any attempt to fuss over my mother as ridiculous as was her whining. I was certain that Grandma, who died at age 87 and Aunt Mayme, who lived to be 94, were both turning over in their graves at this embarrassing display of narcissism.

My grandmother Sara (right) with her sister Mayme. They both had very practical wardrobes in their later years. (San Luis Obispo, California, about a year before Grandma died in September 1992)

Mom seemed to ignore my attempts to inject logic into our bizarre conversation. "Well, Doctor says I need a colonoscopy to see what's wrong," she stated matter-of-factly. I learned a long time ago that it was futile to argue with anything her doctor of thirty-five years recommended. We said our good-nights and I exchanged an awkward hug with my half-naked octogenarian mother. I gratefully closed the door to my own room.

When Kelley was sixteen she spent Spring break with her grandmother. One morning Mom changed her outfit to match Kelley's so they could be "twins." This is the best she could do: my mother has NEVER owned a pair of jeans. (Huntington Beach, California 2000)

Mom's grandmother Rachel Lea Saiger. She is the same age in this photo as my mom is in the one with Kelley. Obviously Mom didn't inherit her fashion style from the Saigers. (St. Louis, Missouri 1940)

As I tossed and turned on my air mattress I tried to make sense of my mom's exhibitionism. She's been like this my whole life, I told myself, so why am I still not dealing with it very well?

It seemed like forever before Mom finally stopped wandering around the house fussing over her laundry and incessantly humming. At one point I peeked down the hallway, curious to see what she was wearing. I caught a glimpse of her standing in her large bedroom closet methodically going hanger by hanger, inspecting one outfit after another. She was dressed in a very revealing nightgown. Perhaps, I reasoned, this isn't so much a case of mutton dressing like lamb as much as it's a case of Mom feeling comfortable in her own sheepskin. If only, I told myself as I finally started to fall asleep, I could just learn how to pull the wool over my own eyes!

My sister Rebecca often seemed in competition with our mother. (Visiting with Cousin Mark at my wedding, September 1976)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

AIN'T NOTHING LIKE THE REAL THING

Philip J. Berg, Esquire

I've been following with interest the legal battle over the President-elect's proof of citizenship. A few months ago Philip Berg, a Pennsylvania attorney, filed a lawsuit stating that Barrack Obama:

1. Is not a natural-born citizen; and/or
2. Lost his citizenship when he was adopted in Indonesia; and/or
3. Has dual loyalties because of his citizenship with Kenya and Indonesia

In June of this year the Obama campaign released a digitally scanned image of his birth certificate in an effort to quell speculation that he might not be eligible to serve as President of the United States. The image only prompted more skepticism and so the debate continues both online and in the courts.

When my brother was a preschooler my parents started celebrating his birthday in May instead of March. Even though I got upset and questioned it, they steadfastly insisted that I was mistaken about the date. Many years later they finally confessed that they altered his birth certificate in order to give him an advantage in school. Despite their shenanigans, he proved to be mentally gifted and eventually graduated from high school a year ahead of his classmates. (Bobby's second birthday party, Los Angeles, California)

When I told Chuck that I wanted to write a post about Obama's birth certificate, he was concerned that I was entering controversial territory. "How are you going to relate that to Family History?" he wondered. "Boy, he really has no clue what I do all day!" I thought to myself. I spend countless hours viewing microfilm trying to find just such evidence as Philip Berg is looking for to support his case. I'm never completely convinced either until I obtain primary sources to validate my research.

I shouted with joy when I finally found my grandmother Ayleen's birth record. It confirmed my hunch that family members assumed aliases shortly after her birth. (photo taken about 1910, San Antonio, Texas)

Genealogists are always more credible when they can base their research on information found in a document originating at the time of the event, instead of relying on a secondary source, such as Obama's newly-created Hawaiian Certification of Birth.

A few years ago my father asked me to obtain a copy of his half-sister's birth certificate. He was convinced that Judith could not possibly be a blood relative. "Marilyn [his wife] says that she doesn't resemble me or my father in any way," he offered as an explanation for his sudden obsession. He also believed that his newly-divorced stepmother was probably pregnant when she married his father. "I remember Dad kept saying, 'that was an awfully short nine months!'" When Judy's certified birth record showed that she was born over eighteen months after the wedding, my dad begrudgingly accepted the fact that they probably had the same father.

Although the LDS church has microfilmed millions of records, they haven't achieved 100%...yet. But that's okay with me, because there is just no substitute for going to the source and holding the real thing. That's what happened this summer when we traveled to northern California and visited the Searls Historical Library in Nevada City.

Searls Historical Library, Nevada City, California (June, 2008)

I was looking for evidence to determine what had become of an ancestor's first husband. I wasn't satisfied with undocumented sources that claimed she was a widow at the time of her second marriage. Imagine my excitement when I stepped inside Judge Searls old law office on Church Street and discovered the complete file of my ancestor's 1856 divorce! I spent all afternoon reverently unfolding, flattening, and then carefully placing page after page on the Xerox copier. A silver-haired volunteer, unfamiliar with the machine and just as uncomfortable with my pervasive presence, stood by wringing her hands. "Surely you don't need a copy of everything!" she kept saying. I just smiled, and continued to push the green button on the copier. It was obvious that this lady hadn't yet grasped the significance of the real thing. She didn't relax until I stopped copying just moments before closing time and wrote out a check for all sixty pages.

A partial view of a room in Judge Searls' law office, showing his original filing cabinets full of legal documents from the 1800s.

Before I left I reluctantly refolded the faded blue papers. They were held together by thin strips of ribbon, sewn through the corners of each page. Some of the ribbon had tragically ripped out of the packets when the volunteer carelessly brushed up against the xerox machine while answering the telephone. I muffled a gasp when she reached for a stapler. It seemed almost sacrilegious to tamper with the integrity of the original document. She must have read my mind, because she hesitated, then grabbed some paper clips. "I sure hope those don't rust," was all I could think as she fastened the papers together. I placed the packets back into their snug wood and metal holders. I respectfully watched the volunteer slide the drawer once again into the judge's sturdy cabinet. I couldn't help but wonder if it would be another 150 years before anyone touched that incredible packet of papers again.

My grandfather's sister Sophie changed her name to Shirley. Later she married a man named Meyer Levy who was known to everyone as Mike Meyer. When I viewed a digitized copy of her original birth record, there was a line drawn through the entry. The name Shirley Goblinger Meyer was handwritten above the line. Her father's name was Morris in the original record. It too was crossed off and the name Joseph inserted. A notation stated that the record was changed in June 1961 by affidavit. (Aunt Shirley and Uncle Mike, 1976)

In 1968, Shirley's older sister Betty (aka Beckie) also had her birth record altered. This is particularly disheartening because she was born just a few years after the family immigrated to the United States. It's impossible to decipher the surname in the 1903 record because of the line drawn through it, but it is definitely not G-o-b-l-i-n-g-e-r. Also, her mother (Fannie) is Dora and her father's name looks like John in the original record. It's unfortunate that the clerks in the city of St. Louis were allowed to deface these documents. I believe they could have provided valuable clues necessary to trace the Goblingers back to their origins in Europe. (Betty Goblinger Sirkin, 1990)

Genealogy is all about finding the records. Over the years I've gained a real appreciation for the importance of analyzing original documents. I'm sure most genealogists would agree with me that the Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell song, Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing, could be our theme song.

My grandmother, Sara Saiger, dropped the "h" in her name when kids in her fifth grade class started calling her Sahara Desert. I recently found the names of her mother and older brothers on a ship's manifest. They sailed from Liverpool, England to Boston, Massachusetts in February 1904. The original family surname was ZEIGER. Her birth records were lost by the City of St. Louis when she was still a child. I remember Grandma telling the story of how the principal had her open her mouth and then looked at her teeth to determine whether or not she was old enough to enter school.

My sympathy goes out to Philip Berg in his quest for certified copies of Barack Obama's original birth certificate, as well as supporting documents pertaining to his citizenship. Most genealogists passionately believe in the accessibility of public records. I've included examples in this post from my own family tree to illustrate why I live for the moments I get to sing out loud, So glad we got the real thing, baby!

One of my most challenging projects has involved researching my rather well-known ancestor, Charles S. Howard (pictured above on left). Howard owned the famous racehorse Seabiscuit. I was initially dismayed that I was unable to enlist the cooperation of living Howard cousins to help me complete my pedigree chart. Now, however, I am enjoying the rewards of doing my own work. Finding C.S. Howard's birth record is just one of many exciting moments I have experienced while tracing my father's maternal line. (p.s. to my Howard cousins: Charley was not born in Marietta, Georgia).

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich