"I think all readers, young and old, in any place or time, want to be told a story, the thousand variations of 'Once upon a time.' ... Styles change, slang changes, the music they love changes—but the emotions of childhood and adolescence never change."
At age 67 so many memories crowd my mind, I have to write about them fast as they flash through the space in my ‘today head’ that is apparently only temporarily reserved just for them.
Tonight I wrote a post refuting the idea of “guilty pleasure” foods. It was funny enough, but for some reason my memory focused on the sense of smell rather than taste. Vividly I recalled the year my mother bought me a cowhide leather
shoulder bag for my 14th birthday. It was beautiful, blond-brown smooth leather. A roomy, unadorned, rounded bottom “Possible Bag”, totally inappropriate for a young lady in the 1950’s, yet I absolutely adored her gift. To this day I’m sure it cost a bundle she really couldn’t afford. It spoke of a maturity I only imagined, even though in those days, only street walkers and movie stars sported anything as worldly as a nonchalant shoulder bag. Girls my age usually carried demure, conservative handbags, though military style “Cartridge Bags” enjoyed a brief spate of popularity with the young crowd, a Possible Bag was usually larger and infinitely more noticeable. There was nothing adolescent or girlish about this purse. The rough leather interior smelled of bravado, independence and freedom. The shoulder strap required adjustment before the bag rested on my hip properly. I practiced a nonchalant stance in front of my pink skirted vanity mirror, how to look shrewd, skeptical and self assured. It might have looked ridiculous, but that bag somehow represented emancipation in my mind. It got me noticed for sure, and like a typical bad girl I played it for all it was worth. I would sling that indestructible purse on my back and strut down the street like I had a CLUE. I was that proud of it. Because it was so obviously real leather, I felt like (and surely they did) people looked at me differently. My father took note of my change of attitude for sure, even if it didn’t register as a rite of passage. Surely that’s exactly what it was. I was moving on to whatever was ‘possible’, whether he liked it or I was ready for it, or not.
I spent my allowance and babysitting money on movies, movie magazines, pointy cup padded brassieres, sluttish orange lipsticks, black Maybelline mascara and a cheap cologne called Marimba, cached the little bottle in the depths of the “saddlebag”, as my father called it. I spent my lunch money on cigarettes, Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum and Sen-Sen to fool the adults who surrounded me, determined to thwart my progress to womanhood.Tell me; was there EVER a stronger indictment of teenage do-badders than Sen-Sen? All the kids who smoked reeked of that awful licorice breath; it was a dead giveaway that Mommy and Daddy’s pride and joy was a sneaky, lying little cheat. Nobody in their right mind bought Sen-Sen for any other purpose than deception. Maybe Sen-Sen, more than rock and roll was our collective declaration of self-determination in the 50’s, who knows? But adults who smelled it knew as sure as we stood before them declaring our innocence of wrong doing or intent, that the odor of Sen-Sen signaled a dramatic change, sure as the winds of war. Swilling whiskey from a flask would have provided the same clue.
Anyway, I carried that shoulder bag like a badge of honor for decades, and I can still remember opening it released familiar scents of leather, tobacco, Marimba and mint gum. It would float ever so briefly in the air, reminding me of places and people I’ve held close all my days, despite our differences and misunderstandings.
No company to my knowledge has ever duplicated the fragrance of Marimba. It was defiant, tacky and classless, but damn, mingled with the waft of mint, tobacco and leather, it was as enduring as a photograph album; a sensory reminder of everything from my teens. When I finally relegated that bag to the trash it was like closing an engrossing book for the last time.
The upshot of this story is that I was summarily released from my father’s household to return to my mother in Washington. I don’t think she thought her gift would be the catalyst to the changes in our lives, although being together again was a dream I thought we shared.
Despite our mutual loyalty, shared laughs and hardship equally; there was a rivalry between Hazel and me that we never overcame. Her sporadic efforts at parenting were futile and ultimately disappointing. While I admired her many good qualities for the rest of her life, her drinking and my bull headed independence caused fierce rows and we eventually inflicted wounds of irreparable damage that rendered us incapable of more than wary mistrust in our personal relationship. Our love remained constant, but friendship and honesty were never more than tenuous.
After she was killed by her last husband, guilt that I hadn’t been able to save her, or at least been a better daughter overwhelmed me for years. Even after 35 years it’s still impossible to explain the failure of our complex relationship.
The product of two Finnish immigrants with a stable middle-class marriage, Hazel was outgoing and popular, a talented pianist, a sportswomen, an excellent student with an artistic flair; emotionally neurotic, and a very bad drinker. She searched for her father in every man she ever met; they shared a great relationship, but she never found a suitable partner. She called every man she married ‘Daddy’, although none of them measured up in the long run. There were seven marriages, but she tried twice with my dad. One of her last unions was Common Law; after George died his family tried to wrestle his small estate from her, and for once she got tenacious enough to fight back. She was declared his widow by the Montana Supreme Court in a landmark decision that changed the course of history for many similar relationships in that state.
In her loneliness she was easy prey for a former crony of her late partner. Without bringing so much as a blanket, he moved into her little house. After they married he began a methodical abuse that went on for two years, until on a drunken binge he stabbed her in the head with a pair of scissors. She died a couple months later of a subdural hematoma, resulting from a skull fracture. She was 59. The findings of the Coroner’s Inquest were a joke. Her husband’s lawyer wouldn’t let him take a polygraph, after he admitted that he had upon occasion hit his wife. So it was a Mexican standoff and her body was released for burial three weeks after her death.
The only good outcome of her autopsy was that her liver showed no sign of cirrhosis, though her husband insisted she was an alcoholic who fell down, a lot. There were numerous old bruises and fractures all over her tiny body. She weighed 89 pounds at the time of death.
The Coroner knew Hazel personally; confidentially he told me,
“She always tried to eat well, and was basically in good health. No one ever witnessed his abuse, even though we all knew it was a bad situation. She lied about everything that happened to her to assure his insurance would cover her hospital bills. It was mainly bad judgment and misplaced loyalty to a bastard that killed her.”
The District Attorney assured me,
“He’s got a history of abuse, and there’s no statute of limitation on murder. Eventually the state will catch up with him. It’s a matter of time before he hurts someone else.”
I was staying with my ill Uncle Bill and his wife, Ann, but made arrangements to return to Tennessee after the funeral. My paternal Grandmother and her brother had rounded up a small group of Hazel’s friends and drove 95 miles from Great Falls to attend the solemn event. It was grim and surreal. I didn’t know any of the people, and none of them had ever been confronted with a violent death situation, so things were very strained and awkward. I was mostly silent as I struggled to control my seething rage over the whole tragedy. It was a difficult day that exhausted everyone. The ordeal had affected what little family there was left to mourn the sad death. My uncle went into hospital just before I flew home; his emphysema accelerated to a point where he was forgetting to breathe. He never recovered, but lingered in a sort of half life for a year or so. I had told Ann that Hazel’s funeral would be the last one I’d ever attend, so I assume she took me at my word. I never knew Bill anyway and he wasn’t coherent at the hospital when I stopped up to say goodbye.
As it turned out, my dear Grandmother Ada outlived Hazel by 16 years. She died at 94 in Great Falls, and all the grandchildren attended at my Dad’s bidding. By that time my new husband and I were living in Idaho, and as a matter of Noblesse Oblige I drove all night to get to Great Falls and pay my respects to the grand old lady.
Hers was the last funeral I’ll ever attend. It was a beautiful ceremony celebrating a rich full life lived by the most revered member of my entire family. After having a couple drinks with my half-brother, Dad and step-Mother I jumped in my car and headed straight back to southern Idaho, considerably better off than when I started the trip. Ada had left a little cash for each of her seven grandchildren. It was less than what was realized from Hazel’s estate, but far more than any of us thought she had to put aside. She died in the Cascade County Nursing Home.
Ada was Hazel’s first Mother-in-law. When she accepted Hazel as her daughter, it was an unconditional lifelong commitment which never faltered. They were so different in temperament, background and lifestyle it seems incongruous they should remain bonded so closely. We should all be so lucky to experience such fidelity.
Had she lived, today Hazel would be 94 years old. I wonder if there are two souls bumping around the continuum together, commenting gently at the human comedy.
Happy Birthday Mom. Thanks for the memories.
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