Christmas, 1972, my Mother gave me a copy of the Granddaughters’ Inglenook Cookbook, recipes from Brethren women collected over the previous 200 years—traditionally presented by the McPherson Church to its new brides. I was 26, “adventurous and understanding,” you’ll note, but not “married.” And I lacked prospects.
I grew up ambivalent about marrying. Early on, although she celebrated being a wife and mother, I could see that my mom relished the decade she’d spent as a single, “adventurous” young teacher. In her stories, the friendships she maintained, the charitable and church work she accomplished, Mother illustrated how engaged and creative life for a woman could be—married or single. Otherwise, encouraging role models were few and far between. For sure, widows comprised a healthy portion of the church’s membership, displayed their own eccentricities, and elicited our sympathies. Still in the broader scheme of things, they had standing.
Never-married women did not. Great-Aunt Mary, a librarian at Pittsburg State, struggled to manage her own business affairs, talked too loudly, and liked gaudy jewelry and clothes more than we thought seemly. We called her an old maid. Stern, sensible, and skilled, Virginia, my Uncle Glenn’s sister, served McPherson College as a librarian too. She shared none of Aunt Mary’s off-putting habits. I saw her as content, but maybe not happy. A spinster more than an old maid. Miss Johnson, my sixth grade English teacher, possessed Aunt Mary’s inability to see herself the way others saw her: brash, harsh, and in serious need of a sturdy and effective bra. Sisters Miss Fern and Miss Glenn both taught kindergarten classes, though in different grade schools. They lived together, never seemed to socialize, and were each long on the simpering tones that plague so many adults in the presence of small children. On the other hand, my fifth grade teacher set a different example. Flamboyant, given to red shoes, laughingly opinionated, Miss Yost liked children, taught well, and brooked no nonsense. She took interesting vacations and showed every evidence of enjoying her own company.
Among her other responsibilities, Mother orchestrated receptions for couples who held their weddings in our church. She recruited me to circle through those who’d finished their cake and nuts and punch, pick up dishes, and return them to the kitchen to be washed and used again. I got to dress up and lurk in the back of the sanctuary until the recessional started. Then I’d clatter down the stairs to take up my duties. In those Sunday afternoons, I witnessed the fairy tale part of marriage: fluffy gowns, forced smiles, and then uneasy departures complete with chic going-away dresses, decorated cars, and rice.
Of course those images and impressions—mine and my community’s—are a product of their time. Not very helpful, not very kind, and likely untrue or incomplete. I never actually witnessed a new wife, stripped of her Cinderella finery, tackle meals every night in a row. Or stopped to picture what Aunt Mary did for fun down in Pittsburg. I was years away from understanding how lonely and shunned and detested any LGBQTI person would have been in our mid-Kansas town.
Then consider, for a moment, the power of a card game that we played often when I was a child. OLD MAID. The entire aim of which was to avoid holding the Old Maid card at the end of the game! Of BEING the OLD MAID. The Victorians brought us this insidious sport. Over time and through dozens of manufacturers, the OLD MAID exhibited many personas: evil, prunish, disdainful, and jolly, if a bit kooky. Not a one of the many Old Maids did anything to attract girls to a seriously satisfied single life. Pariahs all!
I didn’t exactly follow in my mother’s footsteps. But close enough, maybe, to have flourished in several categories of womanhood. To have my lifestyle cake and eat it too.
Until I came to Montana, I saw myself as a history career girl—experiencing my mom’s joy in entertaining and traveling. Feeling professionally competent, curious. Anything but lonely.
Dave’s two cute little girls, Emily and Amanda, brought me around quickly to step-mothering. I had little confidence in my homemaking, nurturing, and goodness knows, disciplining skills. Or in melding the independence of a public servant with the adaptations and accommodations of a good wife. I spent more time lonely or uncertain than I’d anticipated. Although never to the exclusion of joy, of the ineluctable comfort of shared decisions, shared adventure and beauty, a shared bed.
We played another game when I was little: AUTHORS. It involved a deck of cards picturing ancients from the writing world, e. g.: Longfellow, Shakespeare, Washington Irving, Sir Walter Scott. Just one woman: Louisa May Alcott. And only one relative newcomer: Mark Twain. The object of the game was to find all four of each author’s book titles and create author sets.
These retirement years and this widowhood that came too early encompass a cocktail of earlier components, in different proportions: children who’ve become friends and compatriots; grandchildren to enjoy in fleeting visits. Volunteering that keeps me lightly tethered to earlier work. More than anything, reading, remembering, and writing, all of which return me to all my previous lives. Often in the company of writers whose hearts and aspirations encourage mine. My own version of AUTHORS, albeit far richer and wider-ranging than any childhood contest. ©
