I.
Rhoda Gail and Fred

Next week it’s off to Toronto and a whole new life. I’m glad they speak English there because I sure as heck am not going to learn another language just to talk to Canadians. My brother’s girlfriend insisted on giving me a lesson on how to fry eggs and a cookbook with basic dishes so I can cook when I get there. Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into! At least I’m getting out of here.

I gave up hope a long time ago that anything good will ever happen to me. It’s like I was born to be miserable and bored and picked on. And I don’t know why. Why would Elizabeth Taylor get five husbands and I not a single one? Why does she live in a palace and I in this dump? And why would she get that huge diamond and not me? Why does the supervisor at work pick on me every day? I fill the water glasses like she says to, can I help it that ice gets all over the tray and on the floor? I’d like to see her do that job and not spill anything, and anyway, the customers don’t care; it’s just a crummy cafeteria.

So here is how it happened. I’ve never heard about this Joel before. He’s some first or second or third cousin, he just appeared out of nowhere. He says he’s in L.A. on business and wants to meet his relatives while he is here. He seems to know our Detroit relatives. At the end of the visit he says he knows a perfect guy for me in Toronto. Ha! I’ll never leave the folks or L.A., movie capital of the world. He says the guy is perfect for me but what does he know; he doesn’t know me or anything about me. If there’s no one for me in a city of five million people, how would there be anyone for me in Canada? He says come to Detroit to visit with his family and he will invite the guy from Canada to meet me. I guess the two cities are close together.

Okay, for five months everyone says, go, it’ll be a vacation if nothing else. Dad and Mom bought me a new dress and a twin sweater set and I’m going to wear my pearl necklace and the pearl clip-ons. They’re just fake, neither the folks nor my brother have ever given me any decent jewelry. My brother is a lawyer, he probably makes stacks of money and could give me something decent once in a while, other than advice. He has lots of advice on what I should and shouldn’t do. Oh well, he’s a good brother. And here I go, flying to Detroit on an airplane, all by myself. I’ll have a few drinks, then I won’t care if I get airsick. Maybe I shouldn’t go.

Fred isn’t a bad name. Fred is nice. He’s no hunk like Cary Grant but he has a soft voice. He says he lives with his father—his mom died five years ago. He’s just about my age, 39, and he’s never been married, either. He has a funny way of talking, maybe it’s Canadian. He drives a Cadillac for the Canadian Post Office, and that’s a good job. The scar on his face is where a hockey puck hit him when he was a kid. Every kid in Canada plays hockey, he says. His dad does all the cooking and cleaning at their house.

The week passes and I’m back in L.A. Mom and Dad pick me up at the airport and I can read in their eyes, “Well are you finally going to get married?”
But what they say is, “Honey did you have a good time?”
“Yes.”
“How are the cousins?”
“Fine.”
Finally the question they really wanted to ask, “Did you meet that Canadian fellow?”
“Yes”
“Well?”
“Well what? He was nice enough to talk to and we went for a walks around the block, that’s all. And I don’t want to talk about him any more.”
“Don’t get huffy, honey, we just wondered if he was a nice man.”

I feel sick. I’ve been back a week. I wish I’d never gone. I was as nice as I could be; I offered to help the hostess, I asked everyone how they are, what more could I do? Before I left Detroit he called to say good-bye but what good is that? He has the phone number here but I wish I hadn’t given it to him. I don’t ever want to talk to him again. If he calls, I’ll tell them to say I’m not home.

He’s called. He said he’s had a stomach ache ever since I left Detroit. He says he thought about it and decided that the only way he can get rid of his stomachache is to ask me to marry him. Would I marry him? I can hardly believe it. I said I have to think about it because it means moving away from my family. But I’m decided. I’m going to marry him and finally have some fun in life. I’m going to tell him I want a big diamond ring. And then I’m going down to that stupid cafeteria and show it to everyone.

Now Fred is here. Mom’s making hundreds of kreplach for a family supper. The wedding is tomorrow, here in the apartment. Mom wanted to tell me about sex but I was too embarrassed to listen to her. I’ve seen a lot of movies where they kiss and then they fall into bed. I think he’ll know what to do. He better know. I got a real sexy nightgown from the girls at work—they gave me a real going away party. They said they are happy for me—or they are glad to get rid of me. I’m glad I’ll never have to go back there again.

The apartment is packed full of people. I know I have a lot of aunts and uncles but all together they sure make a crowd. Everyone says they wanted to see me in my wedding dress and veil and they say I look beautiful. That’s a first for this crowd. Freddy has a new black suit and keeps smiling but his hands are sweaty. There are boxes of presents and envelopes with money. We have a chupah and Freddy smashes the glass under the napkin. Aunt Lottie keeps wandering around talking during the whole ceremony. Oh well, I guess it’s a family of individualists. I don’t dare to even think about tonight but I’m excited. Freddie and I will work it out somehow, I hope.

You burst forth from your mother’s womb full tilt at Kaiser-Permanente Hospital in Oakland, California on May 25, 1948.

Anne Winslow Blodgett Taub on life’s fast track—-our only daughter, mother of our two oldest and most talented grandchildren and wife of our favorite rocket scientist son-in-law, Russell Peter Taub.

As these words are being penned, you are approaching the magic age of sixty—-a miraculous achievement for an insulin-dependent diabetic of nearly forty-four years. You are slim and trim, a disciplined exerciser who eats properly and strives to keep blood sugar at the proper level.

The first two photos speak for themselves. In the third frame you are a high school senior and national merit scholar off to Oberlin College in Ohio.

The fourth frame is the bride I escorted ecstatically down the aisle of the children’s chapel at the Winnetka Congregational Church on January 22, 1972 to the lilting strains of Handel’s “Water Music.”

Frame five is your thriving family. Frame six: doting grandmother reading to grandsons Gavin Thomas Taub and Gavin Riley Taub of Mill Valley, California.

This is a brief prologue to the story of your three score years of indomitable life that continues to bring great joy and blessings into the lives of your proud parents.

Your mother and I certify that you are a miracle child, wife, mother and grandmother and that you have earned our eternal, unconditional love and admiration. I promise thousands more words to more fully flesh out your life, but I must put these few words into type as an overdue tribute.

I close with your mother’s favorite acronym—ARILY—always remember I love you.

Dad

Autobio. Week 8
Dramatic Structure

Starting Over
By Carolyn Cummings

Midway through life’s journeys…. I started over.
Beginning from the beginning …..all over again.

Women know by her intuitive gifts when a marriage needs to be examined,
and re-examined, hopefully with a recommitment to the future together.

I had reason to believe my marriage had reached that point. Upon examination and hours of conversation, my husband swore that there was absolutely nothing going on between him and his secretary, nor had there ever been anything that should cause me to question him. What kind of an ungrateful wife was I anyway?

This marriage dilemma came at the same time as another dilemma.
His company offered him two job options.
The first: keep the same job, and be the sales district rep. in the same location, or
the second: a different job within the same company as a liason with another company. The later was two thousand miles away from our home. It was a lateral arabesque move for my husband. It required a major move.

Our children, ages 13 and 14, were entering their teen years with the support of
a friendly neighborhood, terrific schools, many friends and other significant adults
in their lives besides a totally dedicated mom who attended every big event of their lives. They couldn’t imagine being torn from their secure surroundings.
My job as a high school teacher was about as ideal as one could find.
The children and I suggested that if their dad (I’m renaming him X) was considering the second option, he should investigate and begin the new job in the new state
without uprooting his family. After all we reasoned, he traveled most of the time anyway. The children and I were quite capable of leading our separate lives and seeing him on occasional week-ends when he came home.

But X would have none of that idea. “We’ll move as a family and maybe it will be OK”.
This certainly didn’t sound like a commitment to me. It sounded more like a scared response from an insecure employee and human being, drowning in the corporate craziness of change, trying to hide from the truth and from himself, and hoping, by some miracle, that he could learn to set some healthy boundaries at last, where the corporate world did not rule his life.

Crisis in the marriage
Crisis in the job change
Crisis in a major move and transfer
And more to come.

Wanting to believe the words of a husband, I let him have the final decision, reminding him of our feelings (the children’s and mine).

He let the corporate world decide his future and the future of his family.

The next few days were nothing short of traumatic for the children. My emotions were mixed. I had always hoped for the best and planned for the worst in life.

The first order of business according to X was to write my letter of resignation to the school board. He helped. My notice to my school district gave them up to six weeks to find my replacement. (They asked me to stay with them the full six weeks).
That task being completed, we moved on to the next order of business which was to give notice to our landlord. I loved the large two story home with lilac bushes etched along the back yard boundary and a garden where enormous tomatoes grew in the summer.
With that task being completed, we moved on to the next order of business.
We had to find a home in our new location, Southern California, where we would move as a family, a place with good schools, and a promising future, I hoped.
With grandparents staying with Cathy and Steve for three days, my husband and I flew to the West Coast.

At 38,000 feet in the air, in the middle of the usual Gin Rummy card game,
which we usually played when we flew together, my husband threw down the cards and
declared that this was all a mistake, that we should not be moving, but should instead be getting a divorce. It came out of left field.

If a knife had gone into my heart, it would have hurt less than his words.
The stench of unfaithful indifference and ignorant lack of commitment took away my purpose for being, for awhile.

Trying to be the responsible parent and wanting to make the best of a bad situation for my children, I realized that we couldn’t go back.
I’d resigned my job, we gave notice on our home, our neighbors had given us a farewell party. We had to move forward. I prayed a lot.

I suggested that X find his own living quarters in our new city
and the children and I would find ours. But this solution did not please this husband.
In spite of his suggestion of divorce, he still wanted us to move as a family.
(It’s nice security to go into a new territory and a new job as a family man).
Was he afraid of moving alone? He vacillated. His confusion sometimes spilled over into my head. After I flew back home alone, he made a security deposit on a huge
house in South Orange County, his materialism guiding his decisions.

Securing a moving van, packing and saying good-byes filled the next weeks.
Uncertain thoughts and questions filled my mind.

We drove to the West Coast in our new Buick (my husband’s false security in materialism caused him to want a new car more often than our budget allowed).

Trying to make the necessary adjustments to our new surroundings, working through a depression that I had never known before, trying to be there for my kids, we began our lives in Southern California. My husband, alias X, was home for three days when the moving van arrived, then he left for three weeks, back to the company headquarters. “On business” he said.

But he lost the job after five months. He claimed he didn’t know why.
He was using alcohol, Uppers and Downers, trying to keep a cloud around himself that isolated and separated him from the world and reality.

During those five months, I attended interior design school, considering prospects of a new career, met the kids new friends and their families, drove them to lessons,
music commitments, sports practices and events. I made new friends, one who was going through the same things with her husband, and she is still my long time friend, I signed up for substitute teaching, took tennis lessons and lost thirty pounds, mostly because I couldn’t eat. Food was not my friend. My stomach was in a permanent knot. I became bulimic for awhile, until ‘I got both oars back in the water.’

In believing his lies, my life and my children’s lives were changed. We began a journey that I never imagined for myself.

And so…. midway through life’s journeys I started over.
Beginning from the beginning all over again.
This time with two children, an enormous red Buick that I never wanted (Car payments came with the Buick), two thousand miles from friends and family, in another state (California), a rental home that I hated ( X’s choice) and couldn’t afford, no job, and very little money. (Fortunately, I had invested some in my own name where X couldn’t get it)

When it seemed that things were about as bad as they could get, I learned that my husband ‘wanted’ his secretary again. (Note that the first six letters of secretary spell SECRET)

X left our rental house in California one morning… destination: two thousand miles away to move in with Secret, who was still in the process of leaving her husband.
The most unbelievable part of all was that X expected me to drive him to the airport. I told him that taxis were available.

The kids and I were comfortable without him. We had nine years to get used to his work schedule which meant ‘never home.’ Then one night he called to tell us that he was coming back to California (on the pretense that he wanted to get to know his children). The kids were rather ambivalent. I couldn’t blame them.

A few weeks after his call, X returned to California, but he neglected to tell the children that he secretly brought SECRET with him. His plan was for life to go on as though nothing was different, that our children would find this plan quite wonderful.
A new beginning of living happily ever after, in blissful oblivion, and having his children near him. Like an ostrich with his head permanently cemented in the sand.

Just one little matter left undone: he was still married to me and was too cowardly to ask for a divorce. With his refusal to see a marriage counselor and with no desire to work on our marriage, I was left with no choice. I filed.

I received no alimony in our court appearance which my attorney
called “An order to show cause.” The minimum child support was given.
I received half of the furniture, two terrific and confused kids, one lovable but overweight dog, and the Buick.

By this time, my children and I had found a smaller affordable house, away from the high, cold walls that had been our home for almost a year. The kids did not have to change schools. They had made a few friends and had met with some successes in their classes and community activities. I wanted them to keep moving forward.

I interviewed for teaching jobs in five counties. From thirty applicants for one job, I was hired. A God-managed thing, I’ve decided. The job was for one year only as a long term substitute. I took it. And I loved it. The first day on the new job, I met a guy who grew to love my kids, and me. We had a three year fun-filled journey together. He came into my life for a season and a reason. I believe God was really watching over us.
I finished my course work on a California teaching certificate at night at UCI.
I declared a new minor. At the time I didn’t know why. The California State Department of Education, in evaluating my classes and hours, stated that I was closer to a Social Science minor than a Science minor, as I had thought. I had a new focus.

The following year when I had to find a permanent job, the first one that became available required certification that matched my major and (who would have guessed?) my newly declared minor…..a rare combination. Coincidence? I don’t believe so.

On the morning of August 22nd, my attorney and I met at the Orange County court room with X and his attorney (an old friend of ours) who apologized for us having to meet again under these circumstances. The purpose of our meeting was to appear in
an Interlocutory decree. I received no alimony because I wanted none. My attorney believed my interview that same afternoon would result in only good things. I received only minimum child support until age 18, which meant no promise of help with college expenses (he paid nothing toward his children’s college) and visitation hours were up to the children.

On the afternoon of August 22nd, my new life began. I signed a contract with the school district. I had a permanent job, one that I kept for the next 21 years until
my retirement. My attorney was right…..only good things resulted.

When the ‘dissolution of marriage’ document arrived in the mail
I was stunned to read the date. Our divorce was filed on the same day that had been our wedding day seventeen years before.

X and Secret married a week later. The children were neither invited nor told, neither were his parents (who remained loyal and in a close friendship with me until their dying days.)

Somewhere along the way,
I wish ………someone had told me that the Doris Day movies of the 50’s were only fairytales, that the kiss in the closing scene with the handsome leading man did not mean happily ever after in real life, and that marriage takes real work and commitment.

I wish…….that there was a law requiring premarital counseling and a costly marriage license BEFORE the ceremony to help avoid a costly divorce at the end of the marriage.
I wish…..that kids never had to see their parents in any situation other than a solid family unit.

I learned so much, too.

I learned…..what I’m able to handle without crumbling and falling apart.
I learned….that there are inner strengths within me, of diehard determination,
patient persistence and an unfailing faith: ‘ I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me’(Phil 4:13)
I learned that …the trials may be unspeakably insane and painful at the time, but those are the same journeys that make us strong.
And through my life’s journeys I was made aware of the needs of others
because I have journeyed down those paths myself.

I like naps. No, that's not quite true. I love naps! I've loved them my entire life. Even as a small child and young girl, my mother said I never complained about the required afternoon naps, and I can still remember coming home from junior high and high school and climbing into my glorious double bed for my nap; sometimes to the criticism of my German father who thought I should be doing something more worthwhile, like homework or household chores, instead of wasting time slumbering.

Not much has changed since my youth. I still love naps. They're a time for taking inventory of things done and things yet to do; a time for quiet reflection on hopes, dreams, plans, schemes; a time for re-energizing, for filling the well, so to speak; a time for escaping life's problems, at least temporarily.

I can actually nap just about anywhere. I've slept on planes, in cars, and I've even dozed off in movie theaters. Sometimes my naps are quite short --under 30 minutes; other times they've run over the two hour mark and, to tell the truth, I'm not sure if they truly qualify as naps when I have basically passed out for so long. Generally, however, I try to keep my naps under 90 minutes so as not to interfere with my night time sleep. I find that I am in a better mood all around if I get a nap in, no matter how brief.

I don't answer the phone during my nap time and my children know not to call me unless it's an emergency. Even my closest friends save their phone calls until after my nap (usually about 4:00 p.m.). I normally handle household chores and do the majority of my teaching in the a.m. and if I make afternoon plans, I get "itchy" to get home by two-thirty (three at the latest) so I can get my nap in.

I believe that my naps have helped me to stay healthy. Indeed, I am not plagued by the usual colds and flu that seem to regularly visit my friends and family members and I have managed to escape most of the common illnesses and health complaints of my peers as well as my young college students. In fact, when the end finally comes, I think I want my tombstone to read, "Quiet, she's napping."

Something is terribly wrong! My 20-year-old son, Jack had called me when leaving the Bridger Wilderness in Wyoming. He and a friend were going into the Teton National Park and they expected to leave for home on Monday or Tuesday, July 9th or 10th. As soon as he got to the Ranger Station, he would call to give me a list of food to buy for his arrival home.

Today is July 10 and I haven't heard from him. Now I'm afraid to leave the house for fear of missing his call. The anxiety is overwhelming. This morning I called in to work and told them I'd be late, and I drove to my Mother's apartment. She was recovering from a minor stroke and had a caregiver. I wrote out checks for the care-giver and therapists and then shared my concerns about Jack with my Mom. Then I drove to my office with anxiety increasing by the second. Needless to say, I didn't sleep that night. Still no call.

Now it is July 11th, and I actually went to work, but accomplished nothing. I called Jack's friends, siblings and relatives to make sure that no one had heard from him. All are equally concerned.

Tonight I took a sleeping pill, but awoke to the phone ringing at 11:30 PM. "Thank God" I said to my husband and screamed "Jack" into the phone. A strange voice answered "Are you Jack's Mother?" "Yes, who is this? Was there an accident?"

"This is Bob Boeticher calling from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Jack died peacefully in his sleep."