Here’s another story my mom told me.
The mother was one of the most kind and gentle people I have ever met. The daughter was beautiful, a 4-H winner. When we took our small children to visit, I thought, “How kind, gentle. She should be a teacher of young children.”
Later she spent four years in college. Two degrees came almost simultaneously. The BA and the MRS. They decided that it was important for him to get a Masters’ Degree so she taught school and he studied. They walked in the clouds and dreamed of the day when they would have a dozen children. An even dozen. They hadn’t heard quite as much about over-population as you have.
But the first of the 12 caused a bit more difficulty than they expected. She couldn’t quite finish the first year of teaching. The budget groaned, but stretched enough to allow him to finish that all-important degree. And then an unexpected, unplanned event occurred: the first baby had to arrive by cesarean section. But one operation did double duty for it wasn’t just one baby. There were twin boys. So they had made a flying start in producing their family of 12.
The grass being “greener on the other side,” he took a job in Hawaii. A new family, a new job, travel. What more could one ask? When you’re planning for 12, you shouldn’t waste too much time. So before long the next edition was on the way. The twins were a lively handful, he had an important job with long hours, the lovely climate was fraught with fungi and things alien to the mainland. She scarcely knew how to cope with it all.
But the plans were rosy: when the new one gets here and the job eases up, we’ll make friends, we’ll get a sitter, we’ll find time for everything. The gentle mother flew over for several weeks. What a relief to have the twins in capable hands! To have a loving grandmother care for the little girl! The hectic life smoothed a bit and life seemed easier.
But the third child was also by cesarean section. Surgery does drain one’s vitality. The children’s needs did not diminish. Then a promotion came and it was on to California. A new house, a lovely locale. But again the pressure of a new job. Long hours of work. Too little time for wife and family. If we’re having 12, it’s time to get on with it, he said. But she didn’t feel equal to another operation. Three lovely youngsters were enough to cope with now.
Sometimes the grandparents came, but these visits – halfway across the continent – were of necessity rare. One time when they came things had gotten into such a sorry state that they took their lovely daughter to a psychiatric hospital. After several weeks she seemed much improved. The young husband went in, too, on an outpatient basis and again their marriage seemed to flourish. The children grew, became teenagers.
Sad news reached the aging parents. Daughter had walked out without leaving any address. A million worry-years later they found she was working in a motel for her room. The mother prayed – oh, how earnestly she prayed – that God would take care of this daughter who had become incapable of caring for herself.
So she was not surprised when she learned that the motel keeper had said to his wife, “It is not right to hire that girl for her room. We must pay a salary so she can buy food to eat.” In this fashion the girl survived but the mind deteriorated. The husband secured a divorce. He sold the house they had loved then moved the three high schoolers to a different locale. The job became too much but now there are alimony payments. She secured a small apartment. Alimony and rent came out almost even. So the parents send checks and a once-favored aunt contributes some and a girl – she must be nearing 40 – survives.
When her parents make the long journey to see her, she locks the door and turns them away lest they take her back to the hospital. “Come home,” they plead. The plea falls on deaf ears. Her children are there. The boys can drive a car now and sometimes – yes, very rare sometimes – they come to visit.
Her parents lived for her rare letters:
Dear Mom, Dad,
Thank you for the check.
I am very busy. Will write more later.
Love,
Your daughter
Always the same two lines. Always “busy.” The “more” never comes.
5/13/75