Memories Monday -- Betsey's Rebellion -- Part Three -- With an Additional Scene -- From Charlie's Diary

Betsey has gone from feeling bad that she doesn’t like Jesus to being rebellious.  Fortunately, she isn’t questioning doctrine.  She just thinks Jesus is “mean.”  Cilla is very concerned and wants me to “please, please, please” call Kate.  I told her that we couldn’t tell anybody because Betsey had asked us not to.  Josh suggested that I tell Kate I was asking for a friend.  I said that pastors get this a lot and can see through it.  Cilla said maybe Nikki could pretend it was her daughter and that she was embarrassed to talk to her own minister.  I said that not only would that be lying, but it would be getting another person to lie, which is even worse.

Last night, Betsey refused to eat her pork chop.  Ed said, "Jesus Christ," which amused Josh and Cilla, but Betsey just looked at him, waiting for one of us to try to force her to eat it, which I would never do, because I've promised myself I'm not going to give the children food issues and have them complain about it to their therapists for the rest of their lives.

"Okay," I said, I said brightly.  "More for the rest of us."  But Cilla had to ask Betsey why.

Before Betsey could say anything, which would probably have included "Duh" or "Moron",  Josh said, "You know, the poor pigs."

That thought hadn't occurred to Cilla.  "I don't want mine, either."

Ed looked like he was about to say something, but I said, "Okay, even more."

Josh wanted to know if they were never going to eat any meat again. 

That hadn't occurred to Cilla either.  While she seemed to be making up her mind, I said, "You know, that includes hamburgers and hot dogs."

Cilla looked like she was thinking, "What have I done?"

Josh took pity on her.  "When we go to McDonald's, you can get fries.  And you can pick the pepperoni off your pizza."

A lot of people might call me wishy washy, but I believe in letting the kids make their own decisions as long as it isn't dangerous.  It's a lot easier than arguing with them.  "You can make yourselves cheese sandwiches,"  I said, congratulating myself that I didn't offer to make them.

Betsey sighed.  "Cows are exploited to get dairy products."

"There goes ice cream."  Josh was enjoying himself.

Cilla's mouth was hanging open.  She looked at me.  

"All right, Joshua, enough is enough."

"I'm just trying to help her make an informed decision."

"We appreciate that, but let's talk about something else."  I couldn't think of anything, so I said, "Who wants more potatoes?"  

Fortunately, Betsey didn't realize there is milk in mashed potatoes.  I guess she forgot about the butter. 
 

I always saw Betsey as the reserved, sensible child, but now I think she’s as intense as Cilla, but quiet about it, which can make a person even more intense.  I just don’t know how she’s going to get along in the world.

Memories Monday -- Another Thing to Worry About -- From Charlie's Diary

 

 

 

 

 

Once again, I’m worrying about what people think and feeling guilty.  Betsey is saying that she doesn’t want to go to Sunday School.  I’m not going to force her, so I’m afraid people will think I’m a wishy-washy parent.  I know I shouldn’t care.  God doesn’t care.

Karen and Nikki and I talk a lot about what people think and feeling guilty.  When Nikki didn’t have any luck nursing Jennifer, she was mortified.  Then when Ilsa was born, she felt she had to try again, or everyone would think she was a quitter.  When it didn’t work out, she kept the nursing gear around and always told her mother and her sisters that she was just giving the baby a “supplementary bottle.”  In a pinch, she would excuse herself and take the baby into the bedroom. 

Karen says that when her mother comes over, she has to hide all the organic food, because her mother thinks it’s too expensive and people who buy it are dupes of the food industry because it really doesn’t make any difference and the food probably isn’t organic in the first place.

Anyway.  It seemed to be a rite of passage in the Unitarian Church for teenagers to decide they didn’t want a part of any religion.  So they didn’t go and their parents would talk to the other parents and be reassured that they would get over it, particularly if the rest of the family started going out for fancy lunches or to the movies after church and did not go back home to get them.  Of course, after the prodigal started attending again, they had to keep up with the outings, which wasn’t a bad thing.

I didn’t rebel until I went to college and became an Episcopalian.  My mother was mortified, but her friends were very supportive and told her that at least if I was a Jesus freak, I probably wouldn’t have sex before I was married.  Aunt Pooh told me this years later and added that that was comforting, because if there’s one thing more upsetting than the idea of your parents having sex, it’s the idea of your children doing it, even if they’re married.  Aunt Pooh said she likes to think her grandchildren were left at the door in baskets or were picked up at the hospital.

I think I’m going to do what Kate suggested when Cilla was turning Catholic.  If anyone asks, where Betsey is, I’ll just say, “Oh, she’s around somewhere.”  I think it would be mean to start going out after church without her, and anyway, Ed likes to sit around on Sunday and watch sports.

 

 

Breaking the News -- From Charlie's Diary

 

 

I wasn’t looking forward to telling Emily that Alice was straight.  No matter how sophisticated or well-adjusted you are, you still don’t like to hear that someone isn’t interested in you sexually, or as Nikki put it, “Isn't hot to jump your bones.”

“I guess, I should have known,” Emily sighed.  “One time Alice asked me if I thought Christina Rossetti was gay.  If you’re gay, straight people seem to think you know every gay person in history.  It was a red flag.  But of course, I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t want to.  I told myself that she wouldn’t know every gay person in history even if she was gay.”

“You must find that very annoying,” I said.

“It’s kind of funny, really.”

“Is there anything I can do?”  If I were single, this would have been the moment when we realized we loved each other, at least in a movie.

“No.”  Then Emily laughed.  “I just realized I’m relieved because Alice and I can still be friends.  It wouldn’t have been worth the friendship if we’d gotten together and it didn’t work out.  If it’s the real thing, you think it would be worth taking the risk.”

“Was it worth the risk with Wendy?”

“Yes, it was.  We were really lucky that we stayed friends.  She’s been single since she threw Michele out.  I’ve been telling her about Alice and she’s been kind of negative.  I don’t know why.”

“She doesn’t want you to get hurt.  She sounds like a good egg.”

“Oh, she is.”  Emily looked a little wistful.  “Now we’ll have to start all over again.”

I was glad that said “we.”  “I bet Alice will help too. Maybe she knows some writers.”
Alice is a good egg, too.  “By the way, was Christina Rossetti gay?”

“I told Alice that I don’t know about Christina.”  (English professors have a way of referring to authors by their first names.  It can give you the impression that they know them.)  “My specialty is American literature.”

I would have asked her what she thought about Emily Dickinson, but I didn’t want to be one of those people who are always asking who’s gay and who isn’t.

 

 

Poor Louie

Around Mother’s Day, I usually start to think about my mother.  There is so many things that I didn’t know about her and most of them I didn’t know that I didn’t know.  I could never figure my parents out; I was into novels and movies, which she thought were a waste of time when I could be riding my bike or talking on the phone with my friends who were real people.  She thought I was “a funny little thing,” but I was her “funny little thing” and she did the best she could.

One time I asked Aunt Pooh if my grandparents had ever had my mother tested.

“You mean for intelligence?  I don’t think so.  I don’t think they believed in that.”

“No, I mean to see if there was anything wrong with her.  You know how she was . . .”

“Because she was so literal and unimaginative?  Charlie have you been watching psychology shows on PBS?”

I have to admit that I can be a psychological hypochondriac. I can recite the Danger Signs of Depression from memory.  Somehow, it’s not as good a party trick as knowing all six wives of Henry VIII.

“Well, I don’t think there was anything wrong.  She was just different, at least in our family.  You know those novels about the artist stuck in a family of down to earth people who feels alienated?  Well, it must have been like that for Louie.  Fortunately, she was able to get to know kids whose fathers were in the Engineering or Chemistry or Physics Departments.  By the way, it was only the fathers.  The mothers were home cooking and cleaning and going to American Association of University Women meetings.  I don’t know if the science department mothers drank or if it was just the humanities moms.  That was one reason we moved to the country when my father got tenure.  My mother couldn’t deal with the faculty wives.” 

“Do you think she felt she was a disappointment to Grandma and Grandpa?”

“Probably.  But then, doesn’t everyone?  They really didn’t give her a hard time, but they couldn’t figure her out.  My mother used to say, ‘that poor little thing is missing out on so much.’  My friends and I would play House or Cops and Robbers or Princesses and she would wrinkle her nose and say ‘Why?’ She always wanted to ride bikes or roller skate or climb trees.  That was fun (well, the roller skating anyway) but not as much fun as playing Princesses.  Of course” (Aunt Pooh looked a little sheepish) “part of the problem may have been that my friends and I always made her be the servant.  We would clap our hands and yell, ‘Servant’ and she had to bow and say, ‘Yes your majesty.’    Then we would order her to clean the palace or fix a banquet for us.  Finally, she would run off and complain to my mother, who would give her something to eat.”

“Didn’t Grandma yell at you?”

“She would have had to find us first, because we would hide somewhere.  Anyway, she thought it was more worthwhile to comfort the victim than go after the perpetrators.” 

 “Do you think she was happy?”

“As happy as a middle child can be with me bossing her and Hank getting extra attention because he was the baby.  She liked school and she had her friends and she was pretty.  She got good grades and won science prizes.  She dated nerdy science guys that she met at the Chess Club or at Sunday School.  She liked them.  They always had something to talk about and I don’t think they got fresh.”

I didn’t sound like a bad life to me. 

Memories Monday -- Discussion Group on Wheels -- From Charlie's Diary

 

I have to say that some of the most interesting quality time I’ve had with the kids comes when we’re all together in the car. 

Since Christmas, the rides home from church been quieter, since no one is complaining about Episcopalian Advent.  Not that there isn’t discussion, like why is so and so such a big moron and how we shouldn’t call people morons, but isn’t so and so one anyway even if we don’t say it?

But today, Betsey was particularly quiet.  Normally, she is correcting Josh and Cilla about something.  I looked at her in the mirror, and she looked upset.  “Is something bothering you, Betsey?”

She started to cry, “I. . . I. . . don’t . . . don’t . . like . . .”

“Don’t like what?”  By now, Cilla and Josh and stopped whatever they were doing to annoy each other and were looking at Betsey.

“I . . don’t  . . . like . . Jesus anymore.” 

Then Cilla started to cry.  “Betsey’s going to go to Hell!”  She would have thrown her arms around her if Josh hadn’t been sitting between them.

“Betsey’s not going to go to Hell,” I said, trying to be the voice of reason.  “Why don’t you like Jesus?”

“Because of the pigs.”  I knew exactly what she meant.  Jesus drove demons out of a man who was possessed into a herd of pigs, who ran off a cliff into a lake and drowned.

“What pigs?”  Cilla wanted to know. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” I said.  Cilla was not ready for the story of the pigs.  I can barely handle it myself.

Betsey and Cilla were crying louder than ever.  Ed looked like he wanted to tell them to be quiet, because he was trying to drive (with expletives), but was restraining himself.

Where was Kate with her therapist talk when we needed her?

I took a deep breath.  “Betsey is not going to Hell, although it’s very nice of your to be concerned for her, Cilla.  And you, too, Josh.”  (Inside, I was praying, “Please, God, don’t let them ask how I know.”)

“When we get home, we can talk about it.  Or maybe you can talk to Grandma Kate or Father Mike.”

“I can’t tell them; they’ll hate me.”

“Nobody is going to hate you, especially not Grandma Kate or Father Mike,” I said.

“Sure,” Josh added.  “They get paid not to.”  If he’d been older I would have thought he was being snarky, but he was perfectly serious.  Ed snorted and I gave him a Look.

We finally got home.  I herded everyone into the house.  I would have given Betsey something to eat, but she ran up to her room and didn’t want anyone to come with her.

She stuck her head out the door and called down, “Don’t call Grandma Kate.  And don’t anyone tell her.  Don’t tell anybody.”

“No, way, Jose,” Josh said.  “I’m too embarrassed.” 

I briefly wondered if that was racist and what I should say about his being embarrassed by his sister’s spiritual crisis, but I didn’t know where to start.

Fortunately, I’m a Christian, and I can pray about this.  But I can hear my father saying, “If you weren’t a Christian, she never would have heard of those damn pigs.”

Memories Monday -- Aunt Pooh Channels Nelly Dean -- From Charlie's Diary

 

 

Kate suggested that I find out more from Aunt Pooh.  “Sometimes I get the feeling that you didn’t really know your mother.”  She had a point.  I could always talk more easily with Aunt Pooh or Aunt Judy or my grandmother.

One time, my cousin Bethany and I were discussing whether we would rather be rich and ugly or poor and beautiful.  (“How ugly?  Does that mean fat, too?  If you’re poor would you be able to get a job where you’d meet rich people?”)  Aunt Pooh happened to overhear and said, “That’s too hard.  How about rich and stupid or poor and smart?”  That was easy; poor and smart.  When I had asked my mother, she’d said, “But you’ll never be poor or ugly.”

Aunt Pooh was delighted when I asked her if Karen and Nikki and I could come over.  She loves to tell stories, even more so if they’re true.  And it gave her a chance to bake.  This time she gave us brownies, which insisted tasted best with milk.  (“It’s imprinted in your memories.”)      

“Now, I don’t want you to be too hard on your mother, Charlie.  She loved you very much.  But she was never a hugger or a fusser.  When she was so sick, your uncle talked to her, to see if she needed emotional help, and asked her if she had any unfinished business ‘just in case’.  You know how counsellors are; they can’t resist jumping in if they think someone needs help.  Anyway, she said, no, she had insurance and she and your father weren’t in debt.  When he told her that he meant emotional business, did she needed to say anything to anybody, like you or your dad, she said, ‘If they don’t know I love them, there’s no sense in having some deathbed drama.  It would just make everyone uncomfortable.’  She might have been right there.  He didn’t tell me that, she did,” she added quickly, so we wouldn’t think Uncle Joe had been unethical.  “But you know she loved you, don’t you?”

Karen and Nikki were both sitting there with their mouths open.  But they hadn’t known my mother very well.

“In those days,” Aunt Pooh continued, “they didn’t have ultrasounds like they do now.  Your mother told me she was really hoping you’d be a girl.  She said she was only going to have one child, so he or she would be spared having older siblings bossing them or younger ones getting away with stuff they couldn’t and would never have to worry whether she and their father liked the others better.”

“Classic middle child,” Karen said.

“Exactly.  And she was the only scientist in a family of artsies.  My father taught English and my mother painted.  My brother is a music teacher.  He was never into books that much; I guess that’s why he agreed to give the children those names.*  That upset my mother more than Louie’s getting pregnant with a married man.” 

“It probably made her feel excluded.”  Karen and Nikki were in their element, practicing amateur analysis.

“Why, I never thought of that, but I bet that’s true.  She didn’t like to be out of the loop.  But, of course, she didn’t interfere, although she complained to Louie and me.  ‘Those children are going to feel like outcasts in the family,’ was how she put it.  She blamed Hank more than Judy.  Judy and her brothers and sisters were the five J's. ”

“But didn’t Charlie’s mother read?  After all she named her after the Brontes.”

“Well, that was my idea.  She wanted to name Charlie after our mother, but her name was Alice (Alice in Wonderland, you know) and your father’s first wife’s name was Alicia.  Actually, I wanted Emily Charlotte Anne, since Emily was really the better writer, but she liked Charlotte -- the name, I mean.  She probably hadn’t even seen the movies, since we didn’t have Netflix then.” 

“What was she like?  Alicia, I mean.”

“Well, I only heard about her, but she was English, oddly enough.  From what I heard, she was rather quiet, but it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.  When they finally get mad, run.  From what I heard, though, they weren’t happy.  She hated being a faculty wife; I can’t say I blame her.  My mother always said that if she hadn’t had the outlet of her painting she would have become an alcoholic.  All the politicking and sucking up.  She said being the wife was worse than being the faculty member.

“Now, I wasn’t so sure about your father, at first, but . . . well, you know how he is, so literal, like your mother, so they were well suited.  And he loved her.  And anyway, it wasn’t my business.  And  he grew on me when I realized I’d never be able to understand him.”

Aunt Pooh brought out the albums and tried to clarify the family for Karen and Nikki.  By the time she got to the story of when Uncle Joe met the family (“He seriously thought of writing his dissertation on us.”), it was time to go home.  Aunt Pooh gave us some brownies to take with us for our kids.  “You know, I feel like Nelly in Wuthering Heights, when she was telling that story.  I wrote a paper on why Emily did it that way.  I know that this isn’t your thing, Charlie, but why don’t you all come to the Solstice Service?  It’s mostly women.  And we usually go out to get something to eat afterwards.”

Karen and Nikki’s eyes lit up.  We might just do it, but I won’t take the girls.  We had enough spiritual crises this year with Cilla’s nearly going over to Rome. 

*Most of the children in Charlie's mother's family were given names taken from literature, but Uncle Hank's children are Jessica, Jason, and Jennifer.  Uncle Hank's name is Henry James;  Aunt Judy wanted him to start calling himself H. James, but he wouldn't do it.

For more background, see "Cast of Characters". February 27, 2015. 

 

 

From Charlie's Diary -- A Waste of Atmosphere or I Go and Ask Alice.



We’ve all been trying to figure out what’s going with Alice.  Does she want to be friends with Emily or more?  Once again, I asked Janet to check things out and she talked to somebody who talked to somebody.  The Lesbian community thinks they are a couple.  They ought to know, but they don’t.  Finally, I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.  “I’m going to have lunch with Alice,” I told Emily.  "And I’m going to ask her what her intentions are.”

Emily looked relieved.  “I guess it’s better to know.  Even if it’s bad news.  I can’t really trust my judgment because I can imagine all kinds of possibilities, but I can’t tell which are more likely.  I figured that you can have discernment or imagination, but not both.  I got imagination.”

“How do you feel about that?”  Who did I think I was, Kate?  And how did I feel about that?

“I’ve resigned myself.  But sometimes I wish my talent had been for math.”  

I knew what she meant.  All my life I’ve imagined at least three explanations for any situation.  It was another reason my mother had worried about how I was going to get along in the world.

I called Alice and said I really needed to talk to her and could we have lunch?  Alice said, “Oh, gosh.  Sure.  Is everything OK?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing major.”  It occurred to me that maybe Alice thought I was after her.  I wondered how she would feel about that.

We met at The Grotto, an Italian restaurant that is charmingly shabby with a waterfall and pictures of Jesus, the Pope, and Frank Sinatra.  It’s kind of dark and there are alcoves.  There were a few professors basically drinking their lunch and a couple who were paying too much attention to each other to be married, although they both had wedding rings.  I had thought it would be a good place to have a delicate conversation, but when I got there, it occurred to me that if I wanted to hit on someone, it would be the perfect place.  I wondered if that would occur to Alice.

“This is great,” she said.  “So atmospheric.”  I was glad she hadn’t said “romantic.”

I thought I’d better wait till we had something to eat to bring up the Situation.  If it turned into a drama, I didn’t want to miss my lunch.  We were on our second piece of pizza when I decided to open the discussion.

“Well,” I said, “I guess you wonder what I needed to talk about.”

“Well. Yeah.  Is everything all right with Ed and the kids?”

“Oh, Ed is fine, the kids are fine, Duke and Nigel are fine.  I’m fine.  My job is fine.  Karen and Nikki are fine.” 

“That’s fine.  I mean, I’m glad.”

“But Emily isn’t so fine.”

Alice looked scared.  “Is she sick?  Is she mad at me?”

“No, she’s fi . . . I mean she’s well.  And she’s not mad, but she’s very confused.”

“I don’t understand.”

 I took a deep breath.  “Alice, what’s your deal?  Are you gay?  Are you interested in Emily?”

In a movie Alice would have choked on her iced tea.  But she just sighed and looked sad.

 “Years ago I tried to be a Lesbian, but it didn’t work out.  I don’t know if I just didn’t meet the right woman or what.  I had lots of terrific friends, though.  It might have been the Reverse Katharine Hepburn Syndrome.  Everyone knew I was straight but me,”

The Syndrome certainly gets around.

“So I dated men,” Alice continued.  “I had some wild and crazy times, but it got to be too much trouble.  It was interfering with my writing time . . . Anyway, I love Emily as a friend, but I guess that’s the best I can do.  Tell Emily I’m sorry.  But if it will make her feel any better, I haven’t had sex for four years.”

“Poor Emily.  She’ll be very disappointed.”  I didn’t know what to say about Alice’s sex life.

“Do you think she’ll still want to be friends?”  Alice sounded wistful.

“Emily was in a support group with the woman who had dumped her, the woman she had dumped for her, and the woman she had been dumped for.  All at the same time.  I guess she can handle it.”

Alice was impressed.  “She never told me about that.” 

It was time to go.  “I’ll call you after I talk to Emily,” I promised.

We were going in opposite directions, and as I watched Alice walk away, I thought it would make a great final scene for a movie.  But it should be in autumn, with leaves falling, not spring.