Glimpse Inside a Family Time Machine

Glimpse Inside a Family Time Machine

Every Tuesday my mother left the house and headed to do her weekly shopping in downtown St. Louis, Missouri.

It was the only day other than Sunday that she took off from operating her home-based beauty shop.

My parents were separated at this point, although my dad lived only a few blocks away in an second floor apartment.

Since we never owned a car during my childhood, my mom walked to the bus stop around the corner on the main street parallel to our street.

We knew she had turned the corner and was at the bus stop when we could no longer hear her footsteps on the pavement.

Home alone

I was the oldest. My mom expected me to enforce the house rules while she was away, even though my sisters and I were only one year apart.

• Stay in the house.

• Keep the door locked.

• No company.

• Wash the dishes.

I always dreaded this assignment.

Whatever made my mother believe I could keep my sisters in order?

My middle sister, Sonja, was no problem. We looked forward to having time to relax while my mother was away because she was from the “Idle minds are the Devil’s workshop” generation.

No sooner than my mother would turn the corner headed to her downtown trek, however, my youngest sister, Mildred, would dash to the front door, peek out to be sure my mother was gone, and disappear into the neighborhood seeking her own adventures.

Sonja and I would plead with her not to go.

“Where are you going? Mom told us not to leave the house!” we’d repeat the instructions.

“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” we cautioned.

But it was all to no avail.

“I’ll be back before she gets back,” Mildred said.

But we knew better.

She was never back before my mom returned.

The plot thickens

Terror struck in our hearts when Sonja and I heard my mother’s key opening the door.

The scene was always the same.

My mother would put all the packages on her bed except for the box of freshly roasted Spanish peanuts whose aroma announced their presence.

We felt torn between being excited to see what she had bought and being terrified of the scene that would soon ensue.

She’d glance around the room, “Where’s Mildred?”

“We don’t know,” Sonja and I would respond in unison, trying to reach for the hot Spanish peanuts.

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?” as she turned her attention to me.

“Didn’t I leave you in charge?” she reminded me.

“She wouldn’t listen to me!” I pleaded, unable to hold back tears of frustration.

“Go out and find her right now!” she ordered, pointing to the door.

I hated this part almost as much as having to witness the spanking that was coming for Mildred.

As the fun-loving, adventurous, daredevil, Mildred would hang out with the neighborhood kids that Sonja and I didn’t need adults to tell us to stay away from.

By now the sun is down and I’m going off on “Mission Horrible” all alone, knocking on neighbors’ doors, peeking in alleys looking for Mildred in dank, dark basements where some of her friends lived, calling out the same refrain:

“Is Mildred here?”

Once back home, pulling Mildred along behind me, my mother would be waiting with the belt.

If you had heard Mildred screaming, you’d think that no sane person would ever repeat the behavior that brought on that beating. 

Sonja and I would scuttle into a closet, shielding ourselves from being observers and openly praying that my mother wouldn’t kill her.

When the spanking was over, you would think Mildred would be whimpering from the pain, but no-o-o.

Her tears would disappear in seconds as if it had never happened.

Then, you guessed it: she’d do the same thing the next Tuesday.

Epilogue

My mother moved us to Los Angeles, California in 1962, and my father continued to live in St. Louis.

After we grew up and started our own families, you could see the adult versions of our childhood personalities play out.

Sonja and I, though not perfect, followed traditional paths of raising our families, being active in different churches over the years and structuring activities in school and the community for our kids. (Sonja had five kids, and I had four.)

Even as a mom of five kids, however, Mildred continued to be fun-loving, carefree, and adventurous, always resisting structure, taking risks, and unwilling to delay gratification.

She was well-liked, never had trouble getting a job, but would give in to wanderlust. She and her husband would pick up their kids to move to a new location without bothering to do some of the essential planning required.

It was Mildred who volunteered to go back to St. Louis to move my father to Los Angeles, where he would live near the rest of us until he died in 1981.

My mother, who loved travel but had done very little at that time, was thrilled when Mildred and her husband moved from Los Angeles, California to Anchorage, Alaska.

My mom was the first to visit Mildred, who enjoyed taking my mother to picturesque sites and giving her a good time.

One day when we were both in our 30’s, I pulled Mildred aside and asked why when we were children she would buck our mother’s rules knowing she was going to be punished.

“I figured I was going to get in trouble anyway, so I decided I might as well have fun,” she said.

That was the motto she lived by until she died from complications resulting from several health issues at 69 in 2016.

My mother, after battling dementia, died at 92 in 2002.

Sonja died at age 60 from Multiple Sclerosis in 2005.

I turned 80 on May 6, 2024.

I miss my sisters and fantasize that we might have become good friends in our old age.

Since that wasn’t to be, I stay in touch their kids who are open to keeping family ties alive.

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