Part 3 was mainly on my mother’s complaining about raising me with little help from my father. In the background was World War II and the possibility that he would be called up. A focal point of Part 3 was the episode of my father spanking me at the age of 10 months. It ended with the animosity between him and my grandmother.
I’m thinking of the role (or lack thereof) of my maternal grandmother. She only seems to come into the diary when she’s fighting with my father. Rarely do I hear of her taking care of me, to lighten my mother’s load – even though she was living in the same house! Important here, I think, is this: my grandfather committed suicide in March 1939. My existence began only four years later. Moreover, as far back as I can remember, I never found my grandmother to be the warm and fuzzy type. I never had that cuddly feeling around her that is the hallmark of the perfect grandparent. Of course, I saw and also probably absorbed some of the hostility towards her that I learned from my father. It’s embarrassing to say this, but I’m sure it’s true – and frankly, I’m ashamed of myself.
Let me add this: my grandmother also lost a child to the 1918-1920 flu pandemic. When my therapist wife first met my grandmother in the late 1960s, she said that my grandmother was depressed. I believe Sylvia’s diagnosis was correct. It explains a lot.
Now moving on to the end of December and the end-of-the-year memo. It’s also the end of the diary. My mother didn’t buy another one. My guess is that she made the decision to terminate this daily procedure sometime during 1943, that first year of my life. I was the only child she ever had. Was she thinking of this when she penned her last entry? It reads in full: “The ending of a wonderful year with Davey and Roy. I know all of us won’t be together next yr and it can’t be as busy a year.”
At first, I found this unusually cheery. But upon reflection, I think I understand why she wrote this. It was a momentous year. She had her first child from Day One: and he/I filled up her life constantly, without any let-up. At the same time, she was putting behind her those many, many negative events of the past year. She wanted to look forward, toward the rest of her life, with a positive attitude.
I think I know why. Well, really, I’m speculating, but here goes.
First, let me say, it’s difficult to trace in any detail one’s thought processes – after the fact. But I do assert that somewhere or sometime when reading the diary I had a moment of truth (perhaps at the spanking episode?) that explains why I have no siblings. Indeed, I need to point out that no such thought was on my mind when I first picked up the diary to read. I wasn’t looking for answers to any specific questions. I was simply trying to dig deeper into my mother’s life and mind, since (to be honest) she presented as a rather shallow person. In fact, I expected it to be a tedious and dull read. Well, as you see, I got quite a surprise.
With her realization of my father’s lack of any ability to adequately “father” me, she decided to have no more children. She could not go through this again, not even once more. My mother probably went back on whatever birth control method they had used before (recall: my mother believed in this). Surely my father had no argument with her over this because, I believe, in his heart of hearts, he never wanted children in the first place. Plus, I was a mistake. I was supposed to be a girl. This reinforces how radical her decision was, not even to have the potential to have a girl. She gave this up because she couldn’t endure my father’s abhorrent behavior over another year of raising a baby – that is, if my speculations are correct.
Accordingly, I never met the brothers and sisters I fantasized about. They, being those other potential siblings, whose very existence depended upon my mother’s resolution.
But not to focus entirely on the negative, I’m pleased to point out that when I married my wife had two siblings. They have become the brother and sister I didn’t have growing up. Today I feel as close to them as if they were there in my life from the start. In fact, I often just refer to them as a brother and sister, without the “in-law.” That’s how I feel. While I’m on the topic of “family,” the reader will probably not be surprised to hear that when I got married I made sure that I would have more than one child, if possible. For the record: Sylvia and I had two boys.
Summing up my experience with my mother’s diary: I conclude that my mother loved her other children so much that she saved them from having to go through the childhood and beyond that I went through. Never again. These brothers and sisters of mine, these potential beings, never experienced the tyranny (and I don’t use this word lightly) of my father. Indeed, she asked herself: does another child have to be spanked at ten months old? No, my mother said, and I can prevent it, she thought. Yes, I can, and I will, she told herself. And so, I was/am an only child.
It’s all about love. For now I see, finally, that you can love someone who doesn’t exist. You can, yes, Mother. I love you for your courage; and with you, I love my siblings whom you saved. It was all about love.
A Coda
In the fall of 2022, I published a poem about my father. It was an ekphrasis based on the last painting he did. He was an amateur artist and this small oil painting (about 8×10 inches) was his finale – as his mind drifted off in the last stage of dementia that finally killed him. I called this work, Seascape with Gulls. The poem was published in an on-line journal. The editor liked it so much that she also submitted it to another journal as a Best-of-the-Net for that year. It didn’t win, but I was honored to have been chosen and it’s enough that the poem is part of my oeuvre.
I mention this because I’ve often felt guilty that my mother was not part of this collection. I loved her. She was always there for me, loving me unconditionally. She was a positive buffer to my difficult father; but that affection didn’t necessarily translate into a topic to write about her – till now.
I’m exceedingly pleased that my dip into her diary has produced this piece that you have just read – despite learning of the pain and psychological agony my mother went through, as nakedly exposed through her fountain pen.
Now she’s part of my oeuvre. This makes me happy, and done.
One more thing. As mentioned, my mother loved playing the piano. I think she was the happiest in life while sitting at the keyboard. It was her major source of pleasure. When she was in her late 80s and had to move out of her home and give up her piano to a cousin, we toured the Assisted Living complex that I was moving her into. She was delighted when she saw a piano in the dining hall. She would come down every evening before dinner to play that piano. With a few residents standing around and singing along, she was in her glory. It wasn’t until she was in her early 90s, due to the onset of arthritis, that she could no longer play. For that reason, my mother told me she wanted to die. Soon after that, she did.
