Open Writing

Christmas that year with the Douglas family brought a new experience— presents.

In my family we had always celebrated with each of us getting only one or two gifts and a sack of candy and fruit.

But with the Douglas family, there were several beautifully wrapped boxes with my name on each card. In particular I remember receiving a set of play dishes, a doll, and most of all, a baton. In early fall, on a trip to Artesia, Mrs. Douglas and I watched a parade that included a high school marching band. I was dazzled by the majorettes twirling their silver batons, and tossing them up as they turned, stepping high to the sound of the band's beat. I dreamed of owning a baton of my own. I wanted to twirl around in white boots.

The only downside to that Christmas was that it was spent with Mrs. Douglas's parents and spinster sister. They all seemed ancient to me. There was also a nagging, guilty feeling that I had received so many nice things and my siblings had not.

After Christmas, when the new school term began, my third grade teacher, Miss Angel, asked each student to bring supplies for a class project. We would need a small scrap of material and a needle and thread, the raw materials to make a stuffed animal.

Such requests in the past were always a burden for Mama because we had no money to buy extra items for school. I was always creative and enjoyed art and related subjects as this was an area where I confidently excelled. Still I was reluctant to ask Mrs. Douglas for the material, needle and thread. She found out when Miss Angel asked, "Why hasn't Bertie brought the things she was supposed to for our project?"

As we were driving home from school, Mrs. Douglas scolded me for not telling her. "I didn't want to bother you," I explained.

She looked at me and sighed. "School projects are always important, don't ever forget that." She gave me a scrap of blue denim and red embroidery thread and a needle for the project. My stuffed dog was the best in the class.

Near the end of the school year my folks moved from the sawmill in Monument Canyon to the Courtney Place and Jessie and Willie joined them. This was a good thing because the boys were tired of living with the Van Winkles. Jessie, in particular, started thinking of himself as unwanted by our folks and resented by Annie's boys. Things deteriorated to the point that after one quarrel, my brothers left Annie's house and walked the long way to the sawmill camp.

At school the boys kept asking when I was coming home. One day Jessie told me, "We are really missin' you and Mama wants you to come home this weekend." During that visit Phyllis and Reita stuck to me like glue. They wanted me to curl their hair and help them dress. It didn't seem fair that I was wearing decent clothes and shoes while my siblings were dressed in worn clothes and shoes they had begun to outgrow. Mama hugged me more often than she usually did. "Bertie, we miss you and want you to be back with us where you belong," she said. She clearly felt my place was with her and my family.

"I've been missin' you too," I said. I didn't try to explain how hurt Mrs. Douglas would be because I thought she might think I was putting her ahead of the family. I also feared they all might even think I was putting myself ahead of them. I felt guilty leaving them in their poverty to go back to a more comfortable life.

That Sunday, on the way to Weed where Mrs. Douglas was waiting to take me back home with her, Mama reminded me, "Bertie, you ought to tell Mrs. Douglas pretty soon that you are ready to come home." I ducked my head. "Yeah, I know."

When we got to the Weed store, the boys jumped from the back of the old Model A and hugged and kissed me goodbye. When Reita and Phyllis realized I was going with Mrs. Douglas they began crying and grabbing for me. I kissed Mama goodbye and felt traitorous as I walked to Mrs. Douglas's blue Chevy pickup. The sound of Phyllis and Reita crying for me weighed heavily on my heart as we drove away.

I knew I was needed to help care for them and could think of little else for days. At night, just whispering their names made me cry myself to sleep. A child's strong emotions and capacity to love is amazing.

Every day on the drive home from school I would try to think of ways to tell Mrs. Douglas that I was going back home. I knew she would be deeply disappointed in me for leaving the life she had so generously given me. But after a week of torturing myself, I finally worked up the nerve to tell her.

We had been riding along in silence when Mrs. Douglas turned to me and asked, "Bertie, what's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"

"Mrs. Douglas," I blurted, eyes downcast, "I'm gonna' have to go home to take care of my sisters."

As expected, she was very upset. To this day, I have never forgotten her response. In a flat, clear voice she said, "Bertie, you don't understand it yet, but you are making the biggest mistake you will ever make."