Even though her nickname was “Sarge,” my mother’s demeanor was unconfrontational, and something way inside—the little girl she was once—was exceptionally kind. It was there till the very end. Like an iceberg, I suspect most of my mother remained frozen under the surface. She would often demand:
“What’s the use of bringing all that up?”
And she was right. All that hand-wringing and chanting of unfortunate memories, what’s the point of it? Cry your tears and be done with it. My mother—and my mother’s past—is always with me.
Rhubarb Pie
Mama had the most secrets and the best poker face. It was forty years before I even knew she played the piano! One evening near Christmas Mom sat down and played “O Holy Night.” My mouth fell open, and my little sister and I sat silently in awe. Who knew what else she kept in that caldron of cakes and pies and blood and tears?
For Mother, the lesson of orphanage life was simple: control yourself. Mom started the rhubarb pie story with a different twist on this lesson every night: never let them know you like it or they’ll take it from you. Which was another way of saying never let them see who you really are. Tom Waits used to say that, too. I never listened to either of them.
The rhubarb pie story is a testament to that one truth, and the reason behind my mother keeping so many secrets so well.
“We hardly ever got to have dessert, and rhubarb pie, they only made it for the kids once or twice a year. It was my favorite. We were lined up to go into lunch and as we entered I saw the pie on the table. I was so excited that I gasped, like this”—she sucked in air—“One-Ball heard me and pulled me out of line. They sent me to my room without any lunch.”
“No pie?” I asked.
“No dinner, either.”
She explained, “It is hard for little kids to stand still, especially when they’re excited about dessert. Jim just couldn’t seem to stand still. The male guards were much crueler than the women—they liked to flick Uncle Jim’s ear, they knew it hurt him so bad. He always had ear infections. They hit his ear to make him cry. They said it was to teach him to stand still but it was really because they just liked to hurt the children.”
As with the flicking of Uncle Jim’s infected ear, the staff customized punishment to uniquely hurt little children and leave a mark on them into adulthood. The little girl who loved rhubarb pie was still in my mother’s voice as she relived the despair of inexplicable cruelty.
For Mother’s seventieth birthday, I bought her a giant rhubarb pie. It was big enough to feed all the children in the orphanage: Jim, Don, and Fritz, and all the rest of them. They are ghost orphans now. I could not reach them with my pie. I thought to shine a kindness so bright that it would shine into her past, but we can never undo what was done.
Ninety years ago, my mother’s entire generation was tricked into the dust bowl of desperate poverty called the Great Depression, due to the greed and narrow interests of wealthy men. Betty’s sad childhood as an orphan was so common that Little Orphan Annie, a syndicated comic strip character, became a national sensation. Child actor Shirley Temple, one of the biggest box-office stars of the time, usually played a singing, dancing orphan of some sort. In 1932, my mother’s image became iconic. She got her first job as a model at three years of age, in a print ad for cake flour. She was the image of a happy child, her Dutch-boy haircut neatly framing her sweet face, her tiny fingers almost touching a yellow cake that would always remain beyond her fingertips.
My song “Juke Box Fury” opens with a little introduction, a melody my mother often hummed around the house. It was the only song I remember her singing regularly. She said it was already old when she learned it as a little girl. Dorothy herself probably sang this tune on her way home from Oz:
Polly and I went to the circus,
Polly got hit with a rolling pin,
We got even with the circus,
We bought tickets but we didn’t go in.
This melody made a powerful impression on me. It told me everything I needed to know about my mother’s America. “Ain’t got nothin’ to prove to nobody.” Perhaps, then, this song is the proper title for the last and saddest of her stories—though not the most violent or most tragic. Just . . . another ticket unused.
A Bum on the Bench
My mother’s father, James Glen Sr., was a “red-haired-blue-eyed-Irishman.” She liked to rush through to make that collection of syllables into one word. When Jim got out of prison, he was sick with the same tuberculosis that would kill both my grandfathers and a generation of Americans. Had the media reported my grandfather’s death they might have said, “A veteran of a war long forgotten died before his time in a VA hospital somewhere near a chestnut tree and a wishing well.”
He was an old man by the time my mother was fourteen years old, but very, very shy Betty agreed to meet him. She was an excellent student, and so serious about her gymnastics that she wrapped her bosom to flatten her profile. She wasn’t totally sure she wanted to meet the old man. What if she didn’t like him? What if he didn’t like her?
Betty’s brother Jim Jr. arranged for them to meet in a park. “Walk through the gate and to the left, there is a statue and a fountain. Dad will be sitting on the bench by the fountain.” She arrived after school with her books in her arm, something to hold onto or place between her and him. She sat down on the bench to wait.
When she bent down to tie her shoe she noticed an old man, a bum, sitting to her left. Had he been there all along? She let her eyes meet the man’s. He was looking at her. Then he grinned, a mostly toothless smile. Why was he smiling at her? She shuffled, tried to look away. It was hard to breathe, she was such a shy girl. Then the old man took off his hat. It was the red hair, the famous red hair.
She realized, Oh God, it was him.
Her father rose slowly and sat down next to his daughter. “Betty Jane?” And he smiled, so big, so happy. “I’m your daddy.” He had no front teeth and he looked like a poor bum in old clothes and worn-out shoes. Betty Jane stood up and ran away, crying. Her father watched her go. He put his hat on and walked back to wherever he came from. Her brothers chastised her. What was she afraid of? An old man? She would never again see her father. He died of TB shortly afterwards.
The Orphanages of Richland County
This orphanage relied on the work of children to turn a profit, but the children didn’t get much of the food they harvested. The four Glen kids, my mother and her brothers, were behind the main house, shucking corn. There was a big pile of it, and six-year-old Betty pulled the sleeves off, then removed the silky golden “hair” and put each ear of corn in a tin pot. Her older brothers were nearby, gathering up old stalks of corn; the eldest, Don, standing by, pretending to help. Mother said the kids got the parsnips and turnips and only rarely (on Sundays), chicken (necks) and dumplings.
The Glen kids had decided to run away, again. The eldest boys, Don and Fritz, whispered to seven-year-old Jimmy, “We’re gonna run today. Be ready.”
“What, run? Now?”
“You’ll know.”
When old Mr. Brown or Miss Smith went into the smokehouse, the kids took their shot. Don and Fritz lit out across the cornfield.
“Come on!”
Jimmy grabbed ahold of Betty’s left hand and ran after them. Don looked back to see Jimmy losing ground. Mr. Brown was already out the back door and running across the field, so Don slowed down and reached for Betty’s right hand. Now Fritz picked up the slack and took his sister’s hand from little Jimmy, the two bigger boys pulling her behind them. Betty was lifted off the ground and she flew between her brothers like a kite. In my child’s mind I would see her up there, the wind