Ta Bu or not Ta Bu: True Tales of an Aging Hippie Chick

By Janet Bergstrom

This is a story about the happy fantasies I was raised to believe in during the 1950s, the rebellious idealism of my adolescence in the 1960s, and the conflicting realities of my experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Bergstrom
• Release date: Jan 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465880444

Janet Bergstrom

J.R. Bergstrom happily makes her home with family and pets in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

My story is about growing up in the 1950s and 1960s and the dramatic social changes that propelled society in new directions. Looking back, I can say some things are better because of the tremendous reverberations of the 1960s, and some things are worse. It depends on how you look at it.

This is a story about polarities. This is a story about truth and lies, right and wrong, victimization and survival, children and adults, rebellion and conformity, realities and fantasies, idealism and realism, guilt and innocence, holding grudges and forgiving, certainties and uncertainties, defeat and triumph, and consenting and relenting.

This is a story about finding the personal truths that exist somewhere in between polarities.

This is a story about Blades and Hammers.

This is a story about questions that have no answers.

This is a story about finding a balance between fantasies, idealism, realities, and experiences.

This is a story about healing.

This story is a slice of my life and told through my experiences, but it is also a story about my generation.

My name is J.R. Bergstrom and I have a perfect life.

So far, I have had an ordinary life filled with joy and sorrow and all the in-between stuff. My birth, my genetics, my family, my country, my education, my environment, and every waking moment have provided me with a full range of experiences unique to me and only me. For these reasons, my life has also been extraordinary. For these same reasons, we are all extraordinary.

I taught elementary school for many years and then taught art for five years before retiring to pursue making my own art, writing stories, and traveling.

I am married to a handsome doctor and we have three kind, loving, adult children. Several years ago we built our dream home on seven acres, where we love to putter in the gardens growing flowers and vegetables, and gather eggs from our chickens. My husband now works part-time and makes beautiful furniture. He cooks and cleans, too. He’s wonderful to me, and I am still in love with him after thirty years.

During our years together we have traveled to many places in the world to ski, sail, hike, bike, and kayak.

We have a large community of friends and we are blessed to know so many loving people.

My life has many of the same characteristics of a 1950s TV family sitcom or a fairy tale.

People who know me are sometimes envious of the external appearances of this life my husband and I have built. They tell me how lucky I am and I agree, but my internal life—the one that isn’t visible—tells another part of my story.

THE WORD

No buts! No goshes or gees either! — Mrs. Donna Stone scolds her children. Episode 5, The Donna Reed Show

I would like to break the habit of using the f-word. Sometimes though, a different word doesn’t fit. I tried replacing the f-word with ‘fudge’, but when read aloud it sounded too silly so I substituted the word ‘mess’, but that lacked a punch—a certain shock and awe necessary to relay meaning. In the end I decided to be true to my vices and use ‘fuck.’ Realistically, it’s a harmless word, after all. Even so, I will use it sparingly after this first passage.

When I was young, I fucked up because I was fucked up. But then, what could be expected from someone who was fucked around with at an early age? In many ways, my childhood was ideal and I was not a total fuckhead who spent every waking minute fucking up, but once you’ve been fucked over, the cycle begins. You don’t even know it.

Fucking up breeds fucking up.

It took me a long time to understand I was fucked up, it took a long time to figure out why I was fucked up, and it took a long time to figure out how to get over being fucked up. All this fucking around taught me about empathy and forgiveness. I can relate to underdogs and people who walk on the darker side. I think everybody should take a walk on the wild side. It has a lot to teach us—especially about judgment.

For many years I thought of myself as a bad person who wanted to be good. Now I think of myself as a good person who tries to avoid doing bad things. This is an improvement. Self-hatred debilitates. Self-love awakens.

I found God in myself and loved her fiercely. — Ntozake Shange

My teenage years, starting in the mid 1960s, was a time filled with conflicting fantasies, conflicting idealism, and conflicting realities. These experiences, mixed with surging hormones, thrust me into a spinning cycle of confusion and depression. The upheaval and changes of the status quo questioned racism, feminism, sexuality, bigotry, violence, greed, political corruption, war, pollution, overpopulation, spiritualism versus religious doctrine, and the threat of nuclear annihilation. These issues pissed off many people— especially young people who stood next in line to take over leadership.

The influence of the 1960s on history meant different things to different people. Although I felt an emotional impact from many of the matters in question, feminist issues had a tremendous influence on me, and caused me the most angst. I was swept up in the sexual revolution. Due to reliable methods of contraception and a new sexual freedom, doors opened that allowed women to explore sex with different partners and to do away with shame. Rejection of social mores about marriage and family, and the ability to have financial independence made sense to many us. Many crimes of the heart no longer seemed like crimes. Premarital sex, pregnancies without marriage, multiple partners, open marriages, group sex, homosexuality, and other taboos were suddenly—practically overnight—no longer considered taboo. Saving our virginity for marriage became passé—quaint—and ridiculous. You wouldn’t buy a dress without trying it on, one woman said to me in defense of premarital sex.

With these new freedoms, new problems spun into existence. Like many, I blundered into this openness without new guidelines of morality and responsibility to replace the former rigid expectations of femininity As a young girl, I’d been primed to follow. Not only that, but my realities didn’t fit with my fantasies or idealism. Many of the old ideals didn’t make sense, but neither did many of the new ones. I learned the hard way that crimes of passion could still wreak havoc. I should have known better about some things, but like I said, I was fucked up. Lust is still number one on the list of seven deadly sins.

God made sex too strong — it causes too many problems. — Mom

MRS. DONNA STONE WAS FAKING IT

Men applaud imitation, and hiss the real thing. — Aesop

When I was a little girl, I imagined I’d grow up to be like the beautiful and happily married ladies on TV in the 1950s and 1960s.

Each morning I’d awaken with a perky smile, perfectly coiffed hair, wearing a lacy nightgown, and have morning breath as sweet as a peppermint candy. I’d jump out of my bed, peck a kiss on the cheek of my groggy husband, who slept next to me in his twin bed, then rush off to prepare for the needs of my busy family. Tidy problems with tidy solutions could be wiped away as though swishing a feather duster like a magical wand. With infinite patience and a generous budget, I’d help my daughter find a prom dress. My son, full of rambunctious antics, would always make me smile. Each evening, I’d greet my tired husband as he returned home from work, ready with a tray of chilled martinis garnished with speared olives. Meals would appear like magic from an oven. In a flouncy dress and clacking high heels, I’d serve tuna noodle casseroles, green beans, slices of white bread, and tubs of brightly colored Jell-O. My loved ones would carry on with appreciative praises for the delicious meals. Afterwards, they’d kiss my cheek before rushing off to take care of their important business. With a radiant grin and a shake of my head, I’d scrape the leftovers into the garbage and tackle the piles of dirty dishes. Marital disagreements would be extinguished quickly with a stomp of my foot and a pout as my husband flashed a smile and patted my head and delivered sweet kisses. Within minutes we’d make up, harsh words forgotten. These are the wholesome escapades of domestic rapture that captured my dreams. Like the fairytale promises of true love, I would live happily ever after.

My favorite character, Mrs. Donna Stone from the legendary The Donna Reed Show, was the epitome of elegance and success. Even when she was mad at the kids or her husband, or grumpy about housework, she embodied an adorable charm. She lived in a spotless house with a handsome devoted husband, Dr. Alex Stone, and their well-mannered, well-adjusted children, Mary and Jeff.

The first ten years of my life, many paradigms of families scripted in the early TV world were misrepresentations of reality that led me to believe in nothing less than a perfect life. I didn’t know going to college had anything to do with pursuing an education--I thought of it as this benign place where women dressed up to go to dances, go on dates, and to shop for a husband. Once I snagged the perfect mate, I’d become engaged, and then marry in a fluffy white wedding dress. Soon, babies would join us to complete our family. From then on, putting my family’s needs first and obeying my husband’s protective authority assured me of a life of comfort and security. Due to his superior intelligence, I’d never have to be concerned with worldly matters and other complicated decisions, or need to discuss unpleasant business. To be disagreeable was undignified, and personal fulfillment was considered selfish. Such were the aspirations for me and many young women of my generation.

I remained oblivious to the incongruence between my TV family and my real family. My parents were loving and responsible, but Dad’s daily departure to work and Mom’s daily whirl of frenzied housework and cooking didn’t help me grasp the finesse of family life. Pretending to be Donna, I played house, changed the diapers of my Bess Wetsy doll, and cooked fake meals in my toy oven. What fun I had.

The first time I questioned the authenticity of Mrs. Donna Stone’s fairy tale life came the summer after fifth grade when I was hired to babysit for Mr. and Mrs. Ronald H. Patterson, who had three children under the age of five. Mrs. Nanette Patterson worked full time to support the family and pay for the advancement of Mr. Patterson’s career while he attended the university. I already babysat evenings for them while the children slept, so I felt qualified to take on the weekday routine. Apparently, they thought so, too.

The Patterson children were adorable, and I was eager to roll in the big bucks from babysitting. I calculated the money needed to buy the powder blue ski parka I coveted and at 25¢ an hour, I’d have enough by the end of summer with some left over to buy some school clothes.

The first morning on the job, Mrs. Patterson answered the door draped in a bathrobe. She stood with a gooey baby slung on her hip and a naked toddler clinging to her leg.

Come in! I’m not ready, she said. Mr. Patterson left an hour ago. He’s so busy. Before I could respond she shoved the baby into my arms while she grabbed the other youngster. C’mon, let’s get you a diaper, Sweetie.

The baby belted out loud shrieks while reaching for her mother. I felt important as I cootchie-cooed her. She ensnarled her tiny hands in my hair and tugged as she threw herself backwards. From the bathroom came a loud crash, followed by maniacal laughing from the toddler, who ran down the hall. I heard the drone of a stern warning as his mother hurried after him.

Shortly, Mrs. Patterson returned dressed in a simple shift and sturdy shoes, clipping an earring with one hand while lugging the naked toddler wrapped around her knee. I’m running late. Please dress him. Little Sally is in her room getting dressed, I hope. Kisses, bye bye, Loves. Mrs. Patterson whizzed by, handed off the toddler, ran her fingers through her cropped hair, then flew out the door.

I tried to tell her, You forgot your other earring..., but both youngsters went into spasms of screeching as if in competition to reach the loudest pitch. I did my best to comfort them.

Just as their wails subsided, the front door opened, and Mrs. Patterson popped her head in. There’s a note on the fridge with instructions, telephone numbers ... let me see ... bottles in the fridge...diapers in the dryer ... help yourself to anything ... and, uh, let’s see ... oh yeah, nap time at 10:00 for the baby and again at 2:00. If you can get the others down then, good luck. Bye. She bolted and both babies let loose with more protests.

Little Sally, a five-year-old still dressed in a pink princess nightie and with a mop of tangled hair, appeared. I’m hungwy.

I gave her my best Mrs. Donna Stone smile. Give me a sec to take care of these little ones, then I’ll fix some breakfast.

An hour later, with both babies wiped, diapered, and chirping in baby talk, I dumped cereal in bowls, splashed in milk, and scooped in sugar. I stuffed the youngest baby in a high chair, then poured a chunky red glop of baby food into a bowl for her. She stuck her fingers in and smeared everything in a slushy free form mess like a finger painting, then tossed the bowl upside-down to the floor at the same time the toddler clanged his bowl of cereal across the table, leaving spilt milk and cereal flakes in its wake.

More than once that first day, I retched while slathered with poop as I struggled to change the wiggly babies. Messes piled up like snow in a blizzard. They took naps, but never at the same time. By 4:00 Little Sally was still in her princess nightie, so I helped her dress then tried to brush her hair, which ignited in her a fierce defiance. I had the urge to swat her and I felt like crying, but I ended up begging her to hold still while I brushed. She relented, and then said, My mommy will get mad at you if you keep pulling my hair. She’ll make you go away.

I scowled at her.

At the end of the day I managed to have the house in decent shape with messes somewhat subdued, at least by my standards, but minutes before the mother was due home, the toddler found a tube of lipstick under the sofa and scribbled designs on his face and smudged one of the sofa cushions. I discovered this just as Mrs. Patterson walked in the door.

I apologized, Sorry for the mess. I tried to keep up. I looked the other way for a second and when I turned around he’d colored with lipstick. I’ll help get him cleaned up. I whisked him off to the bathroom to try to repair some of the damage.

When I returned, for a minute I secretly hoped Mrs. Patterson might fire me, but instead she tittered, Oh don’t worry about anything. Everything looks as good as it gets. I can fix this sofa. She turned the cushion over.

Mommy! Little Sally came from her bedroom followed by the toddler. They ran to their mother and tackled her with joyous hugs. The baby

crawled up to her and whined for a share of the attention. I picked up the baby, passed her off to her mother, and then I bolted—glad to have survived the first day, but certain I’d have more fun the next day.

I didn’t have fun the next day, or the next. The rest of summer continued in a blur of survival. I rarely saw Mr. Patterson, but when he did show up before his wife came home from her job, he’d greet the kids, then grab the newspaper and his pipe, and ask me to take the kids outside to play until his wife came home. I need some quiet time. I need to relax, he said. I’ve been working all day.

On these occasions, when Mrs. Patterson came flying in the door, in one fluid motion she’d drop her bag on a desk, greet Mr. Patterson, kiss the kids hello, and scurry into the kitchen to prepare dinner, but before doing this she’d show up with a mixed drink for her tired overworked husband.

Thank you, Dear, he’d say. I’m starving. Let me know when dinner is ready.