Find a Penny

By Lisa Dugan

Fifty years ago, Doris Winsby made a decision that would forever change her life, leaving her to wonder what might have been had she followed her heart. Young and impulsive, the feisty red-head was influenced by a domineering mother and a strict catholic upbringing. Set against the backdrop of her nursing home, Doris Winsby, age seventy-five, recalls her life in a series of vivid flashbacks. Querulous and spirited, undefeated by a life of hardship and disappointment, Doris Winsby will not inspire our pity. Rather, we will cheer her as she embarks on a daunting journey of self-discovery, reminding us that it is never too late to start again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475965001

Lisa Dugan

McKenna, Keegan, PJ, and Lisa Dugan live on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, where they now dream of Chessie's next adventure. They first brought Chessie to life together at the dinner table.

Book preview

1

I am seventy-six years old today—old being the operative word. Can it be that a whole year has passed? It seems like only yesterday that I was the guest of honor at the big party to celebrate my turning seventy-five years young. And I was young then, in mind and in body. Gary even flew in from Florida, bringing my grandson to me for the first time in three years. I suspect he came out of obligation. Likely it was the last place Gary wanted to be. You see, things haven’t been right between my son and me for quite some time.

It was a lovely reception—fancy sandwiches, punch and cake served on the lawn next to the church. The Ladies Auxiliary honored me with a plaque presented by our Pastor. To Doris O’Neil, for many years of devoted service, it read. Gary then delighted all with a clever and touching toast which he delivered, no doubt, tongue-in-cheek. I tried to catch his eye as he raised his glass but he wouldn’t turn my way.

Within weeks of that party, my world was turned upside down. The events remain a blur: a kaleidoscope of colors, shapes, and sensations. I know I lay for some time on my apartment floor. Was it hours or days? Time was meaningless, dreams and reality intertwined as I floated effortlessly between lucidity and delirium. I was, by moments, deathly afraid and at others calmly resigned to the possibility that I had reached the end of the line. I made many attempts to crawl to the mahogany sideboard for the telephone. My legs were lead weights and though I had only a few feet to travel, the hall was a dark twisting corridor that stretched for miles.

The fire department, at a neighbor’s request, eventually broke down the door. That is what they tell me though I have no recollection of the sirens, the paramedics or the time I spent in Intensive Care. I awoke one morning as if from a deep sleep and found myself in a strange bed and, more bewildering yet, in a strange body. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like my old bag of bones but behaved much differently. My arms and legs refused to do my bidding until I was at rest at which point they flailed and jerked as though they had a mind of their own. My mind was another story altogether. It was now capable of capricious and cruel betrayal—deleting vital information, fabricating memories. Vocalizing my needs was nearly impossible. How did I make the nurse understand about the dryness in my throat or the burning in my bladder, when the words thirst and toilet had been erased from my vocabulary? I pointed and gestured and, if by God’s grace, I managed a few syllables, they were slurred and mangled by my lazy lips.

What’s that, Mrs. O’Neil? I don’t understand. What is it you want?

Exhausted from the effort, I sank back against my pillow, defeated.

Over and over, the scene was repeated and each time I made no headway. I was eaten alive with frustration. In my frenzy, I lashed out at the nurses, fought against restraints and tore at my intravenous tubing. All I wanted to do was to get back home to familiar surroundings, where my world made sense and I felt right in my own skin. Though I was told repeatedly that I had suffered a stroke, the words might just as well have been spoken in a foreign language.

Gary flew back in and, being the sort he is, quickly took control of things. He was there those first dark days, fluffing my pillows, talking quietly on a cordless phone, opening and closing a leather briefcase. While I was relearning to walk and talk, taking those first baby steps towards independence, he was maneuvering himself into position to take control of my affairs.

Don’t worry about a thing, Mother. I’ll have everything squared away in a jiff. Just a quick signature here and we’re all done. He pulled a gold pen from the breast pocket of his dark suit and placed it in my hand. There you go, that’s it.

I tried to tell him that it was a policy of mine not to sign anything I hadn’t read but the words wouldn’t come. I pushed the papers away instead.

Mother, I just want to make sure you’re taken care of. I’ve come an awfully long way to get you settled. I really should have gone home days ago. Cindy and Christopher want me back but I told them I was needed here. He restacked the papers and placed them in front of me once more.

Gary, I . . . I-I’m not . . . . I cried, wringing my hands.

I know, Mother, I know you’re not trying to be difficult. I can see that you’re tired and I know how you hate all this legal mumble-jumble. That’s why I’m here. I’ve gone through it all for you. Just like Dad would have wanted. Isn’t it better to have me do it, rather than paying a stranger? After all, I’ve only got your best interest at heart.

He guided my shaky hand towards the x at the bottom of the page.

All this nonsense will be over with and then we can concentrate on getting you out of the hospital. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to, do you?

Gary knew just which carrot to dangle. And I bit.

Home. Just let me get home. I’ll worry about the rest later, I reasoned and then scrawled out an awkward signature.

There. All done, my son said as he tucked the papers away in his briefcase and then flashed me his award winning smile. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

After two months of recuperation and with limited speech and mobility, I was sent against my will to the Silver Gardens Retirement Home. Fearing, with good reason, that I would attempt to escape, the staff sequestered me on a locked unit. Other than a dresser, a nightstand, a few pictures and keepsakes, I was left with nothing. My son, my power of attorney, took what he wanted and disposed of the rest. He then flew hundreds of miles back to his home, leaving me in the care of strangers. Once my mind was sharp again, I was too weary to wage a war and rail against the legal roadblocks he had placed in my path. Gary is himself a lawyer.

I don’t grieve the loss of my possessions, though I did have lovely things. It was my late husband, Eldon, who insisted we have the best of everything. Privately, I cared little for the crystal, the china, the Louis XIV furniture, and the Royal Doulton figurines that lined the breakfront. Dust collectors were all they were to me then and I have even less use for them now. Gary can have them as far as I am concerned, what’s left of them. Some were shattered one fateful night and some I let go at a yard sale. Easy come easy go—with objects it’s that simple for me. People are another story.

From my earliest days, I have wanted for very little, though I was born in September of 1925, in Ottawa, to a young couple of modest means. Mother struggled silently, for more than twenty years, to see that I had everything she felt a young girl needed. Mother was used to the best life had to offer.

She was born Rose Muldoon, eldest daughter in a well-to-do family. She attended private school, was excellent on horseback and had a keen eye for fashion. Every luxury was afforded her by doting parents who had her future well planned. At the tender age of seventeen she fell in love with Martin Winsby, a carpenter hired by her father. I can see how she became smitten with Dad. He was tall and tan with broad shoulders and copper hair that fell carelessly into his freckled face—a gentle giant next to Mother. Dad would often say that his Rosie was as delicate as a china doll and he worried he might break her. She was petite, just over five feet tall with dark hair and eyes, auburn curls cascading down her back. I have trouble picturing her as a young girl for, in every picture taken of Mother since their wedding, her hair is pulled back into a bun.

During the summer of 1922, Dad started construction on a gazebo at the Muldoon estate. Rose and her younger sister, Patsy, found any excuse they could to be outdoors. On hot days, Mother made lemonade and brought a glass out for Dad. She sat by him, watching while he worked. She wasn’t the only one watching. Frank and Sarah Muldoon were keeping a close eye on their daughter. When they got wind that Rose was falling for a carpenter, they wasted no time in trying to rein her in. If at first Mother was drawn to Dad for his boyish good looks, her parents’ resolve to quash the relationship only strengthened her attraction.

The Muldoons made valiant attempts to keep Rose and Dad apart. First, they fired Dad and refused to pay him for the work he had done. Next, they convinced their daughter to join the family on an extended vacation to Spain, hoping that out of sight might mean out of mind. A few months on the Mediterranean did nothing to douse the spark that had been ignited between Mother and Dad. Days after their ship pulled in, Rose was caught sneaking out to meet with him. When they realized that their efforts had failed, my grand-parents gave their young Rose an ultimatum: she must either end it with my father, or be shunned and disinherited. Later that spring, at a small ceremony attended only by the groom’s family, the two were wed. In my opinion, it was the only time Mother’s heart triumphed over her head.

This impulsive decision meant a dramatic change in lifestyle for the pampered Rose Muldoon. She moved from her lakefront manor with its stables and sprawling lawns to live in the humble Winsby house. The small brick A-frame was flanked by a chicken coop and a massive woodshed where Dad spent many long hours. Gone were the maids and groundskeepers, the cooks and stable hands. It was baptism by fire for young Rose who suddenly found herself in charge of a house that hadn’t seen a woman’s touch in more than a decade. Her dreams of refurbishing the Winsby home were soon dashed. There would be no fresh draperies or linens to usher in the new lady of the house. Instead Rose rolled up her sleeves to beat dusty old rugs, polish tarnished silver and scrub grimy floors.

Cut off entirely from her family, Mother had to manage with Dad’s modest wages. His work was seasonal and there were periods of hardship and scarcities. Winters could be especially trying. Dad worked from sunup until sundown and took odd jobs on the weekends when there was work to be had. Often he came in just to take his supper and then disappeared into the wood shed with his mug of coffee. He might stroll through the back door, whistling, with a big hug for Mother who would shoo him away. He might ride me on his back or fling me over his shoulders, tickling the backs of my knees as he teased: This old sack of potatoes is going out in the trash! Other times he was somber and exhausted with the stress of making ends meet.

Since Mother’s heart had gotten her into this situation, she was forced to rely on her good, practical head to keep us afloat in difficult times. Her crafty mind tirelessly worked and reworked the family budget to keep me properly outfitted and Dad well fed and none the wiser. There was need for a certain amount of deception for Mother and Dad’s priorities were worlds apart. He was a basic man: meat and potatoes, serviceable clothing, a roof over our heads, those were his concerns. He knew nothing of the silk stockings, the patent pumps, the taffeta gowns that Mother secreted into my closet. These purchases meant funds had to be diverted from other uses without raising Dad’s eyebrows. There was evidence of her craftiness if one were really looking for it. The steaming bowl of stew Mother set down before Dad was always rich with beef, mine was a hearty mixture of meat and vegetables while Mother discreetly ladled herself only potatoes and carrots. It is only now, looking back, that I can truly appreciate how hard Mother fought to provide me with the items that I took for granted.

Wiggle your toes, Doris, she’d say, setting her jaw tightly and squeezing the end of my leather pump. You’re growing like a weed, child! You’ll be out of these shoes in no time.

I’d scamper away unconcerned. I’d have run barefoot if given the choice. New shoes would appear as needed even if it meant Mother had to squeeze another winter out of her old boots. Don’t you look smart, Doris Winsby, Mother would beam, smoothing out the skirt of a new school dress. I never thought to thank her. In fact, I could barely stay still long enough for her to do the buttons and braid my hair. I never gave my appearance a second thought; the puddles, the creek, the trees were always calling me.

* * *

An ominous grey willow sits just outside my grated window. It blocks the sun and drops its furry leaves carelessly into the bird bath below. Last night as the wind howled, its boughs rapped softly against the glass. In the darkness, my head heavy from whatever concoctions they pump into me, I’d swear it was the grim reaper himself come to take me. His skeletal arms hurried towards me, trying to entangle my feet.

I know, Doris, I know, he hissed at me.

Eldon! Eldon, are you there? I cried as his grasp tightened on my wrists. Eldon, why don’t you help me? I was desperate to turn the light on but my arms were pinned.

Oh, stop! Let go! I shrieked but was unable to free my feet. I kicked and flailed my legs but they were held fast.

Help! Help! Won’t somebody help me?

In a flash I was blinded by white light. Is this it? I asked myself, wondering if it was possible that I had crossed over with such little fanfare.

Through the light a figure emerged and slowly took shape. My maker? My eyes adjusted and then I beheld the most unheavenly body: short and squat. Not my messiah. Only Darlene, the night nurse.

What’s all the ruckus in here?

I-I . . . I saw . . . the window . . . , I panted. I-I . . . couldn’t get away!

Nothin’ in here, hon. The storm out there is making a racket.

But-but my arms, my legs! He had them! I couldn’t move them!

You’re in restraints, hon. For your own good. It’s the only way we can keep you in bed.

And then I beheld the full glory of my surroundings, the green walls, the bars on my bed, the leather straps at my wrists and ankles.

We’ll just see what Eldon and Gary think about having me shackled. They won’t stand for it. My son’s a lawyer, he is, and a damn sharp one too. I want to ring him up. Right away. He’ll have plenty to say. Plenty to say, I tell you . . .

But she only flicked off the light and trotted down the hall.

* * *

I had no shortage of playmates as a child. The Winsby home was nestled in what was once a quiet farming community. The old farms were gone, the roads were modernized and a development of new houses sprang up right across the street. Dad was offered a pretty penny for his half acre though no amount of pressure from Mother could persuade him to sell the only home he had ever known. Our house was somewhat of a novelty in that it housed only the three of us. Most of my friends were one of seven or eight children and we played kick the can and tag in big gangs. We were all warned by our parents to stay away from the Babcock’s place. They were older and the only childless couple on the street. It was felt that they wouldn’t take kindly to children tramping over their immaculately landscaped lawns or running through the gardens surrounding their stately home.

They were the quintessential odd couple, Constance and Raymond Babcock. He was a quiet, introverted man, an architect by profession, a devoted gardener in his spare time. How he wound up with the flamboyant, omnipresent, old money Constance Babcock, we’ll never know. Awkward and shy, he must have hated the lavish parties, her insistence on making a grand entrance and being the center of attention. On many occasions, as his wife held court, I found him hiding in the kitchen. He was more at ease playing with us kids than he was talking politics with the men. He’d get right down on his hands and knees to roughhouse. Though we might catch it from her, he never had a cross word if we cut through his yard or retrieved a stray ball from the garden. He kept a bag of humbug candies at the ready and doled them out generously.

Don’t tell the missus, he’d say with a wink. Sweets were such a novelty in those days that I don’t deny going out of my way to cross paths with Mr. Babcock on his way to work, even if it meant I’d endure the wrath of Sister Mary for being late for school.

Constance Babcock kept her poor husband on his toes. Ray-mond, Ray-ay-mond, she’d bellow, poking her head full of curlers out the front door. Her shriek could be heard for miles. Mr. Babcock would drop his shovel, abandon his azaleas and scamper off across the lawn.

Mrs. Babcock, having no children to care for and a maid to handle the household chores, had far too much time on her hands. Her hair changed styles and colors on a weekly basis and she had an infinite array of dresses, each one a shade of purple, to adorn her stout body. If we ran into her on the street she’d talk Mother’s ear off for at least half an hour, spouting an endless stream of parenting advice, her crimson lips moving a mile a minute. Mother was far too polite to cut her off but frustrated to be kept from the dozens of chores needing her attention. Mother would never admit to it but I knew that she went to great lengths to get out of the house without being stopped by Mrs. Babcock. I had seen her at the window, peering through the slats of the blinds, making sure the coast was clear before she left for the market.

You don’t have to worry. She’s having her hair done this morning, if that’s what you’re looking for.

Don’t be silly, Doris. I was just checking to see if it might rain.

One day as I played jacks in the driveway, Mother came out the back door, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip.

Duck, Mother! I shouted. It’s Mrs. Babcock! Mother didn’t laugh; she sent me to my room. I stomped off in utter indignation. She could deny it all she liked but I knew Mother would have been glad of the warning if our neighbor had been on the other side of the hedge. I had seen her knees instinctively start to flex.

If she needed to talk, as she invariably did, and she found no one to accost at the mailbox or on the street, Constance Babcock always managed an invitation to tea. She marched up the street, scanning all windows for signs of life, a measuring cup dangling prominently from her fingers. Just came for a cup of sugar, if you can spare one, she’d say as Mother opened the door, though it was well known that Mrs. Babcock never cooked and had a maid to do the shopping. When Mother went to the kitchen to fetch the sugar, Mrs. Babcock followed her in on her heels. At that point it seemed rude not to offer her tea.

Do you like my hair? she might start. I looked in the mirror this morning and I said to myself: ‘Constance, it’s time for a change.’ Don’t you think this is an improvement? No pause for a response. I swear if I had to live with those silver curls one more day, I’d die. Am I right Rose? You like it, don’t you? Too brass? It isn’t, is it?

It’s lovely.

I’m glad you said so. I said to myself: ‘Constance, if anyone will give you an honest opinion, it’ll be Rose.’ She paused only long enough to sip her tea, leaving a ring of lipstick imprints around the rim of her cup.

It could take hours and dozens of subtle hints for Mother to gently coax our neighbor out the door. I’d better be on my way, Mrs. Babcock would say several times before she finally rose from the sofa. Once her hand was on the knob, it might still be the better part of an hour before she gained the verandah. If the visit lasted into the supper hour, Mother would grind her teeth in frustration, checking the clock repeatedly while clearing away the tea tray. There was no maid in the Winsby kitchen and, if there were two things that could set Dad off, they were most certainly finding no supper on the table and a busybody on the sofa.

Mrs. Babcock had a pronounced tick. Every closing of her eyes required the work of a network of facial muscles. Her thin penciled eyebrows rounded then flattened, rounded then flattened, as though an inchworm were trekking across her forehead. At a distance, her face could be read like Morse code. A series of rapid blinks meant excitement, a series of long, slow blinks meant disapproval.

The neighborhood busybody was as popular as measles with the younger generation. She frowned on roughhousing and horseplay, reproached us frequently for poor manners, corrected our grammar and in general had no understanding of fun. Children will be cruel, and mock her we did—contorting faces and shoulders with every blink, noses high, as we’d pretend to prance up the street.

Help, I’ve got to find some sugar! or Get away from the windows, she’s coming, we’d wail, rolling with laughter. The way she talks, her last name should be Blabcock instead of Babcock, I once teased. This led to the nickname Blabs, which stuck for years and through generations of children growing up on Laurel Avenue.

Blabs was the bearer of happy tidings in the community and an efficient disseminator of any unpleasant news. In pursuit of a juicy tidbit, she could be seen making her way in and out of most of the houses on the street. She was the first to break the news to Mother of Mr. Richard’s arrest for disorderly conduct, of young Tom Foreman’s scholarship, and the arrival of June Driscoll’s baby a mere seven months after her wedding.

A favorite summer pastime was to hike two miles through the woods to swim at McCuffy’s Creek. Mother strictly forbade it, thinking it obscene for young ladies and men to be seen together in questionable attire. Undeterred, I missed very few expeditions. Once the last gravel hill had been scaled, we stripped down to our underclothes and dove in off the tall rocks. There were some, like the Pender boys, who had no underclothes and we were asked to hide our eyes while they made their way into the water and stayed hidden there.

One day as we splashed and shrieked a car made its way up the steep narrow road that led to our private oasis.

Do your mothers know you’re up here? a voice called out suddenly from high above us on the rocks. Recognizing it immediately to be Mrs. Babcock’s, I stayed low in the water. Kenneth Mitchell Pender, have you no manners? she cried out accusingly. Kenny had no underclothes to swim in and it was plain as day because the skin that didn’t see the sun was an iridescent white.

Doris Winsby, is that you I see back there? I dove under the water, holding my breath until my lungs burned. She was still there, hovering dangerously near the water’s edge, when I surfaced, gasping. I know your mother wouldn’t approve of this, she taunted. Then she was gone, her automobile trailing dust as it made its way down the gravel hill.

I was out of the water like a shot, struggling to pull stockings up my damp legs. The others were silently sympathetic. They knew I would catch it at home. One of my shoes had slipped off the rocks and several dives were made before it was fished out. With the afternoon sun hot on my back, and one foot sloshing with every step, I ran through the field, breathing hard. I had no time to lose. Mother might forgive the whole thing if I got to her first. Hearing the news from the neighborhood busybody wouldn’t help my case any. If there was one thing Mother hated, it was being the subject of gossip.

When at last I reached the front porch, I was winded and doubled over with a stitch in my side. I leaned against the rail to catch my breath. The front door opened and out stepped Constance Babcock in a most regal manner.

My word, Doris Winsby, aren’t you a sight! From beneath arched brows the dark eyes scanned me from head to toe. I fumbled to straighten my braids, smooth the skirt of my dress, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. What have you to say for yourself child? In quick succession, her penciled eyebrows arched then flattened, arched then flattened. My breath came in shallow pants, each delivering a stab of pain to my lungs. Speech would not come.

Blabs didn’t wait for a response. Your mother’s fit to be tied inside. Of course I told her. ‘Rose,’ I said, ‘what can you expect the way you let that girl run wild?’ If you ask me, she’s far too trusting, your mother. I told her if it were up to me, I’d send you off to a proper school. My cheeks were on fire. Beneath my dress, perspiration trickled down my spine. The air was still, the noonday sun directly above us, the sky an endless wash of azure. The summer of 1939 was a scorcher. Though September was just around the corner, temperatures soared into the nineties. Swimming in the creek was a delightful way to stay cool. I never understood how mother herself, after slaving over the wood stove, wasn’t tempted to make the exhilarating leap off the rocks. Somewhere along the way, the adults I knew had lost their sense of fun. I swore that even after I had turned fifty, which seemed ancient to me then, I would still swim on hot days.

I had a cousin, Eileen her name was. She had a daughter, spoiled the child was, catered to as though she were an invalid. I told her, ‘Eileen,’ I said, ‘you’ve got to rein that girl in post haste!’ And I knew just the place that would do it. Blabs fumbled for a tissue in her purse and mopped her damp brow leaving a line of white where the makeup had been wiped away. That’s just what I was telling your mother this very afternoon. You’re too headstrong, Doris Winsby. Why if you were my daughter . . . .

For heavens’ sake, I wanted to shout. We were just swimming. It’s not a crime! I bit my lip.

My stockings were dry and stiff, baked onto my sweaty legs. I shuffled impatiently. Getting my niece into that school made a world of difference. Eileen said she was a changed girl. Of course they wouldn’t stand for any of her tomfoolery there. There were rules. Blabs paused and drew in a long breath, her enormous bosom heaved. Was it over? Had the heat put an end to the tirade? I started for the front door. My foot had scarcely left the ground when she found her second wind.

You know, don’t you Doris Winsby, you’ll be the death of your mother, carrying on the way you do. You don’t see Caroline Ferguson carrying on like that, certainly not on a Sunday. I know for a fact she’s at home helping with the laundry. A daughter should help her mother. I always say . . . .

The mention of Caroline’s name made me bristle. Blabs held her up to Mother and me as the epitome of daughterly perfection. Caroline’s to sing the lead at the Christmas Eve mass, or Caroline’s at the top of her class again, our neighbor loved to boast. I fared poorly in these comparisons, though I could out-climb and outrun any girl in school. I had no use for Caroline Ferguson—whiney tattletale that she was. She never ventured to the creek with us, fearful of messing her precious ringlets or her frilly dress.

God must have given you a girl’s body by mistake, Doris Winsby, the priss had once taunted, shaking her curls and then running straight for Sister Mary before I had a chance to pop her one.

I reached a hand around to touch the searing flesh at the back of my neck. My braids hung against my cheeks like woolen socks, the part between them a line of fire across my scalp. If there were ever any doubts about the suitability of the nickname I had invented for her, Constance Babcock dispelled them that day. On and on she babbled as we stood there baking in the sun, her crimson lips moving a mile a minute, tiny streams of rouge trickling down her puffing jowls. She was waiting perhaps for Mother to come out, to enjoy the fruits of her labor and see firsthand that I received the scolding I deserved.

I knew where you were headed the minute I saw you with those scamps. Those Pender boys are trouble, Doris. You mark my words. Not a drop of good sense. I said to myself: ‘Constance, you had better get yourself up to that creek post haste. There’s bound to be trouble.’ And whom should I see there? In her underclothes no less? In broad daylight? I said to myself, ‘Constance . . . . ‘

A delicate breeze blew across my face, teasing my burning cheeks. I leaned my head back to take it in and it was gone. The air was still once more, my patience exhausted.

It’s not nice to spy on people, you know, I blurted out, dashing for the front door.

Blabs’ chin dropped and for once she was speechless.

I stepped through the front door gingerly. Mother was in the kitchen, working over the stove. I suppose you know what Mrs. Babcock had to say, she called without looking up. I can’t count the number of times I’ve told you to stay away from that creek. She set down a pot of potatoes with a thud. Look at you, Doris! Tell me those aren’t the new stockings!

I wanted to tell her that I was sorry but that would have been a lie. It’s so hot out today, must be a hundred degrees! And we were all so bored. It’s too hot for any good games.

Then you should have sat in the shade with a book like I told you. It wouldn’t hurt you to do some reading.

Oh, Mother, if you had been there, you’d understand. It was like an oasis in the dessert and we were all burning up. I swear we were. And the water was so absolutely wonderful! I couldn’t help it. I had to cool down.

Well look at you now. Your face is burnt to a crisp; you’ll peel for sure. You’re too fair to be out in the sun! My hand went to feel the tight stinging skin that pulled across my cheeks and over my nose. You’d better get changed for supper. Put some cream on that face. Bring me down the dress and stockings; I’ll have to wash them again. Mother sighed, threw a handful of salt in with the potatoes and slammed the lid down on the cauldron.

Though Mother was clearly the disciplinarian in our household, Dad occasionally stepped in. That night he came to my rescue.

If you ask me, Rose, you’re making a mountain out of a mole hill! I was swimming in that creek thirty years ago. Hell, in those days we all swam buck naked.

Don’t be so crass, Martin, Mother scolded. A young girl shouldn’t come to the dinner table smelling of the swamp.

Dad wrinkled his nose.

She smells just fine to me.

Well, Martin, that isn’t entirely my point. Those Pender boys . . .

Dad winked at me across the table. I was lucky that evening. One never knew quite what to expect with Dad. Usually gentle, his mood could be grim, especially when he was out of work. If Mother forced him to intervene in one of our many disagreements, I might wind up with a licking instead of a wink.

Though I never set out to deliberately displease Mother, I was somehow predisposed to disappointing her. I was too outspoken. I had red curls that no amount of brushing and braiding could tame. Sadly, I was not as gifted she wished when it came to feminine graces. I failed miserably at dancing, piano and embroidery and just about everything else she tried to teach me. I had two left feet, a tin ear and very little patience.

Every rule Mother imposed seemed designed to take the fun out of life. Walk down the stairs, Doris, she scolded. Why must you come clomping down?

Why would anyone walk? I wondered. With the help of the railing, the stairs could be gained three at a time. From the fourth to last step I could make the dining room carpet, sailing clean over the front hall tiles. A bad landing made the china in the breakfront dance.

There were areas in which I did excel. I could run like the wind and climb a tree in a flash. My incredibly vivid imagination made me a charismatic storyteller, though my tales usually had a penchant for the gruesome or vulgar. My dramatic flair allowed me to impersonate anyone. Wrapped in an old sheet, I did an impeccable imitation of cross old Sister Mary that delighted my classmates. Mother overheard my repertoire one day and sent me to bed without supper. My talents, my dreams of being an actress were always at cross-purposes with what she wanted for me.

Sister Mary Theresa ran our small schoolhouse. A love of children was not what led the nun to teaching. She was an immense woman with a round face, small dark eyes, and a protruding mound of a chin. With a booming voice and threats of hell and perpetual purgatory, she kept us all on our toes. It was a rare week that didn’t find her on our doorstep after supper with an update for Mother on my progress, or lack thereof.

"Your Doris