Without a Song

By Janet Logan

Offering a family memoir that reads like fiction, Without a Song tells one familys story through the voices of four of its members.

Written by author Janet Logan, this uncommon love story begins in Llanerch, Pennsylvania, in 1919 when Glynis is eighteen and her sister, Grace, is thirteen. Glyniss father, a physician, forbids her from marrying her fianc, Raymond Vaughan. Dr. Alfred learns the young man has returned from France with a venereal disease.

Spanning several decades, Without a Song narrates the saga of one family that includes marital conflict, health problems, work and career issues, and the cycle of life through the stock market crash of 1929, the Great Depression, the thirties, World War II, and beyond. It shares the impact of these events on the four main charactersand the impact of those characters on one another.

This memoir shares the legacy of the Griffith clan, balancing the serious story with bits of humor and colorful characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480843837

Janet Logan

Janet Logan graduated from Goucher College in Towson, Maryland. She has written several novels, biographical stories for children, and poems. Logan lives in Hollywood, Florida.

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Copyright © 2017 Janet Logan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-4384-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4382-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4383-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903703

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/21/2017

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Epilogue

In loving memory of my father, Eugene J. Benge, author of seventeen business and self-help books––and the most remarkable man I have ever known.

…I’ll never know what makes the rain to fall, I’ll never know what makes the grass so tall; I only know there ain’t no love at all… Without a song.

By Vincent Youmans, Billy Rose, Edward Eliscu

Published in 1929

Prologue

GRACE — Llanerch, Pennsylvania — May 1919

I was sitting on the bed in my sister’s room, watching Glynis put her hair up when Mama walked in. Neither of us noticed the look on her face right away because we were concentrating on the image in the mirror.

Mama sat down on the bed next to me and said, Glynis, Papa wants to see you in the library.

I’m right in the middle of doing my hair, Mama. Tell him I’ll be down in ten or fifteen minutes.

No, dear. He wants you in the library right now.

Something in her voice made us both turn around. That’s when we noticed the look on our mother’s face. Mama, is something wrong? asked Glynis.

Mama’s head tilted, and her jaw moved slightly forward. Not a good sign. What could have happened?

I wondered suddenly what Papa was doing home on a Saturday morning. Didn’t he have hospital rounds at this time of day?

Mama turned off the small gas jet next to Glynis’s dressing table where the curling iron had been heating up.

"All right, all right, I’m going!" Glynis stood up and flounced out the bedroom door. Half her hair was hanging on one side; she looked like a wagon that was missing a wheel.

I had half a hunch Papa was going to give my sister a lecture about spooning with her fiancé on our glass-enclosed front porch, where the neighbors could see them. I’d even warned Glynis about it, but she never listened to me because I was only thirteen years old.

My sister had always had lots of friends—boys and girls—because she had a lovely face with eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, and long dark brown hair with a natural wave. As if all that wasn’t enough, she played the piano and had a beautiful soprano voice.

I knew Raymond Vaughan was always her favorite boyfriend, and before he went to France, they’d gotten engaged. Maybe he was afraid she’d get engaged to someone else while he was over there fighting in the war to end all wars. He made her promise to write to him. I never thought she would because she’d rather talk than write letters, but she had written him one every day. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in love.

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Last November the war ended. All over the city of Philadelphia church bells were ringing for hours and hours that day, and people were laughing and crying and hugging each other. Glynis thought Ray would be home before Christmas, but he didn’t come home until March. As soon as he arrived, they set a date for their wedding (June 14th) and I was going to be a bridesmaid. Mama even said I could put my hair up, for such a special occasion.

Mama scolded my sister every time she heard her call me Bones. I was not beautiful and talented like Glynis, and I must have inherited a growth gene from some gigantic Welsh ancestor. I was taller than my brother, taller than my sister, and taller than both my parents. Papa was a doctor, and he predicted that I had not yet finished my growing. Every night I asked God to send me a sign that Papa was wrong about that.

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I followed Glynis downstairs when she went into the library, but Papa came to the door a minute later and closed it. I sat down on the bottom step to wait. At first I heard only a low murmur of voices, but very soon they grew louder. Then I heard Glynis sobbing, and Papa’s voice shouting, You will do as I say!

The library door burst open. Glynis dashed into the front hall, almost falling over me where I was still sitting on the bottom step.

What happened? I asked.

Glynis swept past me, screaming, Get out of my way, Bones! When she slammed her bedroom door, it felt like the whole house shook.

I walked into the library and said, Papa, what’s wrong?

He was sitting behind his desk, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. He said, Nothing that concerns you, Grace.

An object on his desk caught the light from the gooseneck lamp; when I saw what it was, I caught my breath.

It was Glynis’s engagement ring.

1

GLYNIS — Five and a half years later

It was a blue and gold Indian summer day when I came back from Washington, DC. Papa met me at the 30th Street Station in a brand new 1923 Buick touring car. My first surprise. I could not stop myself from saying, Papa, you always said you would never buy one of these horseless carriages!

Well, Horatio was getting too old to pull our carriage. Papa did not like being reminded of things he used to say. It was either buy a new horse or buy an automobile, like all of our neighbors are doing. He seemed pleased with his purchase, although the engine made so much noise that it was almost impossible to hold a conversation while driving. When he pulled into our driveway, I saw that the carriage house behind our home had been converted into a garage.

Mama ran out the back door to welcome me home. It’s so good to have you back home again, dear. We’ve all missed you! she said as we walked toward the house. (Of course we had exchanged many letters during those years, but you can’t hug a letter.)

Daisy, go outside and help Dr. Alfred with Glynis’s luggage, she said to our maid when we reached the kitchen. Daisy always called Papa Dr. Alfred and Mama Miss Mabel. She was almost as wide as she was tall, and she gave me a hug before she walked out the back door. She’d known me since I was born. I realized now how much I’d missed her laugh. She had the most beautiful laugh I’ve ever heard.

Upstairs, I began to unpack my suitcases and drop my dirty clothes down the laundry chute in the upstairs hall. I looked out my bedroom window when I heard the jingle of the bells on the iceman’s horses as they labored up Llandaff Road with a full load of ice. Mama must’ve forgotten to put a card in the front window to let the iceman know how many pounds she needed; I watched her run outside to tell him what she needed, adding (as she always did), And don’t forget to wipe your feet before you bring it into the house. The ice chest was in a little room behind the kitchen, just inside the back door. As the ice slowly melted, the water ran into a pan on the floor underneath the chest. Someone (usually Daisy) had to empty it every day.

I got my second surprise when Bones came home from school. The last time I had seen her, she was wearing an enormous pink bow on top of her head that matched her sash, and her mane of blond hair was hanging down her skinny back. She breezed into the house that day, wearing one of the calf-length, dropped-waist dresses that were the latest style. It was Wedgwood blue like her eyes, and had a white Chelsea collar. But what really shocked me was her hair. It was bobbed short, and waved close to her head. She looked practically grown up and almost human.

Hey, Bones, is that you? I called as I strolled down the stairs to greet her.

Glynis, you simply must stop calling your sister by that ugly nickname! Mama scolded. She’s a college girl now.

GRACE

So my beautiful, talented sister was home again. Nobody mentioned Raymond Vaughan, but I knew we all remembered that terrible day when Papa told her she could not marry him. My parents sent her to Washington to live with Grandmother McMorris and Aunt Margaret because she was so devastated.

While Papa took Glynis to the 30th Street Station in our carriage (we still had Horatio then) Mama told Owen and me the reason for the broken engagement. Papa had insisted on a complete physical examination for Raymond before the wedding, and that included a Wasserman test. The test was positive, which meant that Raymond had caught a venereal disease while he was in France. Papa told Mama that if he had allowed Glynis to marry Raymond, he would have given that disease to her.

Mama did not explain how one became infected with the disease, but being normal kids, we immediately sensed her reluctance to divulge any more information and suspected it had something to do with s-e-x. We looked up venereal in the dictionary. The definition told us what we wanted to know.

Unfortunately, the wedding invitations had already been mailed. The bridal gown and all the bridesmaids’ dresses had been made by our seamstress and were ready for fittings. Papa paid the seamstress for her work, and Mama sent out printed cards to everyone who had been invited to the wedding, announcing that it had been cancelled. Some people had already sent wedding gifts; Mama took care of returning them.

Glynis was heartbroken and humiliated. She stayed in her room, crying all the time and refusing to come downstairs for meals. After three days, Mama sent a telegram to Grandmother McMorris in Washington, DC, telling her the wedding had been called off and asking whether Glynis could come and live with her and Aunt Margaret until the gossip in Philadelphia died down. Of course my grandmother agreed. We all thought the exile would only be for a year or two, but my parents waited until Raymond and his family moved to Canada before they decided to bring her home.

Five and a half years is a long time. I was eighteen in August, and have begun college at Miss Illman’s, where I will learn to be a primary grades teacher. Owen is sixteen, and attending high school (not Boys’ Central, much to Papa’s disappointment. His grades weren’t good enough.) All my brother wants to do is play ball and chase girls.

Glynis is twenty-three. She worked as a type-writer (later called typist) at the Library of Congress while she was living in Washington. Aunt Margaret works there, too—I guess she helped her get the job. Glynis told Mama she hated working. All her old girlfriends are married, and some of them have babies. I wonder what she’ll do now that she’s home.

GLYNIS

While I was living in Washington and working every day with goody-goody Aunt Margaret at a job I despised, all I wanted to do was get on the train and come home. Now that I’m home at last, I feel like a deflated balloon because everything has changed.

My scrawny sister Grace looks almost like a grown-up these days and she’s going to college to become a teacher. I would never want to be a teacher because female teachers are not allowed to marry. I’m too old to go to college now anyway, and besides—everybody knows men don’t like girls who are smarter than they are.

All the boys and girls in our old crowd from high school are married. I would’ve been the first one to marry—but instead of being the first, I feel like the caboose left standing in the station. It isn’t fair! Ever since I got home yesterday, I feel like crying.

Mama, I said, walking into the kitchen where she and Daisy were discussing the dinner menu, I want to go down to 69th Street and buy a new hat. There is nothing like buying a new hat to cheer a person up.

What a good idea, dear! Mama gave me five dollars, and a handful of nickels for carfare and sent me on my way. I walked down Llandaff Road to West Chester Pike, where streetcar tracks run down the center of the road. I stood on the platform and waited for the next trolley.

I got on the streetcar and seated myself on one of the yellow straw seats. At the next stop, a painfully thin young man got on, looked around for a moment or two, and came over to sit next to me. He was wearing cheap shoes, and a cap like a delivery boy. I ignored him and gazed out the window until he shocked me by speaking.

Excuse me, but is your name Glynis Griffith?

I turned my head to look at him. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, I noticed his eyes were blue but he was far from handsome.

Yes, I’m Glynis Griffith. Have we met? I inquired politely, knowing perfectly well we had not.

"Not really, but I believe you graduated from Girls’ Central in 1918. I was lucky enough to see your school’s production of H.M.S. Pinafore that year. You sang the role of Josephine, and you were magnificent."

Thank you. I gave him half a smile. "How did you happen to see our operetta?"

I graduated from Boys’ Central, same year as you. There was a notice about the operetta on our bulletin board. I’ve always been an admirer of Gilbert and Sullivan, so I bought a ticket and thoroughly enjoyed the performance—especially yours.

I gave him the other half of my smile. What’s your name?

Eugene Benge.

His name sounded familiar. Didn’t you win a prize or something?

He adjusted his cap. Well—I was valedictorian of my class.

No, that wasn’t it. I felt myself blush, realizing I had made it sound like being valedictorian was nothing much. I mean, that was an honor, of course! But I remember seeing your picture in the newspaper, standing next to the Mayor of Philadelphia.

An aw-shucks grin. That was on the Fourth of July, a few weeks later. I was chosen by the principal of Boys’ Central to read the Declaration of Independence on the steps of Independence Hall.

That’s what I remembered—that picture. I stifled a giggle. There you were, so tall and serious, and next to you the Mayor looked like a smiling dwarf with a top hat.

He laughed aloud. I like your sense of humor, Miss Griffith.

Encouraged, I asked. So what have you been doing since then?

Well, I graduated from West Chester Normal School a year ago.

I knew that was a teacher’s college with free tuition, which supported my first impression that this young man’s family had no money.

So now you’re a teacher? I asked.

No, I attended Carnegie Tech in Pittsburgh this past year, studying psychology.

I asked him what in the world that was.

He seemed eager to explain. It’s a new science, a study of the human mind.

Doesn’t it cost a lot of money to go to a school like Carnegie Tech? I asked.

He smiled. I had been interested in psychology for some time. I found out that school was offering a competitive examination for a fellowship in psychology, so I took a train ride to Pittsburgh and joined a bunch of other fellows who were taking the exam. A few days later, the school sent me a letter telling me I had won.

You must be very smart, I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

He grinned, shook his head. Just persistent.

So now you’re a—what? A psychologist? I asked.

Not exactly. I’m looking for a position where I can apply what I learned to a job in the business world. I just came from an interview for assistant personnel manager at the Onyx Refining Company.

My eyes widened. I stared at his wrinkled suit and the cheap shoes. And that awful cap! What a terrible impression he must’ve made at the Onyx Refining Company.

How do you think you did at the interview? I asked cautiously..

I’m optimistic, he answered cheerfully.

I glanced out the window; when I saw that we were approaching 69th Street, I stood up. This is where I get off. It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Benge.

My new friend appeared to be distressed. Miss Griffrith, I know this is a bit sudden, but would you allow me to call on you?

Why not? I certainly had no other prospects.

Well, I suppose it would be all right.

The trolley was slowing down. The young man pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down my address just before the brakes squealed and the doors sprang open. I stepped down onto the platform.

As the doors were closing, I heard him shout, Saturday, eight o’ clock!

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When I came home with my new hat, Mama and Grace were more interested in my trolley car adventure than in the millinery creation I had bought.

It sounds so romantic, Grace enthused, clasping her hands together. Is he tall and handsome?

Not handsome, just tall, I said, and skinny. Even skinnier than you! He wears wire-rimmed glasses and cheap shoes. And a cap, like a delivery boy.

How disappointed he will be when he doesn’t get the job at Onyx Refining….

A delivery boy! Mama was incensed. "The very idea! Why did you invite him to call on you, dear?"

"I didn’t invite him, Mama. He asked if he could call on me, and I said I thought it would be all right."

Papa will speak to him before he sees you. If Papa thinks he’s unsuitable….

"Oh, Mama, for heaven’s sake! It’s not like I have a dozen suitors lined up in front of the door! This fellow is not a delivery boy; I told you he went to Boys’ Central, graduated the same year I did, and he was valedictorian of his class! Since then he has graduated from teacher’s college, and spent a year in Pittsburgh on a—what did he call it?—a fellowship at the Carnegie Institute of Technology, studying psychology."

"Studying what?"

He told me it’s—um—a new science. A study of the human mind.

"The very idea!"

2

GLYNIS

Saturday morning I woke up with one of my sick headaches. I lay in bed with a cool cloth on my head, and Mama came upstairs with dry toast and chamomile tea on a white wicker tray.

I’ll give that young man a call on the telephone and tell him you’re not feeling well, dear. He’ll call on you another evening, she said, carrying the cloth into the bathroom to run it under cold water and wring it out again.

No, you can’t do that, I moaned, pressing the cool cloth over my aching brow.

I’m sure his family doesn’t have a telephone.

Why wouldn’t they have a telephone? Mama sounded puzzled.

Not everyone has a telephone, Mama, and I doubt his family can afford one.

Glynis, are you sure you want to encourage this young man?

Mama, we’ve already talked about this, and I told you…. I spotted Grace outside my room craning her neck, and snapped, What’re you looking at, Bones?

Having a headache does not give you the right to speak to your sister disrespectfully, Mama told me, but she was gesturing for Grace to get lost.

I heard the patter of her big feet as she ran downstairs.

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When Eugene Benge rang the doorbell at eight o’clock that evening, Mama sent Daisy to the door to admit him. Tell the young man to have a seat on the front porch, she instructed the maid. I’ll go upstairs and fetch Dr. Alfred. She climbed the steps and tapped on the door of the fourth bedroom, which housed all his pipes. Papa used it as a smoking room because Mama did not like the smell of tobacco smoke.

Alfred, Glynis’s young man is here. You must go downstairs and speak to him. He’s on the front porch.

He’ll have to wait until I finish smoking my pipe, growled Papa. He enjoyed his smoke after dinner each evening and refused to cut it short for any young man, especially one he didn’t know.

Grace followed Mama into my bedroom, where they found me sitting at my dressing table, wearing a russet dress of fine merino wool and brushing my lovely long brown hair.

I heard the doorbell, Mama, so I got dressed. I’m just starting to do my hair.

Are you sure you feel up to entertaining a beau, dear?

"He’s not really a beau, and I doubt if he’ll stay long," I said, placing my curling iron on the gas jet and turning it on.

Grace, why don’t you run downstairs and chat with him while Glynis puts up her hair and Papa finishes smoking his pipe? suggested Mama.

GRACE

Three minutes later I stepped through the French doors that opened from the living room onto our glass-enclosed front porch.

Hello, I’m Grace Griffith, Glynis’s sister, I said, smiling at Eugene as he unfolded his length from one of the brown wicker chairs and stood up, removing his cap.

My mouth hung open as I stared up at him. How tall are you, anyway?

I’m six feet, two inches, he said, glancing down at me, apparently to assess my height. How tall are you, Miss Grace?

Five feet, nine inches, I replied, blushing when I realized that Emily Post would have given me low marks for my greeting. I tried to make amends by inviting him to sit down again.

Do you go to high school? he inquired politely.

No, I’m attending Miss Illman’s. It’s a private teacher’s college, I said, seating myself in the other brown wicker chair.

I’ve heard of it. A very prestigious school. He smiled at me and my heart thumped. You’ll get a fine education there.

I understand from my sister that you studied psychology at the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh.

He leaned forward, and I saw that his eyes, behind the round wire-rimmed glasses, were blue like my own. Are you interested in psychology? he asked.

I’ve read some of the writings of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, I told him.

"Good for you! He seemed pleasantly surprised. May I guess you’re also a graduate of Girl’s Central?"

I nodded, glad I was wearing my favorite white batiste blouse with a lace-edged jabot. You realize, I’m sure, that my reading about psychology has been on my own time. It’s not on the curriculum at Miss Illman’s.

"Have you read Freud’s latest book, The Interpretation of Dreams?" he asked. My reply was interrupted by Papa, who had evidently been standing in the doorway from the living room for several minutes, listening to our conversation.

Good evening. I’m Dr. Griffith, Glynis’s father. I watched as Eugene stood up again and strode toward my father with his hand extended.

Good evening, sir. My name is Eugene Benge. Papa took the outstretched hand and shook it firmly. I remained seated, waiting to see what would happen next.

"My daughter has told us that you’ve