Am I Here Yet?: Reflections and Faulty Memories of a Life Well Lived

By Judy DuPont-Gignac

Am I Here Yet? Is the author’s personal story from childhood into her post-retirement years -- or as she calls them, her realignment years. It is the tale of a shy teenager growing into a confident woman who believes she can do and have it all: husband, children, community and business leader, but finds, in the end that the ‘all’ really isn’t what she longs for. It is a story all too familiar to ‘type A’ women who struggle with the push-pull of their professional and domestic lives. Her journey covers marriage, parenting, divorce, remarriage, and a spiritual path that leaves behind organized church life and embarks on a quest of searching that continues today. Many will find a connection with the pain and joy of the author’s teenage years only to be re-experienced through the lives of her children as they work their way through the maze of adolescence to adulthood. Others may recognize themselves as the lone woman on the “boy’s club” boards and committees and the intense need to be the best, to know the most, and to always land on top. It is the story of many of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781466977266

Judy DuPont-Gignac

Judy DuPont-Gignac’s interesting life includes public, professional, and community accomplishments bringing her much recognition, including the Presidency of the Arizona Board of Regents and an honorary Doctor of Letters from The University of Arizona. Born in Michigan, she lives and writes in Sierra Vista, Arizona; her home since 1970.

Book preview

PART ONE

Home is where the heart is;

Home is where you hang your hat;

Home is where they have to take you in;

You can never go home;

A house is not a home;

Home sweet home;

Home on the range, home town, home sick, home field, home run, homework;

Homeward bound.

16846 MONICA AVENUE, DETROIT, MICHIGAN. My home from infancy — 1939 to adolescence – 1954, was a small two-bedroom (at first) bungalow on an elm-tree lined street with a lot of very happy memories and only a few not so happy ones. The last time I saw the house and the street was in 1980 when I returned to Detroit as a delegate to the National Republican Convention held at the Renaissance Center downtown. The trees had died off from Dutch elm disease and the area had changed from a white lower middle-class neighborhood to an African-American one. I stopped to talk with the folks on our old porch to tell them I lived there some 20 years before. They were friendly and let me walk around the side to see the yard and our screened-in back porch. It brought back a lot of memories. It also brought some sadness. Sadness that time had not been good to the old house and a curiosity about what had happened to all the folks who I grew up with on that street.

Ah, the street. The canopy of elm trees seemed to hover over our street as if protecting it from unknown outside forces. The street was made up of about 24 houses, twelve on each side and each of them entirely different from the other. Nothing like the subdivisions we have today. Monica was just off McNichols and a couple of blocks from the University of Detroit. McNichols had little stores and shops: a milk store where you could get great fudgsicles, a grocery store, a Chinese restaurant where I ate frog legs for the first time, and, of course the ubiquitous dime store.

From the street, you walked up a concrete pathway that split the lawn in two pieces to the front steps. The porch and the steps were wood. Going in the front door took you directly into the living room. It had a fake fireplace to the left with bookcases on each side. An archway opened into the dining room and a swinging door took you to the kitchen. If you took a right turn as you entered the dining room you went into a small hallway that had one bedroom on the east end, one bedroom on the west end – which was the front of the house, and a bathroom in the middle. My sister, Linda, and I shared the back, east bedroom.

There was an attic and the stairs to it were very narrow and steep. Near the top, they took a sharp turn to the left. There was a musty and dusty smell to it, and there was great wonderful stuff stored up there. We didn’t go into the attic often, but occasionally mother took us up there to find something or other.

Besides an attic, our house also had a basement. Here the steps weren’t narrow, but they were open – no risers – and when I was young and small it was scary to go down there alone. The basement had a big pudgy coal-burning furnace in the middle of the room with funny fat pipes that went up through the ceiling into the living area of the house. During the summer this was a great cool place to play. Linda, my friends and I put on little dramas using dress up clothes. Once we did a silhouette play with a sheet and light and pretended to be operating on somebody and took out the most ridiculous things from their belly.

Wonderful things came down Monica Avenue. The iceman would come on a regular basis. He sold square blocks of ice that were placed in the ice box. We had to remember to empty the tray at the bottom of the ice box because as the ice melted, the water was caught in the tray that could overflow. In the summer, we kids would run behind the ice truck and holler for the iceman to stop and give us chunks of ice to chew on. He didn’t stop often, but when he did it was a great treat on a hot day. The vegetable and fruit truck would come down the street in late summer and early fall packed full of farm fresh produce. The truck had a rack with a roof on it covering several shelves showing off the good stuff he had for sale. A scale, hanging on a hook, would swing back and forth. Our mothers would come out and wave him to stop. I can still see them in their dresses and aprons picking over the produce, looking for the best ones.

Of course, the mailman was a regular on the street. He had a great big leather bag that hung on one shoulder. Our mail boxes were either fastened to the house next to the front door, or they were a slot in the door with a metal flap and the mail would get stuffed through the slot and drop to the floor. The insurance man would come to the house once a month. He had a huge bound book that had all his customers in it – one on each page. He smelled like cigar smoke and the leather book had a distinctive smell too. It all smelled comfortable. Each month he would come to the house to collect the insurance premium on the house and my parents’ lives. Mother and Daddy had a specific way of putting away money for each obligation. Daddy’s pay was divided into different envelopes marked with each budgeted item: insurance, mortgage, food, utilities, vacation, medical, clothes, savings, etc. When it was time to pay that bill, or buy that certain thing, the money was taken from that envelope. When I left home, I budgeted the same way for a long time. So, Mother would pull out the insurance envelope and count out the premium for that month and the insurance man would note the payment in his big, leather-bound book. Then there was the ice-cream man. We could hear the music and bells blocks away and immediately run to Mother to ask for dimes for an ice cream. With coins, tight in our fists we would run after the truck yelling for him to stop. Fudgesicles were my very favorite, but anything chocolate would do.

Most of my friends lived on that street. Next door was the Seaton’s. A large Catholic family. I remember Patty and Carol. Several doors down was Ilona. I really looked up to Ilona who was a few years older, blond, and Finnish. She took tap dance and I loved to watch her practice. She had a much older sister who we all talked about in hushed and respectful tones because she had a job at a big company downtown. Next door to Ilona was Mary Jane. Mary Jane was an only child, also Catholic – we were Protestant – her mother was very strict, and she couldn’t do a lot of things the rest of us did. Poor thing, after her mid-day nap, she had to wear dresses and couldn’t play hard. The rest of us wore overalls or shorts and our mothers didn’t care if we got dirty again after our naps. I helped Mary Jane get ready for her First Communion by cutting her hair. She had beautiful black hair. I don’t think her mother appreciated my help.

Next door was the Oak family, mother, father, and a boy named Jimmy. He and I didn’t get along very well, and I was constantly running home crying to tell Daddy that Jimmie Oak had hit me. Finally, my father got fed up about it all and told me that if I came home crying about this again, he would give me something to cry about. The next thing anyone knew I was on top of Jimmy Oak banging his head on the porch floor. Guess that finished that. It was only many years later than I learned that Jimmy was a cousin. My Aunt Sue had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and gave up the child for adoption. Amazing.

A few doors down from the Seaton’s was the Glaze’s house. Roger was the only child left at home. There was something about another son, but I was never certain about what happened. I think he went into the army during World War II. Roger was cute and a bit older. I liked him. Across the street was another boy: Jack Russo. I had a crush on Jack a few years later. At the far end of our side of the street lived a Jewish family with a grandmother. It always confused me when I rode my bike down that way and she would always ask, So, tell me, what’s your story? I never knew what to say.

Monday’s child is fair of face;

Tuesday child is full of grace;

Wednesday’s child is full of woe;

Thursday’s child has far to go;

Friday’s child is loving and giving;

Saturday’s child has to work for a living.

But the child that’s born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

I WAS BORN ON MARCH 21st, a Tuesday in the same year as Germany’s invasion of Poland – 1939. The Old Lamp Lighter was one of the popular songs of the day. I was the first born of Gertrude Maneck DuPont and Durward Arthur DuPont. Daddy was a baker. Mother had been a secretary, but stopped working – outside the home that is – when it became apparent she was pregnant. She would tell stories of starting her working day at the office with morning sickness, just like clock-work, she said. They bought the house on Monica Avenue when they learned a baby was coming some four years or so after they married. I was named Judith Ann DuPont and when I was old enough to say my name it came out Doodi-pont.

Daddy would tell the story of my birth as one of shock and dismay. He saw me for the first time through the nursery window with my face all scrunched up from the forceps delivery. Later he confessed that his heart sank as he prematurely concluded that I was too ugly to ever marry and that they would never get rid of me! Fathers didn’t know much about pregnancies and birthing in those days, although I have to admit that during my teens and early twenties I wondered if his prognostication might have been correct.

The best baby books of the time admonished mothers against spoiling their babies. The rule was you only picked up a crying baby to change its diapers or feed it. Cuddling to comfort was out. Mother followed the book’s instructions, but her heart was pained.

Spring was coming so there was an opportunity for Mother to show off her new baby in the perambulator. Her account of our first journey into the outside world stuck with me, the same as Father’s story of my birth. As she pushed the buggy down the street, another woman with a baby buggy was walking towards her. Naturally, they both stopped to inspect each other’s baby. Mother made the appropriately nice comments about the other baby. Then the woman looked at me, silently for a bit, and then opined that I had beautiful eyebrows. Mother was devastated. Of course, it didn’t matter to me; I just kept looking at the world with curious eyes as we walked on. Frankly, I don’t know why this story was told to me, because my baby pictures were of a fairly average looking baby. Very strange.

Linda was born on a Thursday, February 19th, three years later – my only sibling. She was born at home. Mother’s doctor, a nice Jewish man, felt that it would be safer as the hospitals in the Detroit area were full of injured GI’s, since we were now fully engaged in World War II. Again, Daddy had a comment about how his second daughter looked – just like the Jewish doctor he said. Mother didn’t follow the baby book instructions as closely. I think most mothers are more relaxed with second babies.

I can honestly say that I have no memories prior to 1944 – I guess that would make me about five years old – perhaps nothing very exciting happened up until then. There is one thing that I recall – sucking my thumb. I loved my thumb! Early on I would pull hair out on one side of my head to rub under my nose as I enjoyed my thumb. Later I moved to pulling the fuzz off the blanket and when I was through with it, I would toss the fuzz behind the head board of my bed. There was a lot of fuzz hidden there. Eventually, I gave up the thumb habit, but it was many years later.

The war was with us, regardless of our age. Each evening we listened to the radio news and heard about the current situation. We had an air raid warden on our block who would scoot us home when the exercises were being held. Our house had water and sand buckets in the attic to put out fires and food and blankets in the basement for ‘just in case.’ A couple of homes on the street had gold stars hanging on little flags in the front window and we kids were very respectful of the moms, the ‘Gold Star moms.’

I do remember one day, it could have been the day war ended with Germany, all of us kids were banging pots and pans and whooping it up on the street. It was a great day, and everyone was so happy. My family was lucky because daddy was a baker and that was a job that the general population needed so he wasn’t drafted. My mother’s brother, Uncle Bill, tried to enlist but they wouldn’t take him. Something about being color-blind. Uncle Henry, Aunt Sue’s husband, worked at the Detroit Armory where they made tanks, so we weren’t personally touched by the war directly. We did save our dimes and bought war bonds, and we saved tin cans and fat and took them to the butcher where they were collected for use in the war effort. We knew a bit about rationing. Mother painted the nylon seam on the back of her legs because you couldn’t get real nylons and we didn’t drive much because of the rationing of gasoline and rubber.

Life was good for us. There was always something to do and if not, then Mother would find us something. Helping to wash clothes was usually exciting because of the wringer. We were constantly warned about getting our hands caught in it. The washing machine was round and had a wringer that was moved from one rinse tub to the other. There was an order to the washing with the whites first and the colors last. The last things washed probably weren’t that clean since the water didn’t get changed unless absolutely necessary. In the summertime, we hung the clothes outside on the line. The sheets would billow out in the wind like clouds. We had to use poles to prop up the line, so the sheets wouldn’t drag on the ground and get dirty. To me the smell of sun-dried sheets is probably one of the best smells in the whole world.

Even school was good. The first thing that happened was Mother would take us shopping for school clothes and new shoes. We would get two pairs of shoes: saddle shoes and Mary Janes. The saddle shoes were for school and we got white and brown polish to keep them looking good. We were warned not to scuff them when we walked. The Mary Janes were for church and special days; they were black patent leather and smelled pretty. On the first day of school we would get the list of supplies we needed to bring the next day, and so off we went to the dime store to get the pencils and certain sized notebooks which had to be exactly as the teacher had listed them – nothing else but. We always walked to school, which was about ten blocks from home.

Of course, we didn’t have television back in the ‘olden days,’ but we did have radio. My favorites were Our Gal Sunday, The Shadow, Jack Armstrong All-American Boy, and The Lone Ranger. In fact, I liked them so much that I was limited as to how much radio I could listen to in one day. In 1951, we got a television set with an antenna on the roof that Daddy had to adjust periodically. I can recall Howdy Doody, Westinghouse Theatre, and Ozzie and Harriet. Probably my best recollection is the 1952 Republican Presidential Convention when the delegates nominated Dwight D. Eisenhower. My second foray into politics. I’ll relate the first one later.

School days, school days,

Dear ole golden rule days.

Readin’ and writin’ and ‘rithmetic,

Taught to the tune of a hickory stick.

I WENT TO FITZGERALD ELEMENTARY School and loved it. Mother was in the PTA and was president for several years. Because of this we were allowed to help with fund raising and special events that other kids couldn’t do. One special event was held annually — a minstrel show. Mother played Mr. Bones – black face and all. The first-time Linda saw Mother all done up she was scared, but when we got to the auditorium and Mother came on stage, Linda hollered out, hi mommy, and Mother hollered back, hi Linda. It was great.

I did get in trouble once. I was not very athletic and one of the things we were supposed to do was climb up a rope and there was no way my skinny little arms and legs would let me get more than a few feet off the ground, so I started the rumor that someone had fallen and broken their arm and that’s why I wouldn’t climb. I saw the principal over that one. Even thinking about this can bring the flush of embarrassment at lying. Most of my problems were with gym class. One particular day, I was probably seven, we were sitting cross legged on the gym floor in nice neat rows and a couple of boys were clowning around. The first one jumped over me but the second didn’t quite make it. He hit me right between the eyes. It caught me by surprise and really hurt, but I think I was more angry than anything else. It certainly wasn’t the kind of attention I wanted. It wasn’t long before two lovely black eyes began to show color. Daddy said: When someone asks what happened, just tell them ‘you should see the other guy’. Great line which I have used frequently in later years, just not for the same reason.

Just about all the teachers were large women with large bosoms. I imagine that when they had tea they would balance their cup and saucer on their bosoms. One teacher was unlike the others. She was young and pretty