1.17 A California Thistle

Jun 1947 • Minnesota ~ Dad’s first trip back to the family farm was in 1937 for his mother’s funeral ten years earlier. He and Mom took the long train trip to the Midwest, bringing Larry who was almost four, and Carleen who was two years younger.

Matt & Barbara Clemens, my father’s parents

Farm kids were seldom catered to, and this woman from California indulged her children, especially Carleen, giving her daughter anything she wanted while the Minnesota relatives watched with raised mid-western eyebrows.

Mom, Dad, Larry, Carleen 1937, 1st MN trip 

My father been gone from home for fifteen years, and hadn’t spoken to his mother during that whole time; he was sure she didn’t care about him. What he didn’t know is that she cried every day, hoping each time the phone rang that it was her son who’d run away to California without even saying good-bye.

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A line from my brother’s diary on Mar 30, 1947: Aunt Elizabeth phoned to tell my parents that my Grandfather died this afternoon.

Our parents returned in June 1947 for his father’s funeral. Larry stayed with the Day family for three weeks, Carleen went to the Fouchs, and Betty and Claudia stayed with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Velma; this was the year before I was born. There wasn’t much to do on the farm and Mom, finally being free of her children, wanted to go, go go. Never wanting to sit still, she wanted to see the country, have some fun and kick up some dust. Instead she visited her in-laws’ farms, meeting the Clemens, Conway, and Nigon clans.

Discovering artichokes in the store one day, my mother excitedly bought a big bag full and cooked them for her husband’s family. They’d never heard of artichokes; Minnesotans ate red Jell-O and Rice Crispies bars, not fancy vegetables, much less thistles that were a lot of work for little sustenance, where you threw most of it to the hogs.

The family liked Mom. Well, the men and the kids liked Mom with her easy way and sense of humor. She had an air about her that made most of the women uneasy, nor was she serious about duty. The farm women took care of duty, busy raising corn while my mother was out making hay. They lived the better part of their busy days in aprons and house dresses, wore sensible Red Wings or work boots, used no nail polish or make-up. They had chores to do, men to feed, and kids to care for—from dawn until ten and often back again until dawn. They knew Mom was of a different flock. She dressed, sat, and spoke differently, wasn’t as proper and reserved as they were, not as buttoned up.

Clemens gathering, Rochester, Minnesota 1947
back: Joe Clemens, Bill & Agnes Hauser, Betty Rose, Pearl & Lawrence Clemens, Amelia & Pat Conway, Frank & Mary Wallerich, Elizabeth Clemens
front: Betty Clemens, Mary Lou Wallerich, Pat Conway, Jr., Babe & Carl Clemens (my parents), Joe Wallerich

This was taken in 1947 at the Terrace Room at the Oaks, a restaurant overlooking the Mississippi River. My mother is front and middle, wearing a low cut black dress, legs easily crossed at the knee—not the ankle—sandwiched between a handsome uniformed Pat Conway, his arm draped casually over her shoulder, and Dad, his hand discreetly tucked under hers. No, Babe was not a Minnesotan, and she was definitely not like the rest of the women in Dad’s family. Nor did she care to be.

to be continued …

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Uncle Joe Clemens

When I started writing about the family, I asked Uncle Joe, my father’s youngest brother, what he remembered of Mom.

He told me, “Well, she was nice enough.”
I asked what ‘nice enough’ meant.
“You know… nice enough.”
I said, “Nice enough… like what?”

“Well, she wasn’t bashful, quite the talker, and not afraid to tell people what she thought of them.” (My mother rarely had an unarticulated thought, and believed everyone was entitled to her opinion.)

I persisted, “That doesn’t mean ‘nice enough’ to me. What exactly do you mean?”
He paused a long second and said, “Well, I guess you could say she was like a Mae West nice enough.”
“Oh,” I said. That was way more than I wanted to hear about my mother, so we ended the conversation there.

© 2017. Catherine Sevenau.
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