My mother’s ability to cope waxed and waned. There were times when she appeared “normal” and times she could not deal with everyday life. I know this story feels disjointed (rather like my mother) but I don’t know what happened in the blank spaces. I’m simply telling the stories as they were relayed to me, how they appeared in Larry’s diary, from the pictures and newspaper articles I have, and later, from my own experience. I’m trying not to make up what happened in between. Like life, it’s complicated.
Two months after my arrival, my mother—along with losing her mind—lost her brother. Gordon Gregory Chatfield, at the age of 42, died in Letterman’s Veteran’s Hospital in San Francisco from his WWII injuries.
Gordon Chatfield 1944
Gordon lived in Chico for the three years he was married to Hylda Hughes, then joined the Army Air Force, serving in the 306th Airdrome Squadron in the South Pacific in WWII. He wasn’t wounded; he was injured falling from the bay of a truck and walked with a limp and a cane thereafter. He lived on his pension and worked as a furniture finisher and upholstery worker.
Like his brother Roy, he also had a mean streak. Whenever Joanne or Shirley, Ina’s two young girls, were near him and no one was looking, he thwacked them with his cane. They quickly learned to go around or run past him to avoid being his target. Everyone took his side when he denied doing it. Maybe they felt sorry for him.
Following the elegy on Nov 23, 1948, my uncle was buried in the Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno, California.
Except for his brothers Howard and Arden (they’re not in the picture anyway), the whole family was there for his funeral. The photo, taken at Uncle Charlie and Aunt Velma’s house in South San Francisco, memorializes the occasion.
Gordon’s funeral: Grandma Nellie at top of stairs; l to r: Verda, Leo, Charlie, Aunt Ada Whitaker, Noreen/Babe (Mom), Nella May, Ina, Joanne Fouch, Jim Fouch; kneeling is Velma Chatfield
to be continued …
© 2017. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.
Deborah says
Oh my gosh, Catherine. Your honesty in regards to your family is so truly what the world needs now. So many secrets kept and hushed down to everyone’s detriment. So much emotional pain tolerated on behalf of both the perplexed and unwilling perpetrators and the equally perplexed and unwilling recipients that has caused so much emotional damage to ourselves, our families, and to our entire world.
Though your accomplishments in life are many, if you had done nothing else than to get some of this out into the open yours is a life tremendously contributory and phenomenally well lived.
Having come from a troubled family my heart goes out to you. Thank you for sharing your story so that people like me can know we are not alone.
Catherine Sevenau says
Deborah, thank you for this note. Some of the time I don’t know if I’m even being read, so to receive a missive like this that not only I am—but that what I write makes a difference—is much appreciated. I have a number of people who I know are following the story and they are always generous in their comments, which allows me to feel like I’m not a tree falling in the woods with no one there to hear it. Those of us who come from troubled families received gifts that others who had a happy clappy childhood perhaps did not. Not that they were the experiences we wanted, but they were the ones we got, so we transform them in the best way we can.
Judi says
Life can’t help but be complicated with that many players in the picture. I love reading your stories of family life and especially enjoy the pictures you post along with them. I think the picture of the four men in front of the car might be mis-labeled. I think that is my dad, George Day, on the right.
Catherine Sevenau says
It is your dad, I typed Jim rather than George. Thanks for catching it, now fixed. I’m guessing at times on pictures and other times I err, so appreciate the corrections!
Jim Chatfield says
Life is complicated, more so in some families than others.
Linda Troolin says
It sure is…