Post Memoir Sketches in full

Carleen and Chuck ~ Chuck died in 1996, doing what he loved best, driving down the highway like a maniac. He cashed in his chips on the Orange Freeway on his way to work, his cigar butt clenched between his teeth, his morning mug filled with Cutty Sark and a shot of black coffee. He had a heart attack and hit the fast lane’s center divider, the only time he ever slowed down behind the wheel of a car.

Never meeting a Scotch he didn’t like or a horse that couldn’t lose, Chuck’s drinking and gambling habits cost them their comfortable home in Diamond Bar, lost in foreclosure. The kids were grown and out of the house, so Carleen and Chuck moved to a small rental in Walnut. As family traditions go, Carleen never forgave him for that and for hundreds of other hurts. When notified about Chuck’s death, my sister’s only comment was, “serves the goddamsonofabitch right,” echoing the resonant sympathies of Grandma Nellie Chatfield when Grandpa died.

Carleen refused to go to the morgue and identify his body. She told Wayne to do it. “He’s your cousin.”

She had no memorial for her husband. Before the end of the month, my sister emptied out the rental in Walnut. She sold, gave away, or tossed everything of Chuck’s. She rented the largest dumpster she could find and filled it with nearly everything he’d hoarded over the years: boxes of engine parts, stacks of newspapers, and coffee cans of screws. She made $10,000 from a garage sale, selling his truck, tools, and pinball machine. She also sold all her furniture, her platters and pots and pans along with her kilns and hundreds of ceramic molds. She parted with her years of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, collectible whiskey decanters, her 45s, and her Kingston Trio, Johnny Cash, and Smother’s Brothers albums (she used to make us leave the room when she played Redd Foxx.) She gave to family her childhood photo album and the rest of her family pictures, her set of good hand-painted dishes, her giant puzzles, and the coffee table we mosaic-tiled the first summer I lived with her.

Packing her gray Ford Probe with her clothes, television, and Tupperware, she left California to live with Debbie in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Deb caught a plane to help her mom make the trip. Driving through Albuquerque, Carleen didn’t realize she was on a two-lane road. Deb looked up and screamed as they were headed towards a semi in the wrong lane. Both were throughly shaken. Carleen pulled off and turned the wheel over to Debbie.

That was one of the last times my sister drove a car. Little by little, she relinquished her freedoms, becoming frail and shaky. Laura and her family lived near Debbie, and Carleen rebounded when she stepped in to help take care of Laura’s youngest child, who was born three weeks after Chuck’s death; being needed brought her back into the world.

Carleen, my saving grace, is now in her eighties and has lived with Laura and her family in Iowa for the past twenty years. She spends her time reading, watching baseball, playing solitaire, and smoking Carlton Ultra Light Menthol 100s. Her cough is worrisome, but she’s content.PS: I turned ten the summer I arrived on Chuck and Carleen’s doorstep and lived with the family for the next nine years. I love them both, Carleen for being the mother Mom couldn’t, and Chuck for taking me in and including me as one of his. Carleen I’ve thanked many a time. Chuck, I thank you here.

Larry, Marian, and Catherine (me), 2006 ~ My brother, his wife, and I just returned from our fifth road trip of gathering family history: searching through county records, newspaper archives, and historical museums hunting for birth and death records, local articles, pictures, deeds, wills and old maps—things you have to go to the actual places to find. We make Marian come as she has a sense of direction. On one trip to Minnesota when she left us for five days to visit her sister, Gordon and I changed hotels every day so we’d have our luggage as our chance of finding our hotel again was slim to none.

He works on our family genealogy, I’m writing a family memoir. I watch when they read the stories I pen. Marian laughs out loud or cries; she tells me she loves them. He looks like he’s reading last month’s weather report.

Gordon and Marian (they are in their early seventies, and I (a generation younger), along with whomever in the family we manage to entice to accompany us, pack what we need for two or three weeks and set out to snoop wherever anyone will let us. However, we have this uncanny knack for arriving at the county museum, local library, or city hall on the day they are not open, closed for remodeling, or as they are locking up for the night. In the past four years we explored the Sacramento Valley, the gold country of Sonora, the cemeteries of Southern California, five western states, and our father’s family farm in Minnesota—visiting cousins and taking pictures of homesteads and headstones. Our latest road trip covered 5,000 miles on a 4,500-mile foray. We drove through Nevada, a small corner of Arizona, the Rockies of Colorado, the expanse of Wyoming and the flatlands of Montana. The extra 500 miles we spent heading off into the wild blue yonder. Gordon won’t look at a map so he makes Marian, but when she tells him which way to go he doesn’t believe her. I can’t read a map and get carsick if I take my eyes off the horizon so I stay out of it.

My brother always tries to convince me to eat at Subway. Forget it. I drag them to ethnic or organic restaurants. At dinner I order water with no ice and a salad with no onions and a veggie burger with no mustard and could they please leave the dressing on the side and Gordon leans into me and snarks, “Can’t you just order something like it comes on the menu? You are like dining with Sally in When Harry Met Sally,” and I snicker, “that’s not the scene that comes to my mind in that movie…”

In Nevada, our Hoy cousins graciously put us up for a night (I want to live in their house—their linens cost more than my furniture, not to mention that Celine Dion lives in the neighborhood) and fix us a fabulous meal (another reason I could move in with them). My brother saunters in the living room and looms over me as I sit on the couch admiring quite a good copy of a Rembrandt. “How do you want your steak cooked?” I don’t eat meat but note the look on his face and have the common sense to say, “medium rare.” He says, “right answer.” And just between you and me—it was delicious! Our mutual ancestors were in the cattle business and for my cousin’s birthday his wife had given him a miniature HOY branding iron. The two-inch letters burned into the steaks were a nice touch, as was the homemade strawberry ice cream.

Marian always makes us two-dozen Tollhouse cookies. Every trip I eat my half and half of Gordon’s half. She eats almonds and prunes. Yakking away from too much sugar and chocolate, a hell or a damn falls out of my mouth and my brother tells me to quit my swearing. Again. I try really hard not to swear around him but I forget. Into the second week he says do you HAVE to swear ALL the time and I inform him that puke is not a swear word and that swearing MAYBE once a day is not ALL the time and that I’ll make him a deal: if he uses his turn-signal, I’ll quit swearing. My brother is unaware that turn signals are standard equipment on cars, and have been for years. He has this thing where he can’t decide if he’s turning left. The oncoming traffic also has no idea what he might be planning. He hesitates until they get close. Then he whips right out in front of them. I have this thing where I slide down my seat, throw my feet up to block the airbag, close my eyes, cross my heart and mutter, “Oh Sweet Jesus.”

He says, “I didn’t know you were religious.”
I say, “Only when you’re driving.”

Of course I won’t mention the day in downtown Denver when I turn right onto a one-way street in rush hour and have to back up their shiny new SUV into a stream of screeching, honking traffic. I’d also rather not talk about the next day when I turn left off a one-way street into the left lane and drive a whole block on what is not a one-way street, unable to figure out what the hell the guy coming at me thinks he is doing. Marian, who is trying to read a Denver map so big that it blocks half the steering wheel and hangs two feet out the passenger window glances up and casually suggests I might want to pull over a couple of lanes. Thankfully, Gordon isn’t in the car either time. He fails to see the humor in moments like these. Having played the sousaphone in high school and college, he’s in horn heaven at a four-day Tuba and Euphonium Conference (which is part of the reason we took this trip), hanging out with 500 tuba players, most of whom I notice have the same body shape as the brass instrument they play. But I must say, 500 tubas a-tubaing is a magnificent sound. The three evening concerts we attended were quite wonderful.

We drive through Bryce National Park where wind, water, and magic have cut the limestone into a landscape of bizarre shapes of mazes, slot canyons, and elegant spires of hoodoos. We are equally stunned by Zion National Park where the red and pink sandstone cliffs look like sandcastles built in desert canyons, their massive walls soaring to a vast blue sky. Rocky Mountain National Park also takes our breath away, and not just because of the altitude. We spend the afternoon at Custer’s last stand. Heart wrenching—not for Custer (that’s my opinion, not my brother’s)—but for what this country did to the Indians.

At the Denver History Library we are ecstatic with each new discovery, whooping and high-fiving, clapping one another on the back. The librarian continually pokes her head in the room with a sharp look. Gordon and I sit side-by-side—hunched over giant microfilm machines, rolling through reel after reel of old newspapers—me going half-blind from the bad print and queasy from the movement. I get clammy and stagger to the ladies room to throw up, then wander over to the local history section to look up information in books where the pages don’t move. Marian returns from being buried in the archives all morning, thrilled with the great find in hand and presents it to her husband. Gordon barely glances up, telling her he already has that record. She disappears for several hours and he finally notices she’s missing and asks where she is, and I say she’s at the courthouse looking up records for HER family—and filing for divorce. He hadn’t seen the look on her face.

Marian and I spend much time together in ladies restrooms laughing so hard we cry and slide to the floor while Gordon waits in the hall stiffly leaning on the opposite wall with tight lips and crossed arms. She gets a medal for spending hours poring over microfilm and old newspapers searching for snippets about Hoys, Chatfields and Chamberlins. You couldn’t pay me to spend that much time looking for information about someone else’s family, even if I was married to them. Maybe that’s why I’m not married.

After Colorado we don’t make it to Nebraska. Instead, we decide to head for Montana as my brother thinks Montana is on the way home. Marian rolls her eyes as she’s been married to him for fifty years. I’m somewhat suspicious as to the whereabouts of Montana, but think it a fine idea, as I too want to find the ranch our grandfather gambled away. After Montana, we head for Utah.

The only disappointment of our three weeks was after having driven for sixteen days in the car, the Mormon Family History Library in Salt Lake City is closed on Sundays, the only day we had to spend there. Of course.

“WHAT? We’ve driven almost 4,000 miles to come to THIS library and you are closing in THREE HOURS and won’t be open TOMORROW? WAH! How can that BE?
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” the greeter says kindly. “The library is not open on Sundays.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“For religious reasons.”
“Religious reasons? What does that have to do with anything? You’re not Catholic!”

Marian and Gordon have wheeled away from me. Dejected, I try not to cry as I join them in the elevator. They pretend they don’t know me. But we still discover a fair amount in those three hours.

The next morning (since the damn library is closed) we set out for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, which I’ve wanted to hear forever. During the hour-long rehearsal the usher standing five feet from me has to natter brightly, “watch your step, watch your step” through the WHOLE performance. Like the lights aren’t on? Like everyone is blind? Like 200 people haven’t already walked down 50 steps to get to her landing and not one has tripped and needed to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital? I was aggravated enough that she yapped through the entire concert, but when she pulled out a piece of cellophane-wrapped candy—oh my God—the woman is lucky she’s still alive. I was close to caning her. But it didn’t get ugly until we left. The three of us actually make it back up all those stairs without falling. When we reach the lobby one of the white-haired ushers observes me foaming and twitching and has the temerity to ask me how the concert was. I latch onto his gray lapel and get so close our noses almost touch. “How was the concert? You want to know how was the concert? RUINED, that’s how the concert was! RUINED!” Out of the corner of my eye I see Marian and Gordon have peeled away, acting like they’ve never ever seen me before in their entire life. As I wind down my rant regarding cellophane wrappers and lack of usher training, I notice how wide this man’s eyes are. Taking a deep breath I slowly unpeel my fingers from his lapel and pat it gently back down and thank him for inquiring, murmuring, “I feel much better now, much better. Thank you.” My brother and sister-in-law have scattered like ants at a picnic.

We come home a day early, bleary and stiff from hours of driving, every empty space in their no longer new hybrid littered with crumbs and stuffed with stacks of information, wishing we’d had more of Marian’s cookies, happy. Was our trip a success? You betcha! Did we find everything we were looking for? No, but enough to satisfy us until the next journey. We found pictures we didn’t know existed, nearly a hundred newspaper articles that filled in a lot of blank holes, and a number of books others had written about the family. However, we also discovered the best family legends we had in the books we are putting together AREN’T EVEN TRUE!

Grandpa didn’t gamble away the ranch. They never owned a ranch. And if they had owned a ranch, it would not have been worth $150,000. Hell, in 1915, you could have bought the whole godforsaken state of Montana for $150,000. They were giving the land away to homesteaders—why would anyone pay for it?

And not only was James “J.S.” Hoy, my great-grandmother’s brother, not castrated for sleeping with a med student’s wife (turns out he had mumps as a baby), Henrietta Wilcox didn’t poison him either.

Truth—the downside of research. The most interesting legends turn out to be just that. Legends. I suppose that’s why I titled our history Lore, Libel and Lies—so I could leave them in.

4.10 Larry’s Later Life

Gordon Lawrence “Larry” Clemens
1st of 5 children of Carl John Clemens and Noreen Ellen “Babe” Chatfield
Born: Jan 14, 1934, Chico, California
Married: Jun 16, 1956 (at age 22), Marian Louise McLellan, Upland, California
Two children

Gordon (Larry) and Marian (by Marian Clemens) ~ In 1952 Gordon Lawrence Clemens was a music major at San Jose Sate College where I was studying to be an elementary teacher. On one of my first dates with him, I sat by myself in the San Jose Civic Auditorium listening to the strains of the San Jose Symphony being conducted by Sandor Salgo. On stage was Larry playing, his large brass tuba sounding out the low harmony notes. When they played “Der Meistersinger” by Wagner, Larry had the tuba solo, and I was impressed. It was a clear, pure tone with rapid perfect fingering. He was a music major for three years and then changed his major, graduating with a degree in philosophy. He continued his music throughout college and graduate school. Larry put himself through college and he lived in the placement office looking for jobs, often having as many as three part-time jobs at once.

When we met, Gordon was still Larry. After graduation from San Jose he received a graduate assistant position at Ohio University while he completed his Masters Degree to become a school counselor. It was when he moved to Ohio University that he made the decision to use his first name, Gordon. During this time, I was teaching second grade in Ventura. At the end of that year when we married, I married “Larry.” But when I moved to Ohio after the wedding, I made a speedy change to calling him “Gordon.”

We’ve had an unusual life, making happy changes along the way. In Long Beach, Gordon taught science and math for two years before becoming a counselor. I was teaching third grade. We bought our first home and had our first child. After six years Gordon accepted a counseling position in Pacific Grove which resulted in a new job, new town (Carmel), new home, and a new baby, our second daughter. Two years later we bought a campground and cabin business in Big Sur which was our focus of energy and excitement for twelve years, with Gordon fitting it into his school counseling schedule. (You’ve already read about his childhood years, and what a busy teen he was.) Some of our fondest memories are of those years by the Big Sur River in the redwoods, even though we experienced a Big Sur fire (1972) and two major floods. Our many family reunions there are still treasured and remembered. When we were ready to sell it, we bought two small motels in Carmel, now loving the tourism industry, and Gordon resigned from his school career. To keep busy we bought 20 properties to remodel and sell through the years. One home we remodeled was overlooking the bay and Carmel Beach. We moved to it for ten years and rented out our real home until we moved back to our lovely old 1926 stone house where we raised our children and where we are enjoying our twilight years. From 1996 to 2000 we spent five years working and living in Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks in the Sierras where our company and son-in-law managed the concessions in the National Park.

We became active in the AFS International Student exchange program and have taken leading roles in it. In 1958 Gordon was once again in the nearby college placement office looking for a summer job, when he saw a notice for a couple to chaperone a bus load of AFS students completing their year in the U.S. with a bus trip across country, staying in homes and communities before arriving in Washington D.C. and being greeted by President Eisenhower. That changed our lives as we soon became involved selecting students to go abroad, counseling international students in our home for a week or more when needed, planning orientations, interviewing host families, and all that goes with the program. In 1987 Gordon was honored with the Stephen Galatti Award for the outstanding AFS volunteer in the world, an international honor. The award was a three-week trip to Thailand where we were hosted by Thailand AFS, visiting schools, staying in homes, being honored, and seeing the country from north to south. Another year Gordon was selected as chairman of a ten-member delegation of AFS representatives to China, hosted by educators in China. I enjoyed being able to communicate and even gave a short speech in Chinese at our banquets. I studied Chinese for a year to enrich our experience. The following year we hosted ten Chinese educators in California. During the years we hosted four students in our home for the year, coming from Germany, Australia, Russia, and Turkey. Our own daughters went on the program as well, one to South Africa and the other to Austria. We have daughters and grandchildren around the world.

During the Bosnia War in the 1990s a local group formed to bring Bosnia high school students to the Monterey Peninsula as they no longer had schools. Because of our experience with AFS student exchange, they invited Gordon to guide in family selection, counseling, grant writing, and organizing the program. Seven students came and remained through those war years. At the conclusion of the war, in 1996 Gordon was invited to join a few other volunteers from throughout our country who had provided for Bosnian youth, on a trip to Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, mostly in Sarajevo. It was sponsored by NGO, Non-Governmental Organization with the United Nations. They flew into the war-torn countries on a military plane, staying with families as hotels were bombed out

Gordon started doing genealogy when he was in his forties, before computers. We traveled all over to genealogy libraries, Oakland, Salt Lake City, and Denver, to Germany, Luxembourg, England, and Scotland, combing through records, searching graveyards for headstones, collecting stories and photos. He had boxes of files, newspaper clippings and documents. Thank goodness the computer soon came along. It became even more fun when his sister Cathy also became interested in genealogy as we took trips together from Minnesota and Colorado, to Montana and Utah, from Chico and Colusa to Sonora and Los Angeles. His sisters Betty and Carleen joined us for some. His most fun accomplishment for me was when he framed a picture that starts in the lower row with portraits of us and our parents. Directly above them, our grandparents, and above them almost all of our great grandparents. The top row photos are our great, greats. Those faces have become so familiar and those people are all a part of who we are. 

After Gordon retired, he joined local music groups, the Monterey Community Band that played at local civic events, the concert band at Monterey Peninsula College, and then he was invited to play in the Del Monte Brass Band from the Navy Post Graduate School when they needed a tuba player. The Navy band came and played in our backyard reception at our 50^th wedding anniversary celebration. The day started off with a reunion at the Carmel Beach with three generations of our family. (This would be last time Gordon and his remaining three siblings would be together.)

Not long after that Gordon’s eyesight suddenly changed with age-related macular degeneration and within a week, he couldn’t see well enough to read the musical score. His medical treatment has been amazing and his eyesight has been stabilized, so he lives normally, reading slowly, driving, and enjoying life, but not enough for reading music. I think he is very glad that playing the tuba came back into his life in retirement. It brought him the joy that many of us experience when we hear music. But even more importantly, it gave him what you feel inside when you can make music.

I remember what it felt like when I finally had time to take art lessons and began oil painting. I enjoyed doing our beautiful local scenes and then ventured into some folk art. Next, I began writing memoir, and our children have been appreciative of that. My most satisfying piece was a series of stories about our twelve years we had our campground in Big Sur. In retirement I’m also active in my church and community projects, many to benefit homeless needs in the area.

Our two daughters have had successful careers and given us five amazing grandchildren, so being grandparents is one of our current joys. Traveling has always been important, and last time I counted we had explored 40 countries. Most of the trips when we were younger were chaperoning AFS student groups or traveling on our own, climbing every tower, using every mode of transportation, and enjoying new cultures.  As we’ve grown older, we’ve had some choice guided tours and riverboat trips. Now we have to say that in our mid 80s, just being at home and taking our local hikes in the woods and by the ocean are our favorite things.

We appreciate Catherine for bringing to life her story of growing up. Parts of it were really hard for us as family to read as we became aware of her sadness and difficult childhood which she told with both honesty and humor. It was quite different from Larry’s young years, as he was fourteen years older than Cathy and ready to leave home for college when she was only three. We thank you, Catherine, for being the special sister that you are to us. Congratulations on completing your book. We love you.

by Marian (McLellan) Clemens, November 2018

A 1910 Elgin Commander Watch: inherited from Matthew Sylvester Clemens by his son Carl John Clemens, given to his son Gordon Lawrence Clemens, given to his nephew and my son Matthew Robert Sevenau.

History: Our Dad’s younger brother, Aloysius Michael Clemens, died in a car accident on his 25th birthday. Louis’ $2,000 life insurance policy paid double indemnity for accidental death. After covering the costs for his funeral, the balance was split among his nine brothers and sisters, totaling a bequest of $340 each. Dad, living in Seattle at the time, bought City Bonds with the money he inherited from his older brother who he’d loved so much. He lost those bonds in a poker game, along with his father’s gold-filled pocket watch. His brother Lawrence, who’d come to California with him for work, spilled the beans when he returned home to the family farm just outside Rochester.

Dad must have won or bought the watch back at some point; today it rests on my brother’s mantel. Dad gave it to Gordon “Larry” about a year before Dad died. It’s an Elgin Commander top-winder with 17 jewels, manufactured in 1910. The front and back covers are engraved with mountains, birds, and vegetation, and the fob has a small compass attached. The case is engraved Elgin Case Company, Illinois, USA, with Guaranteed 25 years on the watch itself. It still works today.

Note: Gold filled processes are usually reserved for “die stamped” watch cases with simple design shapes. They are normally marked with a designation of “G.F.” In contrast a gold plated watch has a layer of gold “electrolytically” deposited onto the watch casing. When it comes to durability, gold-filled pieces are generally more durable than gold-plated due to the thicker layer of gold alloy. The longevity of either type is dependent on the wear, environment, and quality of the piece.

On Gordon’s 90th birthday, Jan 14, 2024, he gifted our father’s watch to my son, Matthew Robert “Matt” Sevenau (age 54), born on that same day, Jan 14, in 1970. The watch originally belonged to our paternal grandfather, Matthew Sylvester Clemens (1874-1947), for whom my son is named. Gordon wanted Matt to have it. Along with the watch, Gordon passed on this family collage to him that he and his wife Marian made.

Matt Clemens, the father of Carl Clemens, and the original owner of the watch

*****

In gratitude for their support and assistance in these final ten stories:
Editor: Deb Carlen, Five Ideas
Photoshop magician and longtime friend: Gail E. Crosslin, Texas
Contributing letters and notes: Lorna Harrington
Contributing stories, letters, and pictures: Gordon and Marian Clemens
Typists of letters: Marian Clemens and Hanan
Website Design: Dianna Jacobsen

To my website/blog and Facebook family and friends: thanks for your encouragement and comments. It takes a reader to fulfill the contract of a writer, and I’m beholden to you for sitting at the opposite side of the page to engage in this process with me. You could have gone through any given door; thank you for coming through this one. Catherine

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.