Perhaps the World Ends Here
© Joy Harjo, 1994
Used by Permission
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on
the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on
what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again...
... at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray
of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end here at the kitchen
table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Or Perhaps It's Just Beginning...
The Memoirs of the Sid
Robbins Clan
How
true the words above are, especially in the families that come together to make
up the Robbins' Clan!
This
story starts with the marriage of the two people solely responsible for my
being here today to write it… and though it will go from here both into the
future and into the past, it is their story more than it is that of anyone
else. And much of it was - and is - told around the kitchen table.
We
ate there. We played games there. We performed emergency surgeries on injured
people and injured pets. We did our nails. We did our homework. We talked. We
listened. We laughed there. We cried.
And
we told stories...
Sidney
Russell Robbins and Mable Cloe McDaniel 'met' sometime shortly after Sid saw
her walking down the street in Parsons, Kansas. Who he was with is lost in time,
but he reportedly pointed out the dark-haired woman across the street from him
and announced 'That's the woman I'm going to marry.'... And married they were
on March 28, 1931, in Gerard, Kansas.
Sid
was born February 13, 1904 in Egypt, Indian Territory. His mother's name was
Sarah Jane (Jennie) Dee and his father's name was Charles Robbins. His favorite
songs were 'Jole Blon' and 'Mona Lisa'. He loved playing dominoes. He loved
going fishing – and there was many a night he came home late because he had to
stop and 'wet a line'. He never went anywhere without his fishing pole and
tackle box. He loved his children – and he loved the men and women his children
married like they were his own.
Born
the 9th of 10 children, Sid grew up both motherless and fatherless after the
deaths of his mother from gangrene and his father from typhoid. In a time and a
situation where he and his siblings could have become the dregs of society, the
family managed to stick together through the determination of the oldest brothers
and their grandparents, Tom and Bette Dee. Sid didn't know he was living
through 'hard times'; he had nothing better to which to compare them.
I
suspect Sid was quite a carouser in his youth - more than once he came home
after having had 'one too many', but it wasn't until he came home one night to
hear his teen-age sons plotting to 'kick the ol' man's ass' for him that he
decided 'carousing' wasn't the way to raise a family. His children were always
of paramount importance to him - as was his wife - and overhearing one's sons
plotting against him didn't sit right with Sid. He cut out the carousing, but
the drinking stayed with him until late in his sixties when he finally decided
he didn't need that anymore, either. Unfortunately, he couldn't give up his
beloved Copenhagen Smokeless Tobacco - snuff - and he put a 'pinch 'tween cheek
and gum' up until the strokes that eventually killed him made him forget he
even liked the stuff.
Mable,
born February 22, 1912 in Ft. Scott, Kansas, was a woman who could do almost
anything with just a little of nothing. The fourth of seven children, it wasn't
long before Mable became 'mother' to her family after the loss of her own
mother to cancer and a younger sister to mental illness. She worked very hard
throughout her teen years before meeting and marrying Sid and having a large
family of her own... a task made even more difficult by the fact that she and
Sid spread their kids out so it was more like having three families than just
one. Through the Depression and WWII, she clothed, fed and made sure the first
four got an education - while helping support and feed her brothers and their
children through the hardest times, then - when she thought her diaper days
were done - along came the fifth child to challenge strength, patience, stamina
and will.
Mable wasn't an outgoing woman; she wasn't free with kisses and 'I love yous',
but if determination, dedication, and refusal to surrender to hard times can be
counted as evidence of her love, then Mable was one of the most loving women
who ever drew breath. She was a simple 'housewife', before it became a
profession, long before it was recognized as an integral part of America's
development.
Sid
was a laborer, just learning the furniture repair / refinishing trade and Mable
was the housekeeper for the future governor of Kansas, Payne H. Ratner
(Republican 1939-43 (b. 1896 - d. 1974), who was a lawyer at the time. She was
also nanny to his children. Sid was eight years older than Mable, and at 27 was
something of a 'late bloomer' in the marriage department, but the couple wasted
little time starting their family. In 1933, ten months to the day after their
wedding, their first son was born: Sidney Eugene Robbins, so named because Sid
refused to have a son called 'junior'. 'Eugene' came from Mable's grandfather
on her mother's side - Alcinus Eugene Scoville. A little slower on the second
arrival, Gary Dean came into the world on May 21, 1934. According to Mable,
Gary Dean was named 'Gary Dean' because she was afraid Sid would be jealous if
she named him 'Clark' after Clark Gable. The family lived in Parsons, Kansas,
at this time.
Gary
and Gene were a handful, even for a woman as wise in the ways of children as
Mable. What one didn't think of, the
other would - but it was usually Gene who was the instigator. From very early
on, Sid's and Mable's oldest boy was on the prowl, exploring his world and
wringing every drop of mischief out of it he could manage. Mama thought she'd
found the perfect way to give him some freedom while at the same time safely
limiting his horizons - she tied him to the clothesline by way of a rope
fastened at one end to the wire and to the other at the back of Gene's
overalls. She knew she'd made a major tactical error - and that her son was
quite a Houdini - when she went out to check on him and found only the rope and
the overalls.
More
than once, according to Mable, she'd settle the two boys into a wide rocking
chair - a piece of furniture the Robbins' household was *never* without - and
give each a bottle... when she checked on them later, both bottles were always
empty, but Gary never seemed to get enough to eat. He was always hungry - and
it didn't take Mama long to figure out why: more often than not, Gene would
wolf down his meal and trade his empty baby bottle for that belonging to his
slower-eating younger brother.
It
was around this time that Mama suspected Gene would be the one to give her her
first gray hair.
It's
a wonder Gary didn't starve to death - but it's no wonder he became a Green
Beret... he had learned to fight for himself early on. The incident set a
precedent for Gene's relationship with food - for the rest of his life, he ate
everything he could get his hands on... and much to the chagrin and envy of his
baby sisters, he never got fat. He was often, and bitterly, accused of having a
hollow leg.
Another
story related to the ever-present rocking chair was its use as a napping place
for the two boys. Both of them liked to rock - Gene more than Gary - and Mama
would put the two of them there when they were old enough to rock themselves by
leaning forward and back quickly. They'd start out together, in sync, and rock
enthusiastically for awhile... until Gary got sleepy and began to slack off.
Then Gene would poke him sharply in the ribs - which would cause Gary to jerk
awake and immediately redouble his efforts to keep up his share of the work.
Not
too long after Gary's birth, Sid temporarily left his family behind in Parsons
to hitch a ride on the MK&T south to Oklahoma City in search of a better
living for the whole crew with the plan that he'd send for them as soon as he'd
found work and could save up enough money to get them all tickets. When that
day finally came, Mable had been saving up white flour sacks and sewing
together traveling suits for her boys, neither of whom was yet five years old.
Admonishing them to 'stay clean', she turned them loose to make her own
preparations on traveling day – and as one might expect, the boys did not obey.
Little Sidney Eugene – known as 'Peewee' then and for years to come – and Gary
Dean – known as 'Bubba' – were no longer dressed in perfectly pristine white
suits… but it was too late by then. It was time to go to Oklahoma City.
Sid
found work back in the state of his birth with several different furniture
companies… Sears, Roebuck (spray painting appliances), Lee Thaggard, and
Coppock's Music (refinishing and repairing pianos). It was Coppock's where he
stayed the longest, working for many years in the store they maintained on
Classen, just north of the café where he used to eat stew on cold winter days,
and just south of the tavern where he drank more than a few beers during the
slow times and played mumbledy-peg with his knife and any number of brave (or
foolhardy) drunks. Sid won many a dollar, as did spectators, betting he could
put the tip of his knife through the heart of an ace of any suit, framed by the
thumbs and fingers of hopefully-steady hands. His keen eye and his own steady
hands never failed him - or his potential victims.
During
this period, Sid also played commercial-league baseball with the Oklahoma City
team, playing for Jenkins' Music Store,
splitting his hand wide open during one game in which he caught a
high-fly ball. Even with a glove, the force of the ball hitting Sid's palm was
sufficient to the task of leaving him with a glove full of blood and a scar
that would stick with him throughout his life. There is a better than even
chance that he pitched against the great Satchel Page, who was playing
commercial-league baseball for the Kansas City Monarchs at the same time Sid
was playing for Jenkins. 'Commercial League' at that time was equivalent to
'minor league' today and many of the players were farmed to play for the big
leagues. 'Commercial' was the first level, 'semi-pro' next, then 'pro' back
then. Gene remembered going to Wiley Post Park in 1939 to watch Dad play. After
a barroom incident in '43, Dad decided to give up baseball - a young man put a
penny into a red-skin peanut machine and didn't get any peanuts; Dad - having
had way too much to drink - curled up his fist and put it through the hollow
glass ball holding the peanuts - cutting himself from the wrist almost to the
elbow and effectively ending his career as a commercial league pitcher.
Because
of Dad's occupation, the house was full of all kinds of attractive nuisances -
it kept Mama hopping to make sure her husband's tools and chemicals were out of
reach of her two sons, especially the adventurous one. Early on, Gene showed a
propensity for exploration, inventiveness, creativity and experimentation that
would, truly, turn any mother's hair white. One of Gene's favorite tales was of
the day he found one of Dad's folding wooden measuring sticks - probably an old
Bell 'ZigZag' rule. What a neat toy! It could be a club; it could be a baseball
bat... it could be a sword! And a long one, too! By turning it this way and
that, Gene could transform the yellow block of wood approximately eight inches
by two and a half inches into a long, thin tool of immense potential - long
enough, even, to poke the metal-tipped end of it into the empty socket of a
chandelier hanging over his head...
Fortunately,
the rule was made of wood because, unfortunately, the light fixture was 'on' -
and amid a spectacular shower of sparks, Gene quickly decided it would be wise
to fold his 'sword' and put it back where he found it... but that didn't stop
him from sticking anything he could find into the household electrical plugs
along the way.
The
boys were both proud to be earning their own money, however, before they were
ten years old. When Gene was 9 and Gary 7, they got their first jobs: herding
cattle, of all things, and gathering eggs for the widow lady across the street.
Their pay? A whopping ten cents per hour.
The
four-member Robbins Family became five on July 29, 1940, when Donna June
Robbins was born. And, as he had with both boys, Sid helped deliver his first
little girl - his job was to hold the mask over Mable's face and drip the ether
into the cotton. Mama must've been supremely relieved at the announcement she
finally had a daughter - only time would tell whether that relief was misplaced
or not, but suddenly Gene and Gary had a little sister. They weren't quite sure
what she was good for - but later in life they'd learn that having her around
was much like Mama being given a mobile pair of spying eyes.
And
those eyes came with a mouth that tattled.
In
other words, Donna didn't let the boys get by with much. Subsequently, they
didn't let her get by with much, either, and they were apparently always on the
lookout for ways to make her life more exciting. When she was three or four,
they brought - or tried to bring - her a freshly-killed Black snake - a
five-foot long one. They'd been swimming down under the train trestle and had
caught and killed it - Gary had it draped over his shoulder and it's body
swayed to and fro as the two boys walked home. It was probably only Mama's
adamant 'You put that thing DOWN! Right there! Don't you bring that thing into
this house! Don't you bring that thing even one step closer to this house!'
that saved little Donna 'The Squealer', Gary claims, from having a snake in her
bed.
Not
too much later, along about January 22, 1942, James Edwin Robbins was born -
'James' because they liked the name and 'Edwin' for one of Mama's grand-uncles
on her mother's side - Harvey Edwin Scoville. Poor Donna and Mama were
outnumbered at that point by 4-2, but Donna quickly went to work on recruiting
'Jim-Jim' to the Right Side... not that Donna didn't have her moments. When she
was just a couple years old, she made a run for it, escaping from Mother's
usual vigilant watchfulness to visit a bull across the street and under a
fence. Had it not been for a passing soldier who picked her up and wandered
around until she helped him find her way home, there's no telling where she'd
be today.
Losing
Donna would have been bad... very bad. As it turned out, she's been one of the
most entertaining of all the Robbins Clan. She got that gift from Daddy.
As
the years passed, life was pretty full. Mama's and Daddy's home was always open
to other Robbins and McDaniel families who were suffering due to the
Depression, and many times Mama was trying to feed a dozen or so people on very
little food.
How
she did it is still a mystery - Jesus reportedly did as well with the loaves
and fishes - but she did her best to ensure that no one left her table hungry.
It was a time of fuel and food rationing - coupons designed to feed a
certain-sized family had to be stretched to feed more... and Mama loved to
recount the tale of her prize ham. According to her memory, it was so big, it
nearly filled one shelf of the refrigerator - and she had so many plans for
that meat. First, there'd be a feast for Sunday dinner, then several meals of
leftovers would follow along with lunch sandwiches for Dad at work and the boys
at school... the ham bone for a big pot of beans...
...
but that was never to be.
At
least not to the extent Mama had planned.
Imagine
her surprise - and horror - to enter the kitchen to find Gene and Gary standing
at the open refrigerator with a knife, slicing off and handing out hunks of ham
to a line of neighborhood kids... all just as hungry as her own. She couldn't
get too mad at them, though... they were just following in their father's
footsteps. Daddy was known all his life for his generosity and sharing with
others - even when you're just as poor as they are - was one of the key lessons
he taught all his kids.
Little
Mama, otherwise known as 'Donna', did her best to keep all three boys in line.
How she managed to do so and still have time to develop her own love of country
music and all things Western is as much a mystery as the answer to 'Who built
Stonehenge and why?'. The theory is that Daddy's purchase of a radio/record
player combination for the family for Christmas around 1949 was the start of it
all. Donna probably got the most use of the treasure, but Gene loved it to and
almost wore it out playing a popular tune of the time, 'One Mint Julep'.
There
are many, many tales of Donna's imagination and her supervision, both of the
boys and the later - much later - arriving little sister, some of which need
only a few words spoken to invoke the memory: The Egg Beater Incident. The
Match and the Paint Thinner Can. Beans Over the Sofa Arm. The Grocery Sack, the
Cowboy and the Water Trough, Git Along, Li'l Doggy, the ExLax Special, the
Porch Pillar and the Kiss, the Spool in the Bottle, The Big Pot of Beans...
...
the first three or four of which relate to Jim. Upon reflection, one would
think, perhaps, it was the fact that Jim was younger and smaller and more
vulnerable, or that the older boys had their bluff in on her, but that would be
an incorrect assumption. Donna was as hard on her older brothers as she was on
her younger one - well... almost.
Despite
some of her abysmal treatment, Jim and Donna were virtually inseparable. On
outings to the movies where they'd see their favorite serials and Donna's
beloved Roy Rogers horse operas, they'd be always on the lookout for Gene - who
was often sent to the theater to fetch them if Mama thought they were staying
away too long. If they heard or saw him in the rear of the theater, they'd
scrunch down in the seats and hide.
Gene
was a teenager when he found himself the lucky owner of a sacrificed bottle of
whisky. A man had had a wreck in his car and hadn't wanted the police to find
he had a bottle with him - he tossed it out, Gene found it... and made the
mistake of showing it to Donna. Donna saw where he hid it, and in an early
effort to save a member of the family from the evils of demon spirit, she threw
it in a nearby overgrown patch of brush and trees where she was sure Gene would
never find it.
Furious
when he found out, Gene made her tell him where she'd thrown the bottle and the
search was on. He crisscrossed the area, in and out of the brush and brambles,
and the bottle was - lucky for Donna - found.
Not
so luckily for Gene, however.
Along
with the bottle of whisky, Gene was soon to discover he'd found something else
- he was deathly allergic to poison ivy... a plant which apparently grew in
abundance throughout the search area.
This
was also a time of great fear for both Mama and Daddy as to the continued
health of their children. Polio was a deadly, crippling disease with no
readily-available vaccine at that time and no cure - Jonas Salk had just
completed his first successful live-virus trials for influenza in 1943. It
would be several years before gamma-globulin would be an effective defense
against polio. At a time when iron lungs and hot packing machines were being
rushed from New York to Des Moines, Iowa during a 1946 epidemic - Gene and Gary
had been told, in the strongest possible terms, *not* to go swimming in a local
pond. Dubbed 'Polio Plunge', it was, for all parents, the place most likely to
strike fear in their hearts - along with being one of the most appealing places
for their children to play.
The
temptation proved to be too much for both boys... and it was up to Daddy to see
they understood there were consequences for their actions. Neither boy was a
stranger to Daddy's belt - at least the threat of it - but this time, he used
it. Later, Gene would get the bright idea to cut diamond-shaped holes in the
belt, not realizing what a welt those holes could raise. Somehow, the belt
disappeared - lost, it would seem, under the house, until the family dog, a
white husky mix by the name of 'Mike' - traitor that he was - dragged it out
for Mama to find.
For
the most part, Mama was a big believer in letting us kids 'whip' ourselves. Her
grandmother, Lydia Ann (Evans) Scoville, had always set a date for discipline.
If one of her sons (or daughters, for that matter) committed some
transgression, Grandma Scoville would tell the offender, "One week from
today, I'm going to whip you for that." And no matter how much prayer was
employed, she never forgot. Every one
of her children testified to the week-long contemplation of their sins as being
worse than the whipping. Mama didn't often lift her hand - or her switch or
Daddy's belt - but when she spoke, she had a way of making one listen. She'd
been raised by a man who subscribed to the 'spare the rod, spoil the child'
school of child raising - one who didn't balk at the same discipline for his
wife - and she was reluctant to walk that same path, but she'd spank a kid to
show him the error of his ways. Daddy, on the other hand, didn't have the heart
for either discipline or bluff. He loved his kids, beyond reason sometimes, and
would have preferred chewing off his own arm rather than striking one of us for
any reason. Mama soon learned that there wasn't a one of us who wouldn't prefer
a whipping to being 'talked to' by Daddy and she used that strategy to greatest
effect with her youngest - me - who didn't come along until much later.
When
Gene graduated from high school, he wanted just one thing: a Whizzer. The
Whizzer was a motorbike that had been developed originally back in the late
30s. Breene-Taylor Engineering, a Los Angeles-based manufacturer of airplane parts,
announced the availability of the Whizzer Model "D" Bicycle Motor kit
in August of 1939. This kit sold for $54.95 and included an air-cooled,
four-cycle engine that was capable of producing 1.375 horsepower as well as a
2/3 gallon fuel tank. By the time Gene
graduated from high school, the Whizzer was a full-fledged motorized bicycle -
but seeing him on it, you knew he was destined for greater things. That Whizzer
was only the first in a long line of motorcycles for Gene, who eventually
became known as 'Papa' Robbins, the greatest pan-head motorcycle mechanic
Harley-Davidson owners would ever know. Many are the times when a nervous
Harley owner would stop by the shop, worried about 'this' or 'that' noise, only
to breathe a short-lived sigh of relief when Gene would proclaim, "'Tain't
nuthin' a Harley Fit-n-Forming tool #5 cain't handle.", whereupon he'd
pick up a hammer - usually a big one.
Gary's
education was interrupted by the Korean War. He'd always wanted to be a
soldier, and with Mom's and Dad's reluctant permission, he became one before he
turned 18. After returning from Korea, Gary supported himself and finished high
school on his own. He eventually returned to active duty, serving in Vietnam as
a Green Beret, and was awarded many medals and ribbons for his service to his
country. Though they worried about him, Mom and Daddy were very, very proud.
You could see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices whenever they talked
of their kids to those outside the family. It was hard for them to say 'I love
you' directly to any of us - that just wasn't their way - but love us they did,
to death and beyond.
Not
too long after his return from Korea, a curious Gary asked his big brother to
give him a ride on his motorcycle. Gene, ever willing to show off his wheels,
took off down the highway with Gary on the back end.
Gene,
wearing an open shirt tied at the waist, hadn't considered the dangers of his
'cool' attire. At a point early on in the demonstration ride, a hornet found
its way into the billowing shirt after hitting the motorcycle pilot square in
the chest. Gene threw up his hands, hanging onto the cycle between his knees
while slapping at the insect and jerking at the shirt. They cycle wove back and
forth all over the highway - and by the time the wild ride finally came to an
end, Gary had decided motorcycles were *not* for him.
Mama's
mother, Melvia Gertrude (Scoville) McDaniel, had died of cancer just a month
after she'd married Sid in 1931. It had been a hard year - a very hard year. Gertrude's
cancer had been the most horrible kind, uterine or ovarian which spread to her
bones, and in the late '20s, cancer treatment was barbaric, at best. There was
a lot of pain and Mable spent many, many days in the hospital by her dying
mother's side - a time that went a long way toward ending her desire to be a
nurse. It was likely the reason she hated hospitals, too; so much so that she'd
deliver all her children at home until forced by her doctor and her age to have
the last one in a hospital. During this
time, too, she and one of her older brothers had to make a terrible decision -
their younger sister, the baby of their family, had to be institutionalized and
at Gertrude's death, it fell to Mable and Ross to sign Lydia Mae McDaniel into
a mental hospital in south-east Kansas. Lydia would die there some sixty years
later, her existence a secret until her death.
Was
it any wonder, then, at the age of forty and believing herself to already be
going through early menopause, that Mable thought she had cancer when her belly
started to swell? She was seven months along when she finally surrendered to
Sid's insistence that she see a doctor. He drove her to one in El Reno,
Oklahoma, and after being X-rayed, Mable was surprised to see the doctor's
smile and hear his laugh as he carried out the film to show her...
"Mrs.
Robbins... your tumor has legs."
Dad
was pretty proud. After all, he was fifty-one.
Gene
and Gary were both grown and out on their own by the time that last child was
born, both in the Army. Gene was stationed in Illinois, administrative support
for the growing 'conflict' in Korea, when he received a letter from Dad, the
gist of which follows:
"Dear
son,
Mother
and I are fine. Weather is good. Went fishing the other day and caught some beauties.
Your mother fried them up with some taters and they made some mighty fine
eating.
Hope
this letter finds you well. Write and let us hear from you.
Love,
Your Dad"
He
tacked on his full name and address at that point, just in case Gene had forgotten.
Then:
"P.S.
Your mama's going to have another baby."
Well.
Gene
was not only shocked, he was embarrassed as well. He was twenty years old! He
had a nineteen year old brother, a twelve year old sister, and another ten year
old brother! Didn't his mother and father know what was causing these things by
now? Weren't they old enough to give it a rest, for goodness sake?! Why... Dad,
himself, was in his early fifties!!! Mom was *way* past the age of safe
delivery at forty-one! He shot off a letter demanding to know how this had
happened and what were they going to do about it and how was Mom?!
The
answer came right back.
"Dear
Sonny (another of Gene's nicknames),
Went
fishing again the other day, didn't catch anything this time. Your uncle Rome and
his sons went noodling and they try to tell me it's the way to go but I ain't
about to go poking my hands in a hole where there might be some snake waiting
for some damn-fool fisherman to come along.
Rained
yesterday and turned the yard into a mud hole but we'll be praying for rain
again soon enough. Write back and tell us how you are.
Love,
Your
dad."
Again,
he included the full name and address... and the soon-to-become familiar
postscript:
"P.S.
Mama's fine. Baby's due in November."
November!
That was less than a month away! When had they planned on telling him? When he
came home on leave?!?
By
the time the November due date rolled around, Gene was determined to be there
for the momentous occasion so he could see just how 'fine' Mama really was and
supervise the situation. He drove all day and all night to get there. It was
obvious Mama and Daddy both needed help. Mama was determined to have the baby
at home, just as she had delivered all of her other children, with Sid serving
as anesthesiologist - a job that had, in the past, entailed dripping the
chloroform into some cotton stuffed in the bowl of a strainer - but her doctor
refused. His professional opinion was that if he'd been ten years older and
Mama had been ten years younger, he'd have tried it - but as it was, he wanted
a hospital and a full staff on hand - just in case. As it turned out, Jenny Dee
Robbins was born by caesarean section early in the afternoon on November 20,
1953. It was an exciting end to a pregnancy that had started out only a couple
of months before as a 'tumor'.
Jenny
proved to be every bit as creative as Donna in the long run, but in the short
term, she taxed her middle-aged parents with all the things that are guaranteed
to wear out a younger pair. Her favorite bedtime story was 'The Night Before
Christmas', and she insisted upon hearing it every night - even in July. When
she was just old enough to stand behind Dad's chair, she took advantage of his
afternoon naptime to play 'Beauty Parlor' - 'rolling' his thin hair, worn in an
early comb-over style, around his pocket comb.
Unfortunately,
she wasn't good at keeping the hair straight on her pretend curler - and
Daddy's hair suffered the consequences. To free him from the comb, the hair had
to be sacrificed. Fortunately, Daddy wasn't the kind to whip her behind.
Somehow,
life seemed to speed up after Jenny was born and before Mable and Sid knew it,
Donna was married to the boy-next-door, Arnold Bradley, with babies of her own;
Jim had joined the Army, too; Gary was home from the fighting in Korea, had
married Dorothy Ellen Becker and Gene had married Bonnie Jean Huddleston. Life
was, literally, marching on and as the family grew, Sid and Mable welcomed each
new member with smiles and a sense of awe that from them so much life continued
to spring. The 60s came and went, bringing new daughters-in-law, Linda Kaye
Carter for Jim and Martha Sue Eska for Gary, and more grandchildren.
Sid
retired in 1969 and moved what remained of his still-at-home home family -
namely Mable and Jenny and a dog named Lucia - to Eufaula, Oklahoma. At last
away from the horrors of city life, with as much time as he wanted to fish and
a giant lake within spitting distance in which to do it, Sid was in heaven. He
worked - probably harder than he'd ever worked in his life - doing odd jobs
around town to supplement his Social Security and provide for his expensive
youngest child.
He
loved being near the lake - and he loved taking his sons, their wives who liked
to fish, and their kids fishing or boating. Gene had a pontoon boat, and one
memorable fishing trip took them across Lake Eufaula during a particularly hot
day. Sitting in the shade beneath the canopy, Gene remarked, "Man, what I
wouldn't give for a cold beer."
Suddenly,
bobbing on the choppy waves, a beer appeared. Gene spotted it and grabbed his
fish net, scooped the beer can out of the water and, chuckling madly, popped
the top to take a swig.
Daddy
eyed him suspiciously for a long minute, then declared. "If you go an'
wish for a plate of fried chicken and one floats by, I'm swimmin' to
shore."
Gene's
life-long love of motorcycles served as both vocation and avocation. From that
first 'Whizzer' to the Harley-Davidsons he worked on to his retirement and
beyond, Gene was well-known and well-respected for his ability to make those
engines hum. He was a mentor to both young and old, as well as a helping hand
in times of need, and could always be counted on to share the family stories -
again and again - that always make us laugh. We lost him to lung cancer in
early December, 2001.
Gary
made his living in real estate and sales after his three tours of duty in
Vietnam. A highly decorated officer with two Presidential Citations, a Silver
Star, a Bronze Star, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and numerous other
awards and medals, he enjoys retirement today, traveling with his wife and
their 'babies', Buddy and Buffy, two energetic terriers who don't like to take
'no' for an answer.
Donna,
arguably the happiest of all of us, raised her three kids and adopted their
spouses just like Sid adopted the spouses of his five. He said - more than once
- that he didn't have just five kids; he had ten. He thought of each of them as
his own, blood kin, too. Donna is the same. She fills her days with part-time
work at Hobby Lobby, playing with her 'Sissy', and taking care of the youngest
in her considerable brood of grandchildren.
Jim
- the Quiet One - became a jeweler after his stint in the Army, and with a
little help from his wife, Kaye, gave the family two beautiful daughters. While
Jenny seemed to be most like Gary and Gene took after the McDaniel side of our
heritage, Jim and Donna shared being the 'Heart' of the brood. He - more than
any of us - found a way to meld that heart with a head for business and most
clearly embodies the things his father counted as the 'makin's of a man'.
Meanwhile,
Jenny finished high school in 1972, graduating with honors from Eufaula High
School. Before the ink was dry on her diploma, she shoehorned all her
belongings into the '63 Ford Galaxy 500 Sid and Mable had given her for her
16th birthday a couple years before and she was off to Oklahoma City and her
college studies at Central State University, from which she graduated with a
degree in Psychology in 1976. After a relatively short career in retail to get
her through school, Jenny moved into the Personnel department at a local
retailers and then upward and onward to Montgomery-Ward, where she met her
future husband, Lauren Dahl, in 1977. Less than a year after taking the job as
Assistant Personnel Manager and only a few months before her planned wedding
date, Jenny moved across the street to take the position of Personnel Director
for the Oklahoma District of Xerox Corporation, where she stayed for sixteen
years. She took 'early retirement' (very early retirement!) when she was
thirty-seven, staying at home to write the Great American Novel... and wrote
two of them, one of which was eventually published: Evil's Own Trinity. There's
another in the works, but who knows whether she'll decide to work hard enough
to get it out there or not. Writing is harder work than you think.
Dropping
out of third-person into first for a moment, I'd like to share my strongest
memories of growing up 'the baby' in the Robbins Clan. I remember, as clearly
as if it were this morning, Donna returning home one night to get a box of her
things - Mom had packed them the day Donna and Arnold ran off to get married. I
remember Jim leaving for his tour of duty in Germany... and splitting his last
piece of Dentine gum with me. I remember his wife, Kaye, making me German
Chocolate cake for my birthday... and I remember spending my first night away
from home with Donna and her brood when they lived in Midwest City. I remember
the wreck we had on the way home from visiting Jim and Kaye in Ponca City and
how scared Jim was until he saw we were all okay. I remember babysitting Kelly
when she was just a baby herself and entertaining her by showing her pictures
of other babies in magazines, books and catalogs... and scrambling to find more
pictures of babies so she wouldn't cry.
I
remember Gary being in Vietnam and how it wasn't until years later that I told
him I proud I was of him and thanked him for doing a job no one else wanted to
do and for which he'd likely received nothing but heartache. I remember hating
school and loving 3:15pm every day. I remember lusting after Gene's and
Bonnie's old Thunderbird and how cool I thought he was with his motorcycles and
never-ending stories. I remember the Day Mom and Dad gave me the Galaxy 500 and
Mom telling me it was the last present they'd ever get me 'cause it had cost
them a whole $500... she didn't keep her word, however. Years later, she gave
me a cream, navy and red quilt. I remember playing dominoes with Daddy... and
pitch... and canasta and Wahoo! and every other game he could get his mitts on.
I remember wishing I'd never see another Wahoo! board when I was ten - and wishing
today I could have just one more game.
I
remember the seemingly endless fights Mom and I used to have - and Mrs. Gibson,
their next-door neighbor, telling me how Mom had told her 'it's like someone
died' when I went away. I remember laughing with Mom, too... a lot. Especially
later, when I was married and we shared the things only two women can share,
beyond the things shared by mother and child.
I
remember the night I told Donna that I was dating this 'new guy' and that we
were going to dinner at the 'House of Chan' on I-44 and Penn - and I remember
how *not* surprised I was when she and Arnold walked in and joined us. Then I
remember taking Lauren home to meet Mom and Dad that next Sunday... and his
asking me to marry him the next day - despite having watched Daddy and I play
dominoes and calling one another every name in the book. I remember Daddy
giving me away the night I married Lauren, and how he pulled it off without a
hitch despite Mom's fears he'd mess it up because he was so deaf.
I
remember the grandparents Lauren gave me... Howard and Jonnie Lee Van Cleave.
Grandparents on both the Robbins' side and the McDaniel side had been long gone
by the time I came along and it was a whole new experience to suddenly have a
couple who took me in and treated me like one of their own. We lost them too
soon... but I'll always treasure those too few years when I had someone to call
'Grandma' and someone to call 'Grandpa'. The first time I met Howard, he was
sitting on the edge of a hospital bed in the Bone and Joint Hospital in
Oklahoma City. He was in for hip-replacement surgery and obviously in a
devilish mood. He looked me up and down as Lauren introduced us and declared,
"You're not the blonde I saw him with last time."
Somehow,
from somewhere, I managed to retort, "Yeah... well I'm the blonde you're
gonna be seeing him with from now on." It was love at first sight.
Grandpa
roared and declared me a member of the family before the marriage vows had been
made.
I remember
meeting someone else, too. Despite her having been dead for a number of years,
I remember meeting Lauren's mother... falling in love with her... and losing
her - all in the span of time it took to view a 30-plus minute film.
Edna
Louise had agreed to make a film for the doctors she worked with when she found
out she had seriously advanced breast cancer. Even though she wasn't expected
to live long enough to see her first grandchild born, she lived to see her and
her first grandson enter the world - largely through her determination to do
so. She also worked diligently on making two pillows: a latch-hook one for her
younger twin son and a needlepoint pillow for Lauren, the older. She said she
wanted to make sure they would 'remember me' after she was gone.
At
the time I saw that film, I had - in the top of my living room closet - the
unfinished needlepoint pillow Dad Dahl had given me with a casual 'Do you
needlepoint?' I did... a long time before that... but I had no idea of the
significance of that pillow until I saw that film.
As
one can well imagine, the pillow was finished in record time and still holds a
place of honor in our home.
If
it's true that we're never truly dead until we're forgotten, Edna Louise will
live at least as long as I do. I will never forget her strength. I will never
forget her courage or her resolve. I will, simply, never forget.
I
remember watching Stephanie being born. I remember Dana's wedding. I remember
David coming to my wedding in a really nice suit - and tennis shoes. I remember
the beginnings and the endings... and I'm so grateful to have finally
discovered how much Myra and I have in common. And, more recently, I remember
holding my great grand-nephew in my arms and seeing my father in the dimple of
Dylan's chin.
I
remember suddenly being the one responsible for family holiday dinners on the
Dahl side. With Lauren's mom having passed away in '75, I was the unofficial
Matriarch of the Carl branch of the Dahl Family. I remember trying to make a
traditional Swedish Christmas dinner... only to discover how thoroughly
*boring* and colorless Swedish traditional dishes are! I remember the day my
sister-in-law called to tell me I was going to be an aunt... and the day I
realized Dad Dahl wasn't going to be with us much longer.
I
remember a million other things, too... more than I realized until I sat down
and starting typing. Deliciously good times and outstandingly bad ones. Anger
and sadness, betrayal and loyalty. Births and deaths. Marriage and divorce.
Sickness and health and fear and relief. Lots of laughter... and an equal
amount of tears.
And
as they say... that's life.
Sid
passed away in May, 1987 after suffering through the aftermath of a series of
small strokes for almost two years. The hardest thing this family has ever done
together was say good-bye to that old man. The world became a darker, more
somber place without his laugh, without his songs, without his unfailing,
unquestioning love for his wife and children - all ten of them. Very soon
after, Mable was moved out of their little house on High Street in Eufaula and
into a small duplex in Guthrie, not too far from her daughters.
The
more years that passed, the faster they went - and Mable followed Sidney in
1998, suffering a massive stroke the day before her 86th birthday. She lived
for 19 days after, never regaining full consciousness, and was buried March 14,
1998, beside Sid in Greenwood Cemetery, right off State Highway 69 in Eufaula,
Oklahoma.
Suddenly...
none of the 'kids' could ever 'go home' again. Wherever Mama was, regardless of
the sometimes hard feelings lurking beneath the surface there, was 'home'...
and without Mama, there was no 'home' to which to go.
Were
they 'perfect' parents? No. No parents are perfect. No children are perfect,
either. But we were - we *are* - a family... and even with the loss of the
eldest brother and the youngest brother, we'll be one. For better, for worse;
for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health... 'til death us do part.
And
beyond.
Draw
a chair up to the kitchen table as you thumb through the stories and recipes
that follow. They have fed, nurtured, healed, inspired and sustained all these
families through the years... enjoy. And know how glad I am that you're one of
us.
Sincerely,
Jen
©
Jenny Dee Robbins Dahl, et al, 2006
Clarence Robbins Family
Memoirs
Stephen Alva Van Cleave
Memoirs
Tales of the Van
Cleave Elders