Marie Adel Kohlbeck of Algoma, Wisconsin, married Dr. George H. Smullen in Flint, Michigan, on April 23, 1938. She shall always remain as my most fascinating relative.
Outgoing and gutsy with a positive outlook, Aunt Marie was a hard worker, a caring mother who established coherent limits for her children. They knew they'd better not dare cross those lines, or there'd be hell to pay.
A devoted wife—a servant to her husband—she was honest to a fault and adhered intractably in her belief that most human beings had the power to be good or bad with each individual choosing her or his path's direction.
When a young white man in Racine had shot and killed a young black man, Marie said, "I'm certain he had to be taught to hate, but it was his choice to shoot."
She greeted most mornings with a smile and sunny outlook, invariably busying herself not only with house cleaning but rounding up breakfasts for her children and faithfully hand grinding coffee beans for Uncle George's morning coffee. After her housework was completed, she helped others less fortunate than she while paying pintsized attention to her own needs.
On that first visit, cousins Mike and George "Buddy" Smullen introduced me to a basement room with wine and liquor bottles. I noticed a wine bottle that had been previously opened. I lifted and admired it. Michael dared me to drink. I couldn't let a dare go to waste. After that, we three visited the basement on succeeding days as I continued to swallow that bottle's contents.
Realizing something was amiss, Aunt Marie questioned Buddy. When he refused to be a stoolie, Marie ordered him to clean up, change his shirt, comb his hair, and get in the Buick. At once, she headed the car to their church's rectory. Even with a Roman collar confronting him, Buddy steadfastly refused to be a fink.
After they returned home, Marie announced to Michael and me that she had grounded Buddy "for life." Incredibly—but not for young boys—Michael and I made fun of Buddy whose strength of character I didn't share. I could've saved him a lot of grief if I confessed to my aunt that I was the culprit. Although Buddy deserved my praise, I offered him none.
Before I returned home from that first visit, I purchased a plant from a florist and gave it to my aunt. She was indeed pleased.
After returning home, I told Mother what a great family the Racine Smullens were, waxing on and on about Aunt Marie. I also told her that Grandma Smullen had referred to me as the Dago's kid.
"But I'm Dad's kid, too, aren't I?"
"None of you kids are, according to that woman," said Mother.
"Why?"
Mother shrugged.
As I continued to compliment Aunt Marie, Mother finally said, "You think she's perfect, don't you?
"Pretty near," I said.
"Well, she might be, but I don't think she likes me very much."
"Why not?"
"You wouldn't understand."
And that was that.
Aunt Marie and I continued to correspond with a few letters, here and there. Once again, she invited me to spend a few weeks with her family during summer vacation. I wasn't going to turn down that invite. Still, the conversation Mother and I had remained with me.
Nearly halfway through my second visit, I asked Marie if she liked Mother. Marie took a moment to gather herself. "No. Your mother and I don't get along."
Where my rationale came from, I do not know. I think it had something to do with my sense of loyalty. "If you like me, you should also like my mother."
"That's not the way it is, Georgie," she said. "I look forward to having you visit with us, but I still don't like your mother.
"Then, I want to go home tomorrow."
"That's up to you."
It felt as if a concrete block somehow had been forced down my gullet and made its home in my stomach. I became silent and morose. That night, I folded my clothes and packed my suitcase. In the morning, I carried the suitcase down the stairs.
"So, you're bound and determined to leave us, eh?" announced Aunt Marie. She wasn't her usual, smiling self. She made a few phone calls and later that morning gave me a ride to the Racine train station. She purchased a ticket to the Milwaukee station where I'd have to wait and board the Hiawatha to Wisconsin Rapids. "Just remember, Georgie, I love you," she said before she left.
"And I love you, too," I returned. I don't know if she heard me.
Three years later, during winter, I telephoned Mother from a phone at Abel's Standard gas station. "I don't want to go to school anymore. I want you to sign the papers so I can join the Navy."
"I won't do that. You have only one more year of school left, and you need a high school diploma in order to be anything in this world of ours."
"I can take the GED in the Navy and that's the same thing as a high school diploma," I protested.
"No, it's not the same. You shall finish school, and that is that."
"Then, I'm going to run away."
"That's up to you." Interesting, those were the very same words Marie used.
And run away is exactly what I did. I took off in my car and headed east on Highway 54. It was snowing. Nasty weather didn't stop me from passing a slower vehicle. As my car finished the pass, it and I instantly were suddenly traveling backwards in the same direction we had been heading only seconds ago. I didn't know what to do although I obviously tried to steer the car. I didn't do well. Suddenly, the rear end of the car headed straight north, down a ditch and up on somebody's front lawn. I applied the brakes but still the car hit the home's concrete front stairs. I got out of the car and sadly noted the bumper was radically bent but not the fender. I also noticed a chunk of missing concrete in the home's stairs. I knocked on the front door. Nobody answered. So, I drove across the lawn, onto their driveway, and once again headed east. A tad slower.
The car and I eventually made it to 1012 Hayes Avenue in Racine. I knocked on the front door. It opened. "Georgie." It was Aunt Marie. "What brings you here after all this time?"
"I want to join the Navy, but Mother won't sign the papers."
"Come in," she said. I knew she’d commiserate with me because she didn’t like Mother. Later, I gave Mary Lee, Michael, and Buddy a ride in my car, telling them it was a hot rod. When we returned to their home, Aunt Marie said, "I' telephoned your mother and let her know you're here. I'm going to call her now and I want you to speak to her." Soon, she handed me the phone.
"George," said Mother, "come home. Someday you'll thank me for not signing those papers."
Somehow, reality hit me as hard as a wildly thrown piece in a game of horseshoes. Where was I going to run? And how was I going to live with no money for shelter, food, or gasoline? "Okay," I finally said. "I'll sleep here tonight, and then come home tomorrow." Which I did.
Thank you, Aunt Marie. Thank you, Mom. And thank you, Buddy. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had the model I needed for living the good life.
Outgoing and gutsy with a positive outlook, Aunt Marie was a hard worker, a caring mother who established coherent limits for her children. They knew they'd better not dare cross those lines, or there'd be hell to pay.
A devoted wife—a servant to her husband—she was honest to a fault and adhered intractably in her belief that most human beings had the power to be good or bad with each individual choosing her or his path's direction.
When a young white man in Racine had shot and killed a young black man, Marie said, "I'm certain he had to be taught to hate, but it was his choice to shoot."
She greeted most mornings with a smile and sunny outlook, invariably busying herself not only with house cleaning but rounding up breakfasts for her children and faithfully hand grinding coffee beans for Uncle George's morning coffee. After her housework was completed, she helped others less fortunate than she while paying pintsized attention to her own needs.
On that first visit, cousins Mike and George "Buddy" Smullen introduced me to a basement room with wine and liquor bottles. I noticed a wine bottle that had been previously opened. I lifted and admired it. Michael dared me to drink. I couldn't let a dare go to waste. After that, we three visited the basement on succeeding days as I continued to swallow that bottle's contents.
Realizing something was amiss, Aunt Marie questioned Buddy. When he refused to be a stoolie, Marie ordered him to clean up, change his shirt, comb his hair, and get in the Buick. At once, she headed the car to their church's rectory. Even with a Roman collar confronting him, Buddy steadfastly refused to be a fink.
After they returned home, Marie announced to Michael and me that she had grounded Buddy "for life." Incredibly—but not for young boys—Michael and I made fun of Buddy whose strength of character I didn't share. I could've saved him a lot of grief if I confessed to my aunt that I was the culprit. Although Buddy deserved my praise, I offered him none.
Before I returned home from that first visit, I purchased a plant from a florist and gave it to my aunt. She was indeed pleased.
After returning home, I told Mother what a great family the Racine Smullens were, waxing on and on about Aunt Marie. I also told her that Grandma Smullen had referred to me as the Dago's kid.
"But I'm Dad's kid, too, aren't I?"
"None of you kids are, according to that woman," said Mother.
"Why?"
Mother shrugged.
As I continued to compliment Aunt Marie, Mother finally said, "You think she's perfect, don't you?
"Pretty near," I said.
"Well, she might be, but I don't think she likes me very much."
"Why not?"
"You wouldn't understand."
And that was that.
Aunt Marie and I continued to correspond with a few letters, here and there. Once again, she invited me to spend a few weeks with her family during summer vacation. I wasn't going to turn down that invite. Still, the conversation Mother and I had remained with me.
Nearly halfway through my second visit, I asked Marie if she liked Mother. Marie took a moment to gather herself. "No. Your mother and I don't get along."
Where my rationale came from, I do not know. I think it had something to do with my sense of loyalty. "If you like me, you should also like my mother."
"That's not the way it is, Georgie," she said. "I look forward to having you visit with us, but I still don't like your mother.
"Then, I want to go home tomorrow."
"That's up to you."
It felt as if a concrete block somehow had been forced down my gullet and made its home in my stomach. I became silent and morose. That night, I folded my clothes and packed my suitcase. In the morning, I carried the suitcase down the stairs.
"So, you're bound and determined to leave us, eh?" announced Aunt Marie. She wasn't her usual, smiling self. She made a few phone calls and later that morning gave me a ride to the Racine train station. She purchased a ticket to the Milwaukee station where I'd have to wait and board the Hiawatha to Wisconsin Rapids. "Just remember, Georgie, I love you," she said before she left.
"And I love you, too," I returned. I don't know if she heard me.
Three years later, during winter, I telephoned Mother from a phone at Abel's Standard gas station. "I don't want to go to school anymore. I want you to sign the papers so I can join the Navy."
"I won't do that. You have only one more year of school left, and you need a high school diploma in order to be anything in this world of ours."
"I can take the GED in the Navy and that's the same thing as a high school diploma," I protested.
"No, it's not the same. You shall finish school, and that is that."
"Then, I'm going to run away."
"That's up to you." Interesting, those were the very same words Marie used.
And run away is exactly what I did. I took off in my car and headed east on Highway 54. It was snowing. Nasty weather didn't stop me from passing a slower vehicle. As my car finished the pass, it and I instantly were suddenly traveling backwards in the same direction we had been heading only seconds ago. I didn't know what to do although I obviously tried to steer the car. I didn't do well. Suddenly, the rear end of the car headed straight north, down a ditch and up on somebody's front lawn. I applied the brakes but still the car hit the home's concrete front stairs. I got out of the car and sadly noted the bumper was radically bent but not the fender. I also noticed a chunk of missing concrete in the home's stairs. I knocked on the front door. Nobody answered. So, I drove across the lawn, onto their driveway, and once again headed east. A tad slower.
The car and I eventually made it to 1012 Hayes Avenue in Racine. I knocked on the front door. It opened. "Georgie." It was Aunt Marie. "What brings you here after all this time?"
"I want to join the Navy, but Mother won't sign the papers."
"Come in," she said. I knew she’d commiserate with me because she didn’t like Mother. Later, I gave Mary Lee, Michael, and Buddy a ride in my car, telling them it was a hot rod. When we returned to their home, Aunt Marie said, "I' telephoned your mother and let her know you're here. I'm going to call her now and I want you to speak to her." Soon, she handed me the phone.
"George," said Mother, "come home. Someday you'll thank me for not signing those papers."
Somehow, reality hit me as hard as a wildly thrown piece in a game of horseshoes. Where was I going to run? And how was I going to live with no money for shelter, food, or gasoline? "Okay," I finally said. "I'll sleep here tonight, and then come home tomorrow." Which I did.
Thank you, Aunt Marie. Thank you, Mom. And thank you, Buddy. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have had the model I needed for living the good life.
RSS Feed