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Friday, December 19, 2008

Dorothy Leaves Home

Ah, youth. At eighteen-years old, my mother, Dorothy Elise, became a freshman at the Art Center School in Pasadena. It was 1944. Elise is now eighty-three and if you ask her, she will tell you that her parents were against her attending the school - her father she describes as a strict Englishman, her mother, a superficial, egotistical and aging coquette. When I listen to her tales of that time, I keep wondering what their side of the story might be.

To her, they were punishing control freaks, suffocating her and putting her to work with constant labors around the house. As a child, she was somewhat of a tomboy, not very pretty and constantly reminded as such. However, she grew into a strikingly beautiful young woman and by the time she turned eighteen, she had many admirers.

My guess is that her family only wanted the best for her but their attempts to ensure this came across as less than supportive and sometimes cruel. I believe they were trying to protect her. To her credit, my mother is still somewhat guileless, maintaining a level of innocence in spite of a long life of troubles. I can imagine that at eighteen, she was a prime candidate for a rash decision once she obtained her first taste of freedom at art school.

Her family was encouraging her to continue her connection with a promising young doctor, someone they felt was a viable suitor for their young, gorgeous daughter. I try to remember that especially in that era, a woman's beauty was her power and her parents were undoubtedly worried that my mother would squander her promise on a boy they felt was less than acceptable. Fortunately for me, they were right. She met my father, a fellow art student, the first week of school and three weeks later, she eloped to Mexico City with him and got married. She then hid this fact for a month and had a second mock wedding for my father's family - nobody there knew that they were already married.

Because of their complete rejection of my father, my mother deserted her family, cutting off ties and starting her new life - a new life that included the upcoming birth of her first child, my eldest brother.

While her parents may be written off as brutal family totalitarians, there was another person who had shown nothing but kindness to my mother throughout her childhood, and that person was her grandfather. He was an eccentric millionaire living in Sierra Madre at a home he designed and where my mother passed many a blissful childhood day. Her grandfather was someone upon whom she could depend, who supported her in her artistic pursuits and who also had very high hopes for her. In her rebellious scramble for freedom, her grandfather also was unfortunately swept under the carpet of her former life and months went by with no word from her.

Finally, she received this bitterly sweet letter from him, dated December 7, 1945, four years to the day of the Pearl Harbor attacks. The letter is so sweet and sincere - as my mother read it to me, she cried (fifty-three years later - it's still painful!) and I felt I needed to print it:

"Darling,

Four long and sad years ago, at about this time of day at 2:30 p.m., Bob called through to us, "Have you listed to the radio?" Do you remember, dear? It's that time, I had the priceless little girl on my lap, where I would that she should be now.

You should come to me dear - if our positions were reversed, nothing could keep me away. Perhaps you fear upbraiding, or something of the sort from me, you should know me better, if you do. I have frequently disclosed to listeners that I had or have an idea that Dorothy is an independent little sort of a guy, but that as you ought to know, can be carried much too far. You can't do without others, dear, particularly those whose affections you possess. Don't even think that you can. The present is ephemeral, therefore not important. It is what we do and say in the course of ephemeral periods that are important because of their impact upon long years of life.

We have much to talk about. You know that I should know your boy. How can I? You nut!

I would have written before - I got your address yesterday.

If, for any reason, you do not wish to come here, tell me so.

Affectionately,
Grand-Dad"

Dorothy Elise was reunited with her Grand-Dad and stayed in contact until his death. His letter reaches out to me, a great-grandson he would never know, across the expanse of time, as a message to always consider those whose affections I possess and remember that they, as well, possess mine.

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