The Day I Learned I Was Bi-Lingual

My parents eloped March 21, 1955 in Angola, Indiana.  My father had just returned from the service. One would think a love story shared by two would be the same, but this one isn’t.  My Mother was fifteen; she was the youngest of five and lived on the east side of Lansing. She smoked and hung with a group of friends who passed their time roller skating at the Roller Drome.

My father was seventeen; he was the first born, raised by his grandmother until she died.  He was 12 and about this time his parents divorced.  He lived in DeWitt and he loved to hitch a ride into Lansing to go to the movies or ride his motorcycle, cutting trails through the country. He also loved to roller skate and spent hours at the rink.

 

My Mother “fell in love” with a boy that wore a blue parka jacket and could be found most weekends at the Roller Drome.  She swears this boy was my father.  My father swears he never owned a blue parka jacket.  So, I am not sure my Mother married her Romeo; he may still be out there in his blue parka jacket roller skating to the Glenn Miller Band.

My father had no idea my Mother existed. Her cousin, Pat arranged for a group of them to go to the movies and her plan was to “hook” my parents up.  One boy in this group of friends was named Glen.  Glen had the hots for my Mom, but my Mom only had eyes for Blue Parka Boy.

They all met at the Michigan Theatre. Unbeknownst to my Mother, Glen paid for my Mother’s ticket.  My Mother though snuggled up to my Dad during the movie, thinking he had paid her way. This little tidbit is important to know as my Mother acquired a selective memory as she started to age.

My parents “dated” for two months before my Father turned eighteen and was enlisted to serve in Korea.  His basic training took place in Battle Creek, Michigan.  Stories of his sister and my future mother driving to Battle Creek to visit him turned into abduction tales.  My father would hide in the trunk as they drove out so they could go skating and they would return him late at night.

Eventually he headed off to serve and Mother stayed back to finish high school.  They wrote to each other and when he had leave and would come home they would get together, but their time was very limited.  When he was discharged in 1955 and returned home, they were married within six weeks of his homecoming.  They have been together ever since.  It amazes me that they physically spent very little time together before they got married, but apparently it has worked for them, although it has not always been an easy ride.

They had their first born on April 30, 1956. They named him David Darwin.  His middle name was my paternal grandfather’s. This information was supplied by my paternal grandmother.  Years later though when they told my grandfather, he made it quite clear that his middle name was Dorwin, not Darwin.  Apparently my grandmother did not know the correct spelling or she did not approve of her son naming his first born after a man who shattered her heart.

My Father was working for Fisher Body at the time my brother was born.  My Mother was working for Michigan Bell Telephone. My Mother always dreamed of being a Mom, she never had dreams of having a career, but a young couple needed to be a two income family.  They had bought a house and like all couples had bills to pay.

Key Punch was being introduced at the time and Mother found a job at John Bean.  The pay was better than Michigan Bell and they were willing to train you.  Unfortunately after one day on the job, she missed my brother so much, that she quit and returned to being a stay at home Mom.

She returned to work for Michigan Bell Telephone and the first week of April, 1960, Summer Place by Percy Faith played on the radio, classic movies were released, Psycho by Alfred Hitchcock, Spartacus, starring Kirk Douglas and The Apartment starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine were released. Marlon Brando was on the cover of Life magazine and Dwight Eisenhower resided in the White House.  In the wee hours of the morning, Thursday, April 7, 1960, my Mother gave birth to a baby girl. Mother favored the name Victoria, but this little ball of joy, covered in thick hair, would be named Cindy Marie.  This name was carefully selected as they knew the greatness this child would bring to the world.  An evening spent at home, reading the newspaper, they spotted it in the column of new births, somewhere out there, there is another Cindy Marie, slightly older than I am.

To truly appreciate the time spent selecting my name, one must fast forward thirty years, I was recently divorced, living in the first home I bought and having a garage sale.  My paternal grandmother took me to the side as if she were going to share a secret with me.  She asked me if I knew how I came about being named Cindy Marie and I told her the story of my parents seeing this name in the Lansing State Journal.  She appeared to be surprised that I knew this story and she shook her head ever so slightly, “No, honey, you were named after your Dad’s whore in France.”  WOW! I did not see that one coming at all! Again, I could not contain myself.  My parents were visiting at the time as well and I ran into the house to confirm this news. Both appeared a little shocked, but considering the source, rolled their eyes.  Whether my father had a French whore named Cindy Marie has still not been confirmed, but I’m guessing he did not.

My grandmother was full of those little enlightening moments over the years.  She really did not think before she spoke and she didn’t always have the correct information, as you recall , she informed my parents her first husband’s middle name was Darwin….not Dorwin.

My Mother apparently did not have an issue with returning to work after I was born as she did not quit her job after her first day back because she was missing me.  I must have known at a very early age that she favored my brother over me.

We lived in Lansing, Michigan but within a year or so, my parents built a ranch home on the corner of Herbison Road and Primrose Lane in DeWitt.  Again the stories of why we moved differ greatly between my parents, but we moved back to Lansing within a year and into a trailer across the street from my Father’s sister.  This is where my brother learned the skill of crafting homemade Tiki torches while melting a Slo-Poke sucker over an open flame.

I believe my parents were experiencing a crater in their love story, but somehow that crater was filled and we moved to an older two story home near Lansing Community College.  The College was discussing expansion and they purchased a home west of the Campus with hope the College would expand in their direction and a little profit would be felt in the bank roll.  Unfortunately the College expanded east and in the late 1960’s living in downtown Lansing was becoming an unsafe haven for a young family.  In 1970 we moved back to DeWitt, Michigan and remained there until I graduated from high school in 1978,  moving once again back to Lansing.  I’m not sure if there were any other cities surrounding Lansing as we seemed to hop back and forth between Lansing and DeWitt.

My imagination carried me through my childhood.  With a brother who ruled the television and the interior space of our childhood home, this rebel had to roll, so she and her bike kept the sidewalks warm if not slightly hot. 

On days that I was grounded to the block I lived on, my imagination had to work overtime.  There was nothing exciting on my block.  I could see the park from my corner, looking across a city block that had been cleared for State workers to park and walk to work, but depending on my punishment, I was either grounded to the confines of my home, where my brother played Warden and carried a big stick that he used often to pester his prisoner or I was free to roam the block, occupying my time with one adventure after another.

My neighbors to the west were a Minister and his wife who busied themselves with the Methodist Church that sat on the corner.  When we did stay home on weekends, I would attend Sunday school and remember one particular Sunday that I welcomed Jesus into my heart.  I was five years old.

On the back side of the block was an Architect firm.  This business had a small parking area filled with white stone.  I would spend hours squatted in this field of dreams panning for gold.  Fool’s gold.  For once in a while I would spot a stone glistening in the sun and as I picked it out from all the others, I would find it sparkled like a fine diamond.  Carefully I would place in my pockets to add it to my rock collection.

Saddling up the Schwinn, I’d take off for my next adventure, an apartment building where college students apparently were housed to study for advanced degrees, but often they would be seen on their balcony with music blaring from their rooms.  The building was built on pillars and the parking lot was underneath the apartments.  I would race my bike around the pillars forming perfect circle eights all the while pretending I was racing in Daytona.  Flying out of the parking lot on to the side walk, crowds cheering for my stellar performance on the track I would head off to my next adventure.  My neighbors to the east were an elderly couple.  They were really old to a young girl living in her single digits.  Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez would sit in their rocking chairs on the porch enjoying the warm weather.  I would fly around the corner on my Schwinn in my home stretch to the driveway.  If I spotted them, I’d come to a screeching halt and park my bike on the sidewalk.  I would walk up to greet them and sit on the steps to their home.

I don’t really remember what we talked about, but I do remember my Mom always telling me to not bother them.  It did not stop me from visiting their stoop, as they informed my Mother they enjoyed my visits. On one particular day, they taught me some of their language.  Excited that I was bi-lingual, I rushed home to share the news with my Mother.

Running up the back stairs into the kitchen, I announced to my Mother, “I can speak Spanish!” Mother, ever so doubtful responded, “Really?”  I proceeded to share with her my new found language as I departed the kitchen for my bedroom, “Ha di os, Amigo.”