A Broken Life

When she died, she was alone in the ICU,  in a city she didn't live in. There was no funeral. She was cremated and her ashes were disposed of by the crematorium. No obituary was written. Friends were not contacted because there were none remaining other than the virtual faceless people on the chat rooms she frequented. There was no will, no house or apartment to sort through, just a few boxes of things-a laptop and an electric 3 wheeled tricycle that was still in a shipping crate, left at my sister's house in New Jersey.

Who was this woman and how did she end up in this situation? After all, she bore 8 children, 7 who were still alive at the time of her passing.

She was my mother. I was reminded of her just past week why my older sister sent me an e-mail in which she said, " I finally figured out a plan for Mom's bike. I'm donating it to the Trenton Rescue Mission, an organization that helps homeless people. I think Mom would be pleased especially since she was an advocate of programs for homeless people. If you recall, she spent a night in a D.C. jail in the late 80's or early 90's after laying down in the rotunda of our nation's capital to support services for homeless people. Just seems like the right thing to do."

I do recall that she spent a night in a D.C. jail. And I recall when she used to read to me as a little boy. I recall when she used to make us oatmeal on cold winter mornings and when she'd talk with me about politics, civil rights and the women's movement. And I recall when it all began to change.

My parents were typical of the post WWII generation of young couples, full of hope and optimism. It wasn't long after they married that they had their first child in August of 1950. I followed my sister, Shelley 15 months later.  Then came another, and another, and another and by April 1962, there 5 boys and 3 girls. Our house was crowded and noisy, but  full of adventure and wonderment at the same time. Mom worked part-time off and on in the 50's and shortly after we moved from a county seat town in Iowa to Des Moines in 1960, she began working full-time. By the mid-60's my father and mother were both working the evening shift at the newspaper- Dad as a Linotype operator, Mom as a proofreader. There was a steady stream of babysitters who attempted to care for us on the nights they both worked. We ran most of them off. There was Mrs. Hotchkiss, who made us watch Lawrence Welk and tried to read the bible to us. And Mrs. Robinson, a kind black woman who rode the bus to our street only to have Chang, the next door neighbor's pug, bark and growl at her as she walked by. Mom was horrified that this "racist pug , who never got off it's ass for anything", would embarrass her like that. It wasn't old Chang  that ran Mrs. Robinson off, it was all of us incorrigible Kingkade kids.

 The  older children took care of the younger children and we all did our share of household chores. Mom tried to organize by coming up with elaborate written plans and schedules. That never lasted very long.  We would barter and bargain away all our assignments to a point where nobody knew what anybody else was supposed to be doing . Frustrated, she would eventually tire of the effort and give in. The house was always a mess and there were heaps of undone laundry in the basement and the linoleum floors where sticky and caked with dropped food. There were days when Mom would check out and sleep half the day or retreat to her bedroom to read, leaving the rest of the us to run amok. And run amok we did. Who could blame her, I remember thinking, at the time.

1956

There were also the times when she would read to us...the Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland, the Christmas Carol. Saturdays meant a trip to Bookmobile or even better, the downtown library. When Mom wasn't chasing and tending to children, she had her nose in a book. The oldest of us took piano lessons, had our pictures taken and got to do many of the things that first born males and females got to do. Our birthdays were celebrated and holidays were always a big deal.  Education was encouraged and supported. Looking back, I know now that what I experienced as a young child and what my younger siblings experienced in the years to come were not the same. Things were slowly changing and not always for the better.

A  Sunday in 1965, after Mass

Dad was a Catholic and insisted on us attending Mass every Sunday. Because he worked the late shift at the newspaper, he slept in Sunday morning which meant we attended the 12 noon high mass. A typical Sunday had the kids getting up early and watching whatever was on TV while our parents slept. We made our own breakfast, went outside to play, got dirty and started commotion that woke them up and made them really cranky. Dad would try to round everybody up to get to church at noon, Mom would grumble and stay home. We'd arrive late and all 8 or 9 of us would pile into the last available pew, usually at the front of the church. Some Sundays, Dad's parents, who lived in Ames, would drop in unannounced about the time we were returning from church. This irritated Mom and she would let dad know how she felt in no uncertain terms after his parents headed home. 

Things really started to change when she and Dad both started working days and would stop off at the T & T Lounge downtown to have cocktails and dinner before heading home. There were nights when everyone at home had to fend for themselves. Times were changing, there was social unrest in the air. Mom started back to school to finish her degree. She declared that she was a "women's libber" (her words). She and my Dad fought more and the house became more chaotic. We were all growing up and pushing the limits, me included. My Dad and I banged heads. Mom and Shelley, my older sister, did the same. Mom and Dad would have pretty intense battles and we would hide in the basement or escape out into the neighborhood. When the battles wound down, everyone just simply resumed their role in the drama, as if it had never occurred. The rules around the house that I was raised on as a young boy were no longer the same.

1970

And yet, I admired and respected her for her intellect, her passion and her activist energy. She openly wept when Martin Luther King was shot, woke me up to talk when the news of Bobby Kennedy's assassination broke. She encouraged me to get involved in youth politics and I ended up working in several political campaigns as a teenager. When I was drafted in the fall of 1971 just as I was heading off to music school, mom was my biggest advocate in helping me find a way around that dilemma. We rarely got into skirmishes and more often than not, I felt she was my advocate.

In 1970, mom wrote a Christmas letter, the kind you put in your Christmas cards. It describes what she, my dad and all of the 8 children are doing. She closes it by saying, "Don and I had our 20 year anniversary this year. I told him we ought to go out and celebrate it. He responded that we at least ought to have a drink."  

The next several years are a little murky as I was immersed in college life and living off-campus. Every now and then I would stop by the house on a week night to check my mail or do a load of laundry. What I would discover unsettled me-a house left unattended, my younger siblings running wild in the neighborhood, no signs of adult supervision. Sometimes, mom and dad were still downtown at the tavern and other times they were secluded upstairs in their dormer bedroom, having cocktails, oblivious to the world downstairs.  

In the fall of 1973, mom was featured in the local paper in an article about 5 women who cab-pooled to work . It's a charming article and paints a picture of a big family with 3 cars and competing transportation needs resulting in her need to cab-pool.

The article closes by talking about the cab driver's thoughts on the women in his taxi:

Pat's cab is empty now of fares and he speaks of the women in an affectionate, paternal fashion. "Nice gals," he says. "Now, Rita's a women's libber, but we have a good time."

I remember being amused by his comments at the time. But underneath the story of a modern working woman with a husband and 8 children was a woman who was growing more restless and unhappy by the day.

With Mom immersed in work and her activist pursuits, and Dad, now working full-time for the printer's union and knee deep in labor issues, the house on 35th was a different place than I had left it. It was becoming  more unpredictable and chaotic. Trouble was brewing- I could sense it every time I walked in the front door. It became easier to stay away and my casual drop-ins became less frequent. 

In 1974, during my junior year in college, I ran into Mom in an aisle at the local grocery store one night.   "Oh by the way, your father and I are getting are separating. He's moving into the Commodore Hotel. I just can't deal with it anymore".  I didn't know what to think but I'm sure somewhere deep inside, I was afraid. 

Things would never be the same again.  This family, born out of the optimism that defined the early 1950's, was about to implode.