lovely summer’s day after high school, he just said good-bye, took off from home, which was upstate New York, and started looking for work. It seems that his folks hardly missed him; he certainly didn’t miss them.
As near as I can tell, he was a hobo for a while (although he was ashamed, I think, ever to say that in quite so many words), then he got into the CCC, the Civilian Conservation Corps, and that seemed to give him both hope and purpose. Dad was bright and self-confident. It was a bit odd, but whereas Mother would sometimes drift back into the rural argot of the Eastern Shore, Daddy—who’d come from far worse circumstances—always spoke with the finest diction. It was as if he was determined to leave that dispiriting youth of his completely behind. You could say Daddy remade himself.
Certainly, he began to improve his lot after he left the CCC, if only little by little. By that time, two or three years later, when he somehow happened to run into my mother, he’d already transformed himself into a young man of some evident potential, who had his eyes fixed on the main chance.
Now, mother was certainly more forthcoming about her upbringing. There were funny little stories, silly adventures she’d had with Carter Kincaid, tales of struggling in the Depression and, always, fond memories of her father. The only perplexing omission was that she’d never bring up her swimming in any detail.
Mother’s mother would also visit us periodically, bringing the latest breaking news from the Shore. Mom would listen to Grandmother’s reports, but she never seemed that engaged about the old homeland. I guess both Mom and Dad were like so many Americans. Once they’d left Back East and moved Out West, they simply didn’t look behind them, and without other family to connect them to the past, soon the tides of time washed over their earlier lives.
When Grandmother died in 1978, Mom returned for the funeral. Daddy had always been close to his mother-in-law, so it surprised me that he didn’t go, too. But Mom went alone, and I suppose because she hadn’t been back to the Shore for so many years, it made her, when she was there by herself, that much more sentimental. She told me, in fact, that she’d cried as much standing by her father’s grave as she’d wept for her Mother’s death. “All this time, Teddy, all this time he’s been gone,” she said. Part of her was really crying about her own past, about how it had all drifted away.
I asked her, then, if she’d stayed in touch with Carter. “No,” she said. “Not after we moved to Missoula.”
“But you were so close.”
“Oh, Lord, yes. When I was a girl, I never had a better friend than Carter Kincaid.”
“But you lost complete touch with her after she went to Baltimore?”
“No, I saw her there,” she said. “Well, the once.”
“But . . . ?”
Mom paused awhile, not so much to consider a response, I thought, as she did to use this occasion to remember Carter. She smiled broadly, fondly. Finally, though, she just said, “It’s complicated, Teddy. It was just too complicated.”
I had to assume there must’ve been some sort of falling out. In my experience, when there are sad ruptures among old friends, it usually has to do with new husbands or wives. Perhaps Carter’s husband didn’t get along with Mom. Whatever it was, I could tell that she didn’t want to discuss it, and so, reluctantly, I had to let the matter drop and consign Carter Kincaid forever to Mom’s childhood.
Like that, once Grandmother died, the Shore was, for my mother, gone for good. There was nothing Back East but cemetery plots, so thoughts of that past only surfaced again when Mom knew her own death was approaching—which also happened to be at the same time that Michael Phelps came out of Maryland, storming the Olympics and triggering the memories of swimming and all that went with it, way back then.
Mom slept late the next morning. She always ate a good
As near as I can tell, he was a hobo for a while (although he was ashamed, I think, ever to say that in quite so many words), then he got into the CCC, the Civilian Conservation Corps, and that seemed to give him both hope and purpose. Dad was bright and self-confident. It was a bit odd, but whereas Mother would sometimes drift back into the rural argot of the Eastern Shore, Daddy—who’d come from far worse circumstances—always spoke with the finest diction. It was as if he was determined to leave that dispiriting youth of his completely behind. You could say Daddy remade himself.
Certainly, he began to improve his lot after he left the CCC, if only little by little. By that time, two or three years later, when he somehow happened to run into my mother, he’d already transformed himself into a young man of some evident potential, who had his eyes fixed on the main chance.
Now, mother was certainly more forthcoming about her upbringing. There were funny little stories, silly adventures she’d had with Carter Kincaid, tales of struggling in the Depression and, always, fond memories of her father. The only perplexing omission was that she’d never bring up her swimming in any detail.
Mother’s mother would also visit us periodically, bringing the latest breaking news from the Shore. Mom would listen to Grandmother’s reports, but she never seemed that engaged about the old homeland. I guess both Mom and Dad were like so many Americans. Once they’d left Back East and moved Out West, they simply didn’t look behind them, and without other family to connect them to the past, soon the tides of time washed over their earlier lives.
When Grandmother died in 1978, Mom returned for the funeral. Daddy had always been close to his mother-in-law, so it surprised me that he didn’t go, too. But Mom went alone, and I suppose because she hadn’t been back to the Shore for so many years, it made her, when she was there by herself, that much more sentimental. She told me, in fact, that she’d cried as much standing by her father’s grave as she’d wept for her Mother’s death. “All this time, Teddy, all this time he’s been gone,” she said. Part of her was really crying about her own past, about how it had all drifted away.
I asked her, then, if she’d stayed in touch with Carter. “No,” she said. “Not after we moved to Missoula.”
“But you were so close.”
“Oh, Lord, yes. When I was a girl, I never had a better friend than Carter Kincaid.”
“But you lost complete touch with her after she went to Baltimore?”
“No, I saw her there,” she said. “Well, the once.”
“But . . . ?”
Mom paused awhile, not so much to consider a response, I thought, as she did to use this occasion to remember Carter. She smiled broadly, fondly. Finally, though, she just said, “It’s complicated, Teddy. It was just too complicated.”
I had to assume there must’ve been some sort of falling out. In my experience, when there are sad ruptures among old friends, it usually has to do with new husbands or wives. Perhaps Carter’s husband didn’t get along with Mom. Whatever it was, I could tell that she didn’t want to discuss it, and so, reluctantly, I had to let the matter drop and consign Carter Kincaid forever to Mom’s childhood.
Like that, once Grandmother died, the Shore was, for my mother, gone for good. There was nothing Back East but cemetery plots, so thoughts of that past only surfaced again when Mom knew her own death was approaching—which also happened to be at the same time that Michael Phelps came out of Maryland, storming the Olympics and triggering the memories of swimming and all that went with it, way back then.
Mom slept late the next morning. She always ate a good
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