The car was really only big enough for the two of us; but, that was all there was at the time. We had not thought to buy a car the entire extended family could be taxied about in. We did not want the company of others, my mother surmised; so, unbeknownst to us, she hated our little Mustang. She saw it as a point of exclusion. We had purchased a small car because we were selfish enough to not want her riding in it!
In July of 1969, my little sister, who was still in high school when we married, was going to need a place to stay for the weekend because Mother and Daddy were going out of town. When Mother asked if my sister could stay with us, Bill mentioned that she would have to sleep on the couch because our apartment did not have much room. He did not say no, just that my sister might not be really comfortable. Mother stored that in her heart as yet another exclusion - we no longer loved her in our selfishness. I was surprised when my sister spent the weekend with a friend. I had not known we said no.
By mid-August, Bill was informed that the aerospace firm for which he worked would be sending us on loan to Lockheed Aircraft in Burbank, California, for three months. That prospect was exciting for us newlyweds. It meant that I would have to postpone my senior year of college and student teaching for a semester; but, Bill and I knew this was a wonderful opportunity and couldn't wait to go. We were at lunch the following Sunday with my parents when we had intended to tell them of our plans. Our wedding pictures had arrived at their home that week, so we were looking forward to seeing them for the first time. My second cousin had agreed to create our wedding portfolio for a hundred dollars. He was an amateur photographer, not a professional. Bill also dabbles in photography and had snapped wedding pictures for friends. I am certain all of these facts were circulating in Mother's mind when Bill's response to her question: "How do you like the wedding pictures, Bill?" came raw and unpolished from his stammering tongue. "They are good for cheap pictures."
Oh, my gosh! I could not believe he said that! All my mother heard was the word cheap. All I heard was the word cheap! The pictures were average and my mother knew it. She had been disappointed in them, too. But she needed her new son's approval. The next thing Bill and I heard was, "I know you thought the whole wedding was cheap, cheap, cheap!"
I wished I could have picked up all those words and stuffed them back into Bill's mouth then shut it tight! Of course, he did not think the wedding was cheap. What he could remember of it had been beautiful, but he was as dazed and amazed by the event as I had been. The wedding being the tawdry affair Bill had innocently proclaimed it to be opened some floodgate of bitterness in Mother that spilled forth from some deep reservoir. We were inundated with accusations of selfishness and hubris. We had purchased a car in which she could not ride; Bill did not want my sister in our home; nothing was good enough for us; our entire wedding was cheap and an utter failure! The deluge, depleted, soaked Bill and me in shame and incredulity. Selfishness had never been our intent, nor would Bill have ever wanted my parents to think the wedding was less than wonderful. Cheap also means inexpensive, and the photographs were inexpensive. Oh, well. No grabbing for the dribbled semantics that had now attached their own small meaning to my mother's heart and mind. She had ceased speaking and had exited the room. I had never seen her this way. Bill and I left their home, heavy-footed, clothed in condemnation; and, as we slogged to our little red Mustang, we turned to see my father standing in the doorway, deflated, slope-shouldered and beaten.
The next day, Mother announced through Daddy that Bill and I were the most selfish people she knew and she never wanted to speak to us again. At barely twenty-one, my little girl heart still beat with the need for my mother's love and approval, and I could not bear this unjust rejection. It did not occur to me that this overblown reaction to our marriage had its roots in deeper ground within Mother. Instead, there was no question that I was completely to blame for her distress and now forbidden to even try to make it right. I wrote her a letter - a long, emotional, over-wrought, "say-way-too-much" missive. Then, I was ignorant enough to mail it. Dropping the words into the mailbox gave me momentary closure. Mother had put her hand over my mouth with her angry silence, but I still blurted out my own immature thoughts and feelings for her to read. Then she would be sorry; maybe even understand.
Walking home from the mailbox and reciting to myself my self-righteous words of rebuttal, I noticed a rising panic building in my chest. I started to notice how many times I thought, I probably shouldn't have said that! From very far away, I turned to look at the ominous big, blue mailbox that held within it the letter that had floated down atop the hundreds of others that day, and my panic became full-blown terror! I could not retrieve the words. "Oh, God," I breathed, "please don't let her ever receive that letter!" Tears flowed as I finished the distance to our little apartment, went inside and closed the door.
My father knew we were going to move to California for three months. I assumed he had relayed that information to Mother. Heartsick and feeling helpless to ameliorate the situation, Daddy came to see me at our apartment one afternoon that week. I made him a light lunch which we ate while sitting at our little dinette. Exasperation and sorrow fixed our conversation over bologna sandwiches, pickles and chips. What to do. Mother locked in; the rest of us locked out. Daddy understood that newlyweds like time alone, that we loved my sister, that the wedding pictures were adequate, and that Bill loved Mother. We held hands and prayed that our heavenly Father would somehow break through. Daddy hugged me tightly when he left, promising it would be all right. That evening, Daddy called Bill and me and asked us to come over to their home the next evening. "Is that okay with Mother?"
"No."
"No."
Sleep that night never visited me. My mind was too full of possible scenarios: Mother would not even see us; maybe she had read my letter and hated me even more; Bill would say something that made it even worse! I tossed and turned in sync with my churning stomach, and finally faced the day too early and very emotionally depleted. Hour after hour crept past as I reached for the moment when we walked into my parents' home for our "high noon." When Bill and I finally eased into our little car, we filled it with desperate prayers for reconciliation and understanding. We were not ready for a fight; we were hoping for a healing.
Daddy met us at the door looking resolute and in charge. "Your mother is in the kitchen at the table. I have old her she cannot say ANYTHING until we have all take this to God first. I am asking you to do the same." He did not move from the doorway until we promised that before we spoke to anyone, we would speak to Jesus.
My first glimpse of Mother in a week shocked me. Sitting there in a ball of bitterness, teeth clenched, hair rather wild from neglect, she appeared wizened and small. Her eyes did not take us in. I shivered. Age and life experience had not yet taught me that reservoirs of pain, given almost any excuse, can rise up and masquerade themselves as all pain. It was not just our perceived rejection that had shriveled Mother's heart. She had allowed herself to feel completely rejected, and it covered her in a palpable darkness.
The scraping of the chairs on the linoleum floors as we sat down seemed over-loud. I was aware of my noisy swallowing and Bill kept clearing his throat. Mother started to say something and was pushing her chair back to leave. Daddy sternly reminded her that our conversation was first with God, and he bowed his head and asked the Lord to meet us at the kitchen table. Then Bill began to pray his broken heart over Mother's feelings of rejection; the words fell tear-soaked and terrifyingly real onto the landscape of our battlefield. "Please help Flossie know that I love her, Lord!"
There was really nothing left to say, for his love proclaimed watered the withering drought that had parched Mother's sense of self and melted the icy silence of the past week. She reached out her hand to Bill. "Please forgive me, Flossie. I never meant to hurt you."
Mother was crying then, asking why he had said those things.
"I am not a silver-tongued devil , Flossie. I don't always say things the way I mean them. If I say something you are offended by or don't understand, please promise me you will ask the question you just asked: 'What did you mean by that?' "
Daddy's hand magically delivered a box of tissues to the center of the table; and, as we wiped and blew away the evidence of contrition, there was created between Mother and Bill a special bond of love. She never questioned his words thereafter, even though I doubt he became more eloquent. It was not about words, but about love and acceptance; about crushing into family to find a place.
In the process of the conversation that continued that evening, Mother admitted to her perfectionism and confessed that she had been disappointed by the wedding cake and flowers and she had assumed these things bothered us, also. She always had enjoyed preparing for a party more than the actual party itself and usually had a litany of things that were not quite right after she had entertained. That perfectionism became a joke between Mother and Bill. She crafted him a lovely robe for Christmas a few years later (a robe he still lovingly wears) and when he unwrapped it and finished faithfully oohing and aahing over it, he asked with a gleeful smile: "So, Flossie. What's wrong with it?"
"Not a damn thing!" her happy response.
We left for California a couple of weeks later, but without the heaviness of heart we feared. And the letter I wrote? Only God knows what He did with it. Mother never received it.
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