Wait...your parents aren't married?

Mom and Dad 1950, the
summer before they were married. 

I don’t know that I really ever remember my parents being married. But, then again, I didn’t really understand they were divorced either. Or what divorce meant.

No one will fess up about this, but I have always thought that I was either

            a) an “accident”

            or

            b) a last ditch effort to save their marriage

Either way, don’t feel badly about it when you read that because, honestly, I was a very loved child by my parents, siblings, grandparents, etc. and regardless of why I was born really made no difference once I was here because I was quite the spoiled thing, I must admit.

Mom and Dad on their wedding day
October 21, 1950

I don’t remember a time my Dad wasn’t at the house. I think one of the earliest memories I do have is of him sleeping downstairs in the family room. Maybe I was about 4 or 5. I should ask my sisters about that, who are much older and were aware of what was going on.

But what I remember is that Dad came home from work every day and had dinner with us. Dinner was always 6pm every night. Sharp. Then he would sit in his chair with the Hartford Times newspaper and do the crossword puzzle. Sometimes he would come downstairs to the family room to watch tv. Sometimes he would come upstairs and watch tv with my mother and I in her bedroom. He would sit at the end of the bed in a metal folding chair. And watch TV. Sometimes he would rub Mom’s feet.  Then, at 9pm, he would go home to his own place in East Granby.

I know, weird, huh?  

There was no animosity between them for the most part. I give a lot of credit to my mother for making this divorce not seem like a divorce.  She is the one who wanted the divorce. She had not been happy for many years.  She knew my father was kind of helpless when it came to things like making himself dinner. She knew that he was kind of a loner who had a lot of acquaintances, but no close friends.  We kids were his world, Diana Lane was his world, and my mother was his world. She was as gentle about it all as she could be and let him come and go as he pleased. 

My favorite photo of my Dad and I in 1968

I remember realizing it was weird when I had a friend sleeping over one Friday night. We were playing in the living room and Dad came over and rumpled my hair and said goodnight and he walked out the door.  My friend, Jayme asked, “where is your Daddy going?” I said without missing a beat, “To his house.”  She looked at me confused. I suddenly got it that not only was I the only kid I knew who had parents who were divorced, but that we were a different kind of divorced family where everyone got along.

Now it wasn’t always roses, mind you. When my mother entertained a gentleman at the house, she would have to tell my Dad not to come over that evening for dinner. I remember she would say to him that she was “having company.” I felt badly for Dad because you could see the hurt on his face. He never quite accepted they were divorced. As much as it helped us all to have Dad still a regular part of our routine, I think it also hampered him from moving on and accepting the divorce.

I remember them having a conversation at the dinner table after us kids had left the table. They didn’t realize I was still in ear shot. Dad said he wanted to move back in and he and my mom to live as husband and wife again. Mom was gentle about it, but she said “No, Bob, that is not going to happen.”  I didn’t necessarily want them back together…it really made no difference to me...but I felt badly that my Dad was still pining after her when she had clearly moved on.

Mom came up from Florida specifically to see Dad during his last weeks. I was glad she did. I think she was glad she did. And I know my Dad was glad she did. One of the most touching things I witnessed was her feeding him  in the nursing home. It shows that when you’ve shared a life time together, with 5 children, 9 grandchildren and 1 great-grandchild together, despite a divorce--there is a love there that never completely goes away.

When in doubt, blame the cat

Me, Christmas 1968

I'm not going to lie. Being the baby is not such a bad deal. Sure, there are some drawbacks that I'm reminded of when my youngest, Michelle, brings up that pertain to her and I say, "Oh yeah, I remember feeling that way." But overall. It's kind of awesome.

The good stuff : As the youngest of 5 kids my parents were so broken down after having stressful experiences with my hippie sister, Lynn, and my sorta lazy-but-really-just-not-motivated brother, Rick, that by the time this blond haired, blue eyed chubster came along...I was pretty much much spoiled to death. There was a 6 year age difference between my brother and I and I think my mother felt she was done having kids and then I came along, so she really enjoyed  me.

Rick and I watching TV in the family room on Diana Lane in 1973

I was a happy child and I have wonderful memories of my childhood. Truly.  I remember sharing a room with my sister, Robin. We had matching twin beds and bedspreads. She probably wasn't so thrilled to be sharing a room with her baby sister, but we got along for the most  part. Robin was TV crazy and between her and my brother Rick, I watched a lot of it. Robin also loved music. She had a Wildcat record player that she would load up with 45s and albums and listen to them all the time. The Monkees were a big deal. I loved them. Neil Diamond was another. I didn't love him. But she played a mixture of oldies from the 50's and 60's, so it was never dull. Ironic that I would go on to work at WDRC radio (known as the oldies station) years later. Robin loved that station.

I remember our bedroom walls plastered with Robin's or mine latest crush or interest. Randy Mantooth from Emergency, Davy Jones from the Monkees, Robert Conrad from Wild Wild West, The Carpenters, Donny and Marie Osmond. When I got older and scored my own room it was Shaun Cassidy, Rick Springfield and Rex Smith.

My sister, Robin's Monkee album. I still play it today!

Life on Diana Lane was carefree. I remember knowing all the neighbors and there were a lot of kids to play with. We had block  parties. We would  play for hours on the weekends or after school. Our mothers would call us for dinner by ringing a bell. Ours was mounted on our house. The mothers worked out a pattern so we knew which bell was calling us. Ours was three rings, three times.

My brother and I played a lot together during those years that he was still young enough and I was just old enough to join in. Mostly army. We had a great back yard with woods. Not the deep scary kind of woods. The kind where there was a walk path running through it with all kinds of cool places to build ground forts for the army games. I don't remember playing Cowboys and Indians ever. My brother was always  into military stuff. So he and the other boys in the neighborhood would be soldiers and go around and shoot each other with sticks, while I was an army nurse. Basically, I sat in one of the forts and waited for an injured soldier to stumble in. I would treat him with pretend medicine and use leaves to stop his pretend bleeding.

I remember we had a sandbox. I remember I was about 5 and some girl whom I have no recollection who she was but I think she must  have gone to school with me, or maybe she was the daughter of one of my mother's friends. There are pictures of she and I playing in the sandbox. I think my sister has them. Why do I remember that day? Because I was naughty that day and Robin yelled at me. I didn't want to share the sandbox toys with her and I wasn't very friendly to her for some reason. Robin was about 15 and she must have been babysitting me. My mother was working at this point and my sisters and brothers watched me a lot. I remember Robin chastised me for being rude and not sharing.

I remember my mother re-did our basement into kind of a playroom area. It was divided into rooms, with panelled walls. There were two built in toy boxes that doubled as seating with cushions on top. They were connected as one big unit against the far wall, but divided with two hinged covers. My toy box was on the left. Rick's was on the right. Everyone else was too big for toy boxes.

The washer and dryer had their own little room, as did a workshop area with all my Dad's tools, and an office for him. I don't ever remember him actually working in that office. It had a desk, but it was mostly full of model airplanes and cars that he worked on. And Civil Air Patrol stuff. The workshop area was also storage for Christmas and other things.

My 8th birthday. That's my friend Jayme Hannah next to me. 

I was confused at why there were 9 candles, but remembered we 

always added one candle "to grow on." That's our typical angel 

food cake we always had on birthdays. 

I remember we had a Halloween party for my friends down there. I must  have been 7 or 8. Again, I'm fairly sure Robin has photos. I remember it being all decorated and my friends coming.

It's funny that I don't remember celebrating many of my birthdays. I don't think we did parties. I know we had family dinner and we would have angel food cake and ice cream while everyone sang happy birthday. I know I had sleepovers, so maybe  those were connected.

I do remember one birthday party that Jodi Narkewicz was invited to. She was rich. Well, compared to everyone else, she was. We liked being friends with her because her birthday parties were always fancy or elaborate for those days. Horseback riding, I remember clearly. So, you liked inviting Jodi to your parties  because she gave you nice presents like expensive sweaters or a fun game. She was nice. Not stuck-up that I can remember. But she was not like the rest of us. Her Dad was President of a bank. Her mother always looked fancy and dressed up....even going to the grocery store.

I remember one of my favorite things when I was very little was when my mother let me eat outside on the front step. For whatever reason, I absolutely loved that. I would sit sideways on the step that was second from the top and my mother would bring me out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of milk and I would place it on the top step like it was my personal counter. Loved that.

My first cat, Bootsy. She was a beautiful Persian & Angora mix.

We were best friends

Being the baby and living a worry free life in my early childhood was pretty darn good. But, there were times it wasn't so great. I got blamed for things I didn't do. A lot. Mostly by my brother Rick. Ok, so sometimes it was justified. I was a real busy body and I was always going through everyone's private stuff. I would regularly root through my mother's drawers in her bedroom. No reason. Bored? There came a time when the age difference between Rick and I widened and I think I was just looking for stuff to do. There were a lot of boys in the neighborhood and I didn't want to play kickball or hotbox so much anymore. Jeanette Thornton, who lived across the street, was 2 years older than me and that was a big difference when you are 9 years old. My friend, Jayme Hannah, lived right up at the end of Diana Lane, but she started taking flute and swimming lessons at the Suffield Country Club, so she was around quite as much. So I was a really snoop and would get in trouble for touching stuff...sometimes unfairly. Sometimes not :)
Our cat Bootsy sure got blamed for a lot, I'll tell you that much.

Letting the cat out of the bag

So what's with a cat title for a blog on family history? Cats and genealogy. A natural pairing, I'm sure you'll agree. Ok, so not in the conventional sense of the term. But for me, I've had cats my entire 50 years of life. So when I think of my own personal history...I have to talk cats. They were/are an important part of my family tree.

I just came back from the Jamboree genealogy conference in California. I'm actually on a layover in Philadelphia waiting for my flight home as I type this. While I was at the conference I kept meeting geneabloggers. Many of whom I've read regularly. I told them I had always wanted to start a blog, but didn't know how to begin. I didn't know how interesting it would be to anyone. I didn't know if anyone would even want to read it.

"Write for yourself. If no one else reads it then you have left a digital diary for your children, " was the answer I kept getting.

I have stories that I want to share with my children in a different format than a family history book with hundreds of ancestors they may or may not care about. There will be cat stories, of course. I think this may be a good forum to do that. Some stories may surprise them. That's why I titled this post Letting the cat out of the bag.

Let's see how this goes. Let's see if I can pull different stories together from my fragmented mind. Those memories can be difficult for me to piece together sometimes.

Kind of like herding cats.