CHAPTER TWO

BOWL OF KU

Anxious to be born, I arrived two weeks early on December 15, 1932. When I grew older my mother, Irene called me “Miss Impatience”. My astrological signs were opposing, the sun in Sagittarius, a fire sign and the moon in Cancer, a water sign indicating future adversity. Those born in 1932, the Chinese year of the Monkey possess a curious, capricious, compulsive, and independent nature. Mother had a luxurious two-week stay at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston, Illinois before assuming her unqualified role as a mother. An early photograph reveals a tentative Mother holding a very tense, angry, and frightened two-month-old baby. Her arms do not appear comforting or loving.

It was mandatory that at on Sundays my parents go to the Welters for lunch. In the thirties most families sat down for a big middle of the day dinner. Too young for a highchair I was placed in a crib upstairs. The Roast beef dinner had been just served when the maid came downstairs to announce to the table at large “there was a problem upstairs”. I was just under a year, but unusually aware and curious for my age. I had discovered my diaper and its contents. I made my first artistic creation, finger painting on the wall next to my crib.

As I grew older, I was acutely aware of my surroundings and the tiniest details. I was a feral cat on the alert for anything suspicious, different, or harmful and curious about many things. Mother constantly harped at me: “you ask too many questions”. I was also told, “I was too smart for my own good”. Sighing, she would dismiss me. One of her solutions was to foster me off on any available adult. In Eagle River, I was told to go talk to Mr. Ritchie, an elderly man who lived five houses away. At home in Evanston, I was told to ring Mr. Ballinger’s doorbell to see if he wanted to go for a walk. Fortunately, these men were not pedophiles, just lonesome, bored old men. I have no memory of what Mr. Ritchie and I talked about, but I learned more than I needed to know about Mr. Ballinger’s canning company in Keokuk, Iowa. When Mother felt I was getting too sassy or difficult she would ask, “is the Duchess is visiting today?” I had no idea what a Duchess was, but I decided I wanted to be one.

Afternoons, Mother usually would be found resting on her chaise leafing through fashion magazines. Although I was routinely put down for a nap, I was a restless and energetic child who could never relax and go to sleep. I was always thinking out of the box and planning what to do next. During one nap time I decided the pair of pink and aqua chicks I received for Easter should go swimming. I crept downstairs and took them from their basket. Clutching them, I climbed on top of the dining room table. I removed the Easter flower bouquet from the large silver bowl and placed the chicks in the water. Unable to swim they floundered helplessly. Disappointed, I stamped my shoes on the table and shouted angrily at them. Aroused from her fantasy world of Vogue Magazine, Mother came to investigate. The chicks were in shock. She swooped them up and put them in a 100- degree oven to revive them, but it was too late.

One morning, left in charge of a careless maid, who was napping, I decided to pick some flowers for Mother. I went into her closet with my blunt little scissors and went to work on the costly new evening dress she was to wear that evening, snipping the colorful flowers out mid-thigh. The dress could not be salvaged. When Mother returned home, I ran up to her clutching the flowers. I tried to give them to her, but she refused to take them and cried out in an angry voice, “what have you done now?” I was crushed. The day before a professional photographer was to come to Mrs. Welter’s house, I chopped off a lot of my hair before I was caught. Another successful act of rebellion but an unsuccessful attention effort.

In vain, I continually tried to engage my parent’s attention. On a Sunday drive Daddy gave in to my relentless begging to stop at the Pony Park. Although I had never ridden a pony except to pose on a pony for the door-to-door photographer, I brashly demanded the fastest pony. When the pony cantered wildly around the ring, I became terrified of falling off. I hung on to the saddle horn with both hands for dear life. I dismounted with trembling legs hoping my parent would be impressed with my skill, but not one word was said. Another negative lesson in why try, why bother, they will never notice or care.

A Northwestern University Professor Ney McMinn had written for the Delphian Society and lived in an apartment building my grandfather owned. He had become a friend of my Father. Mother brought me to their apartment so Ceci, his wife could paint a watercolor of me. The McMinns were delightful and slightly bohemian. When he retired, they went to live in a houseboat on the Seine River. Their apartment had furnishings quite unlike like my parent’s home. It was filled with Ceci’s paintings, art materials, easels, lots of art on the walls, and Ney’s books were stacked in every available space. I believe my fascination and the seed for the artistic, intellectual life style was born then. They fussed over me and for once, I felt special. I was having a marvelous carefree time until their Pekingese bit me on the finger. When Mother arrived to pick me up, she became very cross when she saw my fancy dress and face were dirty. She rudely rejected the painting and left it on the easel. I had been so happy. I could not understand why Mother was so angry with the Mc Minns and me. She said the painting was terrible. I was crushed. I felt guilty that I had done something wrong that had made the painting bad.

I felt insecure especially around other children. Briefly, I attended the Presbyterian Church play school. I remember feeling inadequate because I was unable to walk on a ladder that lying on the ground. All the other children could do it. Mother never brought me back there claiming the place was not organized. Whenever, I felt anxious and insecure I would show off to literally fall flat on my face. Two different times I broke my front teeth. Years later, I would get drunk.

At the obligatory Sunday lunch at Mrs. Welter’s, the cocktail hour went on longer than usual. The adults were absorbed in themselves and their drinks. They paid no attention to my brother and me. We had nothing to amuse us. I became bored and restless. I picked a fight with Abbott and pushed him into the glass cocktail table. He had a slight bruise on his forehead. As a punishment, I was banished outside. I was furious, feeling that I had been treated harshly. Two hundred imported Dutch tulips on either side of the twenty-foot brick walk were in full bloom. I decided a romp through them would make me happy. I did not tip toe through the tulips, I joyously ran through the rows, flattening the flowers to the ground, breaking their stalks and white, pink, yellow, and red petals fell to the ground. The tulip beds were Mrs. Welter’s special pride. They had never bloomed more brilliantly than that spring.

Mother was disappointed and unhappy with her marriage. Both she and my father were emotionally immature. They did not know how to give affection, nor were they able to have empathy. They specialized in finding fault, making judgments, relentless intellectual observation, caveats, and voluminous criticism. This made them perfect partners. Their anxiety was tuned so high they found everything expensive around them wrong. Criticizing alleviated this. I absorbed their behavior. I believed their script and normalized their emotional abuse and neglect. I was a giant sea sponge soaking up the brine of their negativity. I realized it was useless to cry or argue. My opinions and questions were either ignored by Mother or thought stupid by my father. If I became upset, I bit my nails down to the quick. When Mrs. Welter promised a reward if I stopped biting them. I did, but she did not notice I replaced one bad habit with another. I picked at my cuticles. I have no memories of either parent hugging or kissing me. Once at a picnic in Eagle River Daddy put his in hand in my hair, making clicking noises with his fingernails. He said there were lice in my hair. This made me feel worthless. Tears welled up, but I did not cry or say a word. My parents were never affectionate, hugged, touched, or kissed one another. I do not remember much laughter in the house unless it was laughter born of ridicule at someone’s expense. Whenever an issue was in contention or a decision needed to be made, Mother would say, “we’ll talk about that later”. Later, never materialized. There was never any problem solving in the house. Avoidance and denial were modus operandi. Controversy made me uncomfortable. I learned to repress verbal anger.

When Mother decided I should learn to swim I was taken to the Lido indoor pool in Evanston. I was the only one in the unheated pool. Mother watched for several minutes and then started to leave. I went into a panic attack, terrified of the water and of being left. That was the end of swimming lessons. I never did learn to swim properly, fearful of putting my face in the water.

My family and Mrs. Welter visited JT in Miami one winter. We traveled in style in a Pullman Sleeper car. I slept in Mom’s commodious stateroom. Our personal porter made up the beds each evening with fresh sheets. Mother and Daddy spent most of their time in the lounge and bar car. At the end was an observation platform for watching the scenery. I begged Daddy to take me out there, but he was too busy drinking in the club car to take me more than once.

JT's architecturally designed house was...