Five leather suitcases, three hat boxes and a sizable crate jammed the Oldsmobile’s back seat. Mable twisted around from the front passenger seat, eyeing Brooke wedged between a Fall semester’s worth of clothes and art supplies to ask, “Enough stuff?” Her only daughter was being delivered to her freshman dormitory at Colorado University. Mable wondered if any academic books or study materials were packed. Jim, her husband, just chuckled and kept driving through downtown Denver, headed north to Boulder.
Brooke, always a handful, caused many sleepless nights for Mabel as her daughter grew from infant to young woman. Her high school years at home were confrontational scenes and door-slamming, one battle after another.
The worst of them happened in late July. Brooke found out her mother was the concerned citizen who called police to report a neighborhood speakeasy flourishing in the City Park community. The following morning, Jim found a brick with a note on their porch threatening retaliation for “interference.” Although nothing came of it, Mable was deeply shaken. Brooke didn’t speak to her for over a week and boycotted nightly family dinners.
Last week, Brooke informed her parents she planned to stay on campus on her own over the following summer. As distraught as Mabel felt over possibly not seeing her during those months, this was overshadowed by her fear for Brooke’s reputation and well-being.
The drive to Boulder took all morning. Leaving Denver’s outskirts, they drove west through farmland and past barns. Fields abundant with late summer produce and herds of dairy cows greeted them along the dust-billowing highway. Mable leaned back, letting random memories flicker through in her mind.
“Jim, remember our first Oldsmobile, ‘The Beast?’ ”
Without a pause, he sighed. “The Beast, a magnificent old girl . . . ahh, what an automobile she was.” He clapped his hand to his chest over his heart. “I miss her to this very day.”
Mable sniffed. “I do not miss The Beast’s lack of a roof covering. We’d be gagging dust all the way to Boulder, arriving in a most pitiful appearance.”
From the backseat, Brooke added her two cents of opinion. “And I miss The Beast, too.”
Mable turned her head, trying to assess her daughter’s affinity for a heap of metal and greasy engine parts. “How on earth can you miss a belching, noisy machine?”
Brooke ignored the question. With an impish twinkle, she slapped the hat box on her lap. “But I think automobiles should be a ‘he.’ ”
That was enough to get Jim going on all obvious merits of feminine nicknames for his automobiles. “Dear doubting daughter, ships and boats have women’s names. Always ‘her.’ It’s a time-honored tradition. For centuries! Even, and I’m quite sure about this, Noah fondly referred to his famous ark as ‘she.’ Besides, automobiles have a temperamental side. A womanly attribute, I assure you. Not so for us men, paragons of sensibility.”
Brooke took his bait. “Well, when I own a car, I’ll call it ‘he’ and give it a proper manly name. Automobiles, like most men, need my superior steering and wisdom on braking to function at all.”
Mable yet unspoken concern whispered only to her. How does she already know about men?
Jim retorted, “Well played, Brooke. Check out the debate club at CU, you’ll surely shine!” He honked the horn for emphasis, scattering cows who’d been minding their bovine business by munching grass along the road’s fence.
Mable agreed. Their daughter’s mind needed a worthwhile collegiate endeavor, lest she major in idle socializing. Parties. Bootleg liquor. With an intention to put a bookend to the conversation, she said, “It. I refer to any automobile as an ‘it.’ ”
“Mother, the rest of the world will be driving everywhere, but you’ll be Colfax trolley’s oldest and most faithful customer.” Mable marveled how Brooke was always ready for the last word. How will she properly respect her professors?
They stopped for lunch in Arvada. Brooke insisted on the “most amazing, fabulous white celery salad” at a new diner on Grandview Avenue. Mable prided herself on keeping the lunch conversation cheery. Though burdened with a dizzying list of excellent advice at the tip of her tongue, she tried hard to make the rest of their drive relaxed and the topics positive.
In honor of the day’s drive, Jim learned the CU school song. He whistled it with gusto and Brooke joined in with lyrics. Mable couldn’t remember her own Cottey College school song. She never had time for such frivolity interrupting her studies and thought it a silly waste of energy. But listening to their CU rendition, she felt left out. She looked out at the cows and wondered why she didn’t try to join in on the music.
Reaching Boulder, Jim drove through the campus of red tile roofs and sandstone walls to arrive at the dormitory. After Brooke’s luggage was hauled to her rather barebones room and her clothes hung in a modest closet, John gave her a long hug. “My little girl . . . so grown up. Take good care of yourself, I love you.”
It was Mable’s turn to say good-bye. To her horror, all she could manage was to break into tears. It felt as if Brooke would be lost to her. The memory of seeing her daring baby girl climb out of her crib and giggle on the floor over her accomplishment made Mable weep more.
“Mother, I’ll be fine. And home for semester break. I promise.”
Taking out her handkerchief, Mable sniffled, “Well, just look at me carrying on so, your silly, blubbering mother.” Mable found her focus anew. “Now, you behave yourself here.”
Jim stepped up to take Mable’s hand. “Our daughter will be fine. She’ll study hard and make it a splendid first semester.” He nodded with, “Am I right, Brooke?” She nodded in sync, then echoed to Mable, “I’ll study, Mother.”
Mable dapped her eyes dry. She couldn’t recall any advice she’d practiced. Instead, she hugged Brooke and poured out her heart’s wish, “Promise me, you’ll write to us, please, please write to us.” They left, both looking over their shoulders. Brooke waved and blew theatrical kisses from her dorm room’s door. For Mable, it felt her heart was being shattered with the reality her child was now a person in her own right.
Later, after weeping intermittently all the way home, she eventually looked at Jim, threw up her hands, and folded her handkerchief up with studied precision. “I am done. So ridiculous to be this upset. First, she’s a handful. Second, she’s only 38 miles away. I can visit her almost anytime.”
Jim said nothing but reached for her left hand. Mable squeezed his hand before saying, “Eyes on the road, Jim.”
* * *
Brooke’s first letter arrived in early October, its white envelope bordered with ink in a fanciful Grecian key design dancing around in blues and greens. My daughter, the artist. Mable made sure the artful envelope, so full of Brooke’s sass and spunk, wasn’t separated from the letter. At the same time, she worried their family bohemian was spending her time decorating envelopes instead of studying for her classes. Mable turned the envelope over to see if it also was embellished. Instead, she saw these words: “Time well spent, Mother. This was for a class assignment in creating practical art for every day. Grade: A”
Mable missed her daughter’s liveliness, her way of making anything mundane into an adventure. Without Brooke’s frustrating shenanigans, Mable felt life was less interesting. If only I had a tenth of her daring. Mable felt her first conscious pangs of jealousy.
As much as she wanted to tear it open and consume every word, Mable placed it back in the foyer’s letter tray, to properly await the dinner hour with Jim. Letters to them both were always shared together after dinner with their dessert.
“Time for Brooke’s letter, Jim?” Mable put down her ice cream spoon, wanting to hear every word, every nuance in her letter.
He savored a scoop of ice cream and reached into his jacket’s inner breast pocket for his new reading spectacles. “Yes! How did she find writing time with all her studying? Surely pursuing her education with academic rigor. Oh, my! Look at this! How clever to festoon a boring white envelope!”
John took another quick scoop before reading aloud. “My goodness, three pages. Don’t let your ice cream melt, we have a delightfully lengthy tome.”
Mable listened and tried to keep her worried thoughts at bay from whatever the contents would reveal.
September 10, 1924
Dear parents of mine, enjoy my lines as you dine. Toast me with wine, I am fine.
Poetic? All by design! Yes, how well I know you. And how I miss our dinners, especially when letters arrive. (So, she really noticed? Even when mad at me!) Let me guess, Cook has already seen her favorite actor – John Barrymore – in that new horror film, “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” Did she honor the movie picture by serving a cake? Half flavored in innocent vanilla and the other in demon rum? I’m seeing it in my mind’s eye and envy you. Please send Cook to my dorm cafeteria on occasion, they could use her touch.
College is eons different from life at home. Never fear, I really do miss you and the dogs, too. But I’m in heaven, here in the hallowed halls of CU. My roommate, Caroline, is a swell girl. She just bobbed her hair. Her father is a Methodist minister in Greeley. (Excellent. A good influence.) On their last visit, her mother wept over Carolyn’s new haircut.
We never know when they might pop in. So, Carolyn keeps a Bible on her bed table but dusts it off when they arrive. (Not what I wanted to hear.) If agreeable, I’d love to invite her home with me on semester break. (I never invited anyone home from Cottey. Or was invited.) You’ll love her! She has a wild sense of humor, kept under wraps during all her growing up days as a preacher’s kid. She writes for the school newspaper and sometimes takes me for interviews. We’ve had many adventures! (Do I want to hear of them? Likely not.)
Some of the girls in our dorm are quite homesick. Not me! (Not even a tiny bit?) So I invite them on outings or talk to them on campus. By the way, I’m pledging a sorority, Chi Omega. (Without asking us?) Everybody says it’s the smart thing to do and their parties are fabulous. (Parties? But what kind? Chaperones?)
My classes are mostly boys. Nice ratio, one girl to every ten boys! Most of the boys are swell but a few think that I, a mere woman, should not be allowed to attend CU. (She’s calling herself a woman, but she’s just a girl!) Some male professors think with the same caveman mentality. I raise my hand and get ignored! Not fair. So, I started sitting in the front, in the very center. And I assure you, my hand raising is not demure. It’s quite fun! (I think I’m proud of you. But how “not demure?”)
Funny story. (Oh dear.) Some of our gang went to Wonderland Lake last Sunday. (What about church?) The weather was sublime, full of summer’s lingering sunshine. After our picnic, we all decided to go swimming. Carolyn and I foresaw such a fun opportunity and packed our bathing suits. Luckily, there were plenty of bushes to hide us as we changed. I giggled like I was a little girl! Imagine, changing clothes like that! (No, I don’t want to imagine.)
Running pell-mell into the lake, we kicked up enough water to chase away unwary fish and began to splash each other, ducking and jumping up high out of the water. (Any boys in the water with you?) Not to be left behind, the boys threw off their clothes down to their union suits. Boys are so lucky! (Wet union suits?) You never saw such hilarity! That is, until I jumped up extra high out of the water after being dunked and heard Caroline gasp. My wool swimming suit had become so wet, so heavy with lake water that it sagged down to my tummy. A true mermaid! (That is not funny . . . it’s a disaster!)
Rather than admit my slight embarrassment, I dunked down to my chin and yelled, “End of this show, boys!” They were more embarrassed than I was! The girls on the shore rushed up to the water’s edge with their red-checkered picnic cloth. My color! I thought I handled this very well. Besides, who’s idea was it to make a bathing suit out of wool? Worthless. (What did people think? Her reputation . . .)
Anyway, since I shared that incident, might as well tell you about another one. (Now what?) Caroline had an interview with a visiting professor. I tagged along, sounded interesting. A real Indian, someone from Oklahoma who lectures on the Cherokee people. How could I turn down something so educational? (She’s leaving something out . . . aha, what class didn’t she attend that day?)
While Carolyn rattled off her interview questions and scribbled like a fevered scribe, I sat in the corner and did a sketch for the school paper. I’d left my drawing class just a tiny bit early to come along. (Ha! I knew it!) The next day I turned in the drawing as my profile assignment in charcoal. This woman’s head was far more compelling than the fat lady my art professor had paid to pose for our class that day.
Joy of joys, my charcoal drawing appeared in the school paper! Oh, but since I’d changed into my new chiffon dress in such a hurry for the interview appointment, I wore it inside out! The seams were shaggy with wispy chiffon threads and the effect was rather floaty. It looked acceptable, daring and trendsetting in an haute couture way. Carolyn never even noticed until we’d left the journalism building and were walking back to our dorm. I swirled to let the threads swish in the air, and we laughed all the way back. (Should’ve never let her out of the house.)
Classes. Most are interesting or at the very least, entertaining. Mr. Banner is my favorite professor, mostly because he has a swell sense of humor despite teaching us American poetry. I may even read some on my own. Down with your eyebrow, Mother. It’s possible one does go to college to expand one’s mind.
Time to put down my pen and dress up for a dinner date. Oo la la . . . a senior chemistry major. Quite a charmer for such a dull field of study. But he drives a swell Stutz Bearcat convertible and takes me to the Boulder Country Club. I’m expanding my horizons. (Lordy, what horizons does she mean?)
I miss you all, playing on the porch with the dogs, and eating Cook’s every dish ever served.
Will write again soon. (Let me recover from this letter first.)
Kisses, Brooke
P.S. I jazzed up our ever-so-dreary dorm room. A few embroidered Spanish shawls with fringe, velvet swags and feather boas made it much more palatable. Sigh. My Brownie camera can’t capture its colorful glory. This ugly duckling dorm room is now a splendid swan.
Jim finished reading and took off his spectacles. “Splendid letter! Sounds like our daughter has taken CU like a windstorm in . . .”
Mable spoke over his words, “Is she is studying? Or just running amok and having fun.”
Jim tilted his head at Mable. “Well, of course, we want her to have some fun.” Mable wished she hadn’t spoken in haste, feeling like the bringer of pessimism to Jim’s delight. He misses her, too.
Jim looked down at the letter on the table, tracing the border lightly with his finger. Mable thought he looked wistful yet pleased with the contents. The letter was full of Brooke’s honest spirit.
She tried to lighten the mood. “I pity the poor professor who refuses to call on her. By the end of the semester, he’ll be too scared to not call on the sassy girl sitting in front. And I miss her showing me how to draw a vase.”
No shocked comments came from Jim about wanton lake swimming or an inside-out dress. Mabel tried again with, “Oh Brooke, only you. A mermaid and a fashion trend setter! It’ll be grand, or should I say ‘swell’, to see her soon.”
For the rest of the evening, she dwelt on her countless missed opportunities at Cottey to have fun, to be young. She didn’t like her feelings of jealousy towards Brooke’s zestful living. Was I ever young?
Despite the turmoil of her feelings for her daughter, one worry caused the most sleepless nights. Brooke would want to try all of life’s tastes. Everything. Ten boys for every girl? This was a loaded ratio for a girl always eager for new experiences. There’d been precious few heart-to-heart talks with her daughter. The subject of sex was delicately avoided, except for giving Brooke a dreary “becoming a woman” book on her 16th birthday.
This persistent dread of Brooke going too far in pursuit of all things exciting and novel would not leave Mabel. She made up her mind, even if Brooke exploded with anger, to take the initiative and address certain womanly matters. Embarrassed, lest she be seen by acquaintances or friends at a bookstore or library, she visited the new women’s clinic for up-to-date medical information needed for a serious talk. During the entire appointment, she acted determined and modern but was terrified by taking such a bold step. Contraception was new to her, nobody had taught her and she knew virtually nothing practical.
Jim, to her everlasting surprise and shock, agreed immediately when she raised this plan after dinner one night. He looked chagrined. “Deep in my heart, I know something is needed. I worry, too. She must not become an unwed mother.”
So, after a long bus ride, she found herself at CU armed with brochures, references, and a big dose of embarrassment. But she felt proud of herself for asking, rather than just appearing, for a weekend visit. She wanted to treat Brooke like a mutual adult, not a parent to a child. But am I opening a door better left shut?
The mild late autumn day in Boulder was bright but nippy. Mabel and Brooke wore winter coats with beaver fur collars and extra-warm gloves. Sipping hot tea and seated together on a wooden bench along Boulder Creek near downtown, Mabel ventured into her real reason for making the trip. With stuttering stops and starts, she started to share her literature. Brooke looked shocked. And then she laughed. “Mother, you’re blushing! Just like the day you gave me the book!”
Reaching into her handbag, Mabel handed her specific pamphlets about both condoms and the new intrauterine method. Once Brooke got serious and stopped laughing, Mabel just looked at her, staying silent.
As if her mother had handed her a cookbook recipe for roast beef, Brooke murmured a quiet “Thank you.” She flipped through the pamphlets, saying, “I promise to read this. How extremely hard on you. I hope you can get decent sleep now.”
Riding the Boulder to Denver bus home, she felt their mother-daughter relationship had shifted on that wood bench while the creek rushed by with chunks of ice eroding along the water’s edge. Sharp-edged ice like our heated conversations, also swept away. Mabel felt confident with her visit; two adult women discussing life’s realities.
Mabel had taken an extra step, almost as hard as it was to discuss birth control in 1924. She’d felt brave enough to acknowledge her part in the rebellion equation. Mabel confessed she was jealous of Brooke’s zest for life’s foibles and joys. The last bit of jagged ice broke away when Brooke hugged her mother. Mabel felt not the cold autumn air, but a glow, freed from deep inside.
Before she left, Brooke asked her to talk more about Cottey College. Mabel promised to write a letter to her each week after protesting, “My letters will be the pinnacle of boring. Nothing fun. I suppose I hid behind books and studying. It felt safe. I was so busy worrying about every teeny-tiny thing.” But Brooke made her promise, getting the final word. Mary responded, “Have I ever told you your blazing confidence is one of the things I love most about you?”
Once back home in Denver, Mabel went into Brooke’s old bedroom and looked around. How different her bedroom is from mine. Hers, full of color and discovery. Mine, predictable and respectable. That night at dinner, she wore one of her daughter’s silk corsage flower pins, a bright hodgepodge of purple and magenta.
It was fun. Mabel felt younger.