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I have been reminiscing back to when our family broke up. Spurred of course, by my brothers writings on the subject. I may have more trouble remembering, because I was old enough to understand what was happening, and I have spent many years trying to forget the whole thing. Sometimes my memories turn out to be stories my mind made up to cushion the shock and fear of the real events.
The first breakup was not as sudden as some stories I’ve heard. Our Dad did not just disappear one day. There was a progression of signs that something was not right with the marriage.
Dad had been coming home late, with the old tale of staying to work late. He also was giving Bible studies to a young woman named Beatrice Wileman. She had two children, George and Philip, and they were good friends, since we all went to the same small Adventist school.
He owned a slide projector with a rotary vertical disc which fed the slides in one at a time on the top. When the disc was turned half a turn, the old slide was removed and the new slide was inserted in the top. Then the disc was rotated again to show the next slide. He had several boxes of slides with the Seventh-day Adventist beliefs presented as lessons.
Some of these details may not fit in the flow of the story, but they are related as they show up in my mind.
I was just old enough to understand Mom’s nervousness about the situation. She suspected Vern was not as faithful as she was hoping.
There was some quiet wondering when Vern hired a young lady named Millie as a mechanic in his shop for a short time. I don’t know her qualifications for the job, but she inspired some quiet jealousy with my Mom. Later, after Millie found another job in an office, they became good friends.
There was also the time a young red haired schoolteacher, Inez Hopkins, had car trouble in Fresno. Dad was called to go tow her 1939 Chevrolet back to Merced, but an older woman, Mrs. Cameron went along to chaperone the situation. This was before tow bars were a thing. The car was towed with a chain, and Inez had to steer as she followed Dad’s Kaiser. There was a head-on wreck on the old three lane highway between Fresno and Herndon. Mrs. Cameron had both legs broken, and Inez and Vern had lacerations and contusions. All survived. All cars were totaled.
I think Vern must have a had a bit of a reputation, and was not always trusted, even by the ladies of the church.
Beatrice now and then watched us three Rogers boys when our Mom had some business to take care of. One evening she was taking care of us and all five of us boys were eating dinner at her house when Vernon came in the door. They talked for a short time and then he left. I don’t remember if he was surprised to see us there or not. I’m sure Beatrice was sending a signal to our Mother that Vernon came to her house now.
Of course, when we told Mom she was not happy. I think she cried, and she probably called the Adventist preacher for advice. This is conjecture on my part, since I wasn’t in on the conversation.
At about 1:00 AM some following morning, there was a knock on the door. It was Pastor John Baerg, asking Mom to come with him. At this point my memory is hazy. I can visualize sitting in the back seat of the pastor’s car as they drove across town to a leafy street somewhere north of the Courthouse and south of the railroad tracks. They parked the car behind Dad’s car out front of a house and both went to the door and knocked. There was a lot of loud talking as Dad claimed he had just stopped there, but the pastor wasn’t buying it, and declared that there was grounds for a divorce here.
Pastor Baerg returned us back to our house, prayed with us and then left.
This whole narrative is suspect, and may be memories of the story as Mom related it to me. I don’t remember my brothers in the car, and I can’t imagine Mom taking me along and leaving the other two alone in the house. Maybe they were in the car, too, and my focus was elsewhere. I just don’t remember.
Vern hadn’t come to our house for many days, and he didn’t come back to his family again.
My brothers remember that while we were at Prayer Meeting on Wednesday, Dad left a note for Mom on the table, obviously telling Mom he was leaving.
The next weekend, I think, Vern came by and took us three kids to Vernon’s Drive-in, on the north side of Merced, where he bought us burgers, and was still trying to explain why he was at Bea’s house and not ours. After he dropped us off back at home, he and Beatrice left for Tijuana for a quickie Mexican marriage.
Several well meaning people, church folk and relatives, let me know I was the man of the family now, and to help Mom take care of my. brothers. I was not ready for that kind of responsibility at ten years old, but I tried.
Pastor Baerg’s son came out to our house one day in an old Ford, I think, and let me drive his car around the block of McHenry, Mission, and Gerard Avenue. I still wasn’t tall enough to see the road ahead, and I think I may have had a pillow under me. That was my first attempt at driving a car, but I caught on pretty quickly.
A few years later, long before I was old enough for a license, I woke up to moans from the hallway one night. I found Mom lying in a pool of blood and going in and out of consciousness. Not knowing what else to do, I woke the other brothers up and told them to get in the car. I picked up Mom and put her in the car and drove to the hospital ER. I ran inside and told them my Mom was bleeding and needed help. They rushed out, got her into a wheelchair and took her in for treatment.
I don’t remember being asked questions, so maybe Mom came to long enough to give them the name of her mother. Soon Grandma and Uncle Roy showed up to help.
I can’t for the life of me remember whether they let me drive the Buick back home myself, or gave me a ride and found another driver. Uncle Roy told me I did good, which was the first compliment I remember from him. He had always been the grouchy old guy who chased us out of his shop when we ventured in.
I was so young and naive I thought Mom had a bad nosebleed. It was years before I found out the truth. I still don’t know what kind of “female” trouble she had.
Raking up these old memories brings up a lot of pain. I understand why so many old men get sentimental and cry a lot. The tears just well up and won’t be stopped. I’ve got to stop writing for now.
Don Rogers 1/11/23
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