Mama and Barney Part 2

They All Live Happily Ever After

Mama turned seventeen on July 14, 1944, an’ Barney was there to help her celebrate. It didn’t take long before she decided to let this puppy follow her home. By September, she was pregnant.

Mama never shared that part of the story with me, though. It would be decades before I thought through the timelines and figured it out for myself. She never wanted me to know she had given in to her human desires, that she didn’t always follow the evangelical churches demands. She kept that part of herself hidden, maybe to protect me, or maybe because she couldn’t forgive herself.

If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been nearly so hard on myself when normal human feelings started peekin’ through the window.

Mama married Barney on Halloween that year, killin’ two birds with one stone. She was leavin’ her one-horse town an’ gettin’ away from her mother for good. She barely noticed the gray skies and freezin’ temperatures. This was the start of somethin’ new, an’ it was all pretty much Mama’s own doin’.

She hadn’t figured on gettin’ pregnant, but Barney showin’ up when he did was her way outta Granny’s house an’ into somethin’ that felt like freedom. Accommodatin’ this unexpected turn of events set the wheels in motion quicker’n she mighta planned, but she had no complaints about that.

Granny was horrified that her only daughter was pregnant an’ unmarried. “You cain’t tell nobody, Darline. Just say the baby came early.”

On top of that, for Quakers, gettin’ married on Halloween was a problem. It was a day full of immodesty an’ bad behavior. Not to mention its pagan roots. Mama gettin’ married at the courthouse on a Tuesday, an’ not at the Meetin’ House on Sunday, piled one embarrassment on another.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, girl. Someday you’ll have kids of your own, maybe even a daughter. You’ll see. I hope they’re as rotten to the core as you.”

I wonder if Granny was thinkin’ of her own mother when she said those words. Maybe she saw herself in Mama’s rebellion, an’ it stirred somethin’ raw she didn’t want to face.

When I’s a child of four an’ damn hard to handle, Granny told me how she had been a handful herself. By the time she was eight years old, Granny skipped more school than she attended. When her Ma came out to chase her down an’ spank her, Granny’d climb up on the barn an’ say, “Follow me, you cain’t, an’ killin’, you daresn’t.” Granny finished third grade that year an’ never went back.

Mama was just one in a long line of strong-willed women. Granny had her rebellious streak, an’ her Ma had hers too. It seemed the fightin’ spirit got handed down, whether we wanted it or not. Mama’s firstborn daughter would be no different.

 Bunnie Bearl Barnhart (she’d change her middle name to Jo when she was twenty-five) was born at home on June 14, 1945, on 5th Avenue in Moline, Illinois. The Mississippi River surrounded the Rock Island Arsenal, just a stone’s throw away from their first apartment. Darline became a mom one month before her eighteenth birthday, three weeks after her classmates graduated from Grinnell High School — without her. I’m sure Mama felt a mix of pride an’ loss that summer, cradlin’ her baby while the world kept movin’ on.

Well, she got her daughter with Granny there to help bring her into the world. But the love she felt for this baby from the moment she saw her was beyond anything anybody had ever told her about. This little person was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. So tiny; not even five pounds, she looked just like a little bunny. Hence, her name.

Barney wasn’t around when the baby came, but three days later, when he finally showed up again, he said he’d been out celebratin’ with friends. Had he been there, he woulda had somethin’ to say about that name.

But it hadn’t taken long for Mama to stop expectin’ much from Barney an’ she couldn’t care less about his opinions. Too late to complain about somethin’ he forced her to do on her own. She just shrugged it off, cradlin’ her newborn baby girl, wonderin’ how her Mama could ever wish she didn’t have a daughter.

Those early months with Barney were full of thrills that helped Mama forget what had come before. Late-night rides with the windows down, the rush of his hand in hers, the way he made her laugh until her cheeks ached. It was all mostly fun at first.

Then it got hard. Really hard. An’ now she’s makin’ supper for two little girls sittin’ at a table gapin’ wide-eyed at their daddy pullin’ up the kitchen floor, hollerin’ about G-men.

Mama thought she’s seein’ things when a stack of sawed-off shotguns an’ what looked like a few machine guns piled inside three wooden crates marked Hawkeye Mincemeats came into view.

Fear prickled at the back of her neck as her stomach churned. She wanted to scream at Barney, but she knew better. He wasn’t in the mood to listen. When Barney yelled, ‘You gonna help me or not?’, she snapped outta disbelief an’ grabbed the first crate of guns comin’ outta the floor. It was heavy.

She shouted back, “I thought you told me you were keepin’ these guns in the shed down the hill?!”

“I got ‘em down there, too. This here’s the overflow. I ain’t about to say no to the guys we work for, Darline! We’re in it up to our asses,” he growled, his hands shakin’ as he wiped sweat off his forehead. His eyes darted toward the window like he was expectin’ headlights to pull up any second. “Stop talkin’ an’ help me get these down to the river! We gotta get rid of ‘em… now!”

The crate scraped against the floor as she hauled it up, the weight of the guns nearly dislocatin’ her shoulder. Mama set her crate near the front door an’ came back to tie Bonnie in her highchair with one of the extra aprons that hung on a hook near the ice box.

She wrapped the apron around her youngest daughter, tyin’ it to the wooden back slats of the chair, her mind driftin’, searchin’ for somethin’ soft to hold onto amidst the chaos. Goin’ back to simpler times she was transported to her childhood an’ the old homestead where she lived with her Daddy. Back before he left.

Sundays were the best day of the week, an’ not just ‘cause they didn’t have to go to school. It was her favorite ‘cause her Daddy was always at home. Granny took her an’ her brothers to church, but they knew Daddy’d be waitin’ on ‘em when they got back. He wasn’t the religious type an’ he always seemed to have other things to do, but when the kids came home on Sunday, there was nothin’ in the world more important to their Daddy than time with his children.

Right after church, while Granny made dinner, her Daddy sat in his favorite chair. He called Mama up on his lap while the boys gathered around his feet, an’ then he would read the funny papers like nothin’ else in the world mattered.

The Sunday Des Moines Register brought the world to your door. Her Daddy always told ‘em that when he got tired of what the world had to say, the Sunday comics – always in full color – would come to the rescue.

Sometimes Mama went with him to the store on the corner where they bought the paper. It was so heavy, Mama struggled to pick it up. It cost a whole dime, twice what the weekday edition cost, but her Daddy never hesitated. ‘Worth every penny,’ he’d say as he lifted her on his shoulders when they headed back home. He made her the queen of the world when she sat up there.

Little Orphan Annie was Mama’s favorite. She’d lose herself in that little redhead’s adventures with her dog Sandy. Her Daddy always read it before anything else. He’d hand her the funny papers with a wink, his fingers rough from years of work. ‘Ladies first,’ he’d say as he gave his little girl a big kiss on the cheek an’ settled back in his chair to make room for her.

Next, the boys went flyin’ through space with Buck Rodgers, their Daddy’s deep voice bringin’ the galaxy to life. Together, they kept the universe safe from evil forces, if only for a little while.

Those Sundays made her an’ her brothers feel like the world was a safe place to be, a feelin’ that vanished the day Daddy walked away.

The Sunday comics were prized for the joy they brought to Mama an’ her brother’s life with their dad, but they were treasured for their color. Ever’ week’s comics were read then safely tucked away in a chest that sat at the end of her parent’s bed. In December, they became wrappin’ paper for their Christmas presents.

Mama knew which gifts were hers ‘cause they were decorated with Little Orphan Annie’s bright red hair on top. Readin’ the comics with her Daddy ever’ week was a taste of the joy to come at Christmas.

Openin’ her gifts on Christmas mornin’, Mama would carefully peel back the paper, tryin’ not to tear Little Orphan Annie’s face. Those gifts carried a little extra magic, wrapped in the joy of Sundays past.

Back then, she didn’t know how rare those moments were. Now, years later, in the chaos of her own life, she’d give anything to sit in that chair, on her Daddy’s lap, an’ lose herself in the funny papers again. It wasn’t just the stories she missed; it was the way her Daddy made the world feel safe, like nothin’ bad could touch her.

Bonnie’s laughter rang out, cuttin’ through the fog of memories an’ pullin’ Mama back to the harsh reality of her kitchen in Rock Island, remindin’ her of their situation.

Lookin’ at her eldest daughter, Mama said, “Be a good girl, and take care of Sissy, OK?” Bunnie nodded her head in agreement. The day Bonnie was born, Bunnie became her sister’s guardian.

 “Woman, are you comin’ or am I doin’ this by myself?” Barney’s voice thundered through the house, snappin’ Mama back to the present. Comin’ out of her daydream, she picked up the crate, her resolve hardenin’ with each step she took toward the door. The past would have to wait. Survival couldn’t.

“Make sure you stay put, Susan! You got that?” She called back to Bunnie just for good measure, as she headed toward the river.

All of Mama’s daughters were called Susan, sometimes when we were all in the same room. How we knew which of us she was talkin’ to was a mystery, but we did. Mama used this term of endearment when her heart was about to crack open. But it was the tiny change of inflection in her voice that told us who should answer.

I’s around ten when I asked, “Why do you call us Susan?” She looked at me, but she was seein’ somethin’ else, somethin’ that made her smile in a way I wasn’t used to. “Your big brown eyes remind me of my favorite wildflower,” she said, “the brown-eyed Susan.”

Then she told me about the brown-eyed Susans that grew wild in the meadows around the old homestead where she lived as a girl. That was before her Daddy left her Mama to go live with Jeanette; back when she was happy… before the world fell apart.

I always thought it was funny that each of us girls had such unusual names: Bunnie Bearl, Bonnie Belle, and Wally Faye, when the nickname she gave us, the one name she used for all three of us, was so common: Susan. When I asked her why she hadn’t just named somebody Susan she said, “How could I call just one of you Susan when you’re all my beautiful brown eyed girls?”

I knew she was right, ‘cause the sound of her voice when she said it always felt like a hug. I couldn’t argue with her. In that moment, it felt like bein’ Susan wasn’t just a name, it was proof that I belonged.