Hughberta Marches Out

Hughberta dangled an iridescent morsel over the rim of the glass; then twirling the stem slowly, spun little amber eddies along the surface. She had been waiting for an hour. She would sit there all night if need be. Exasperated but bored, feeling very much the petulant ingenue whose persona she had adopted for the evening, she plunged the cherry into the tart high ball and popped it into her mouth. Mmm Yumm. “That takes care of the fruit group for the day.”

Another big Saturday night at the Circle Pub in Prairie duChien, Wisconsin.

A jaunty figure approached her booth.
Apparently in rapt meditation on the essence of the Whiskey Sour before her, she thoughtfully set her upper teeth on the corner of her lower lip- artfully painted “L’Amour Red” by Coty. Her right eyebrow – smoothly arched and deftly defined with “Walnut Bark” pencil, also by Coty- lifted as she brought her shoulder practically up to her earlobe, allowing her rich, brown, sleekly bobbed hair- highlighted with a little Henna- to fall across the ivory satin lapels of her blouse. Any Saturday night regular happening to glance in that direction would easily conclude that the slightly built, attractive woman in booth number 8 found the cocky fellow standing before her a tedious bore. In fact, it seemed that everyone in the bar was just happening to glance her way. Bar stools were swiveling; booths were emptying; necks were craning. A few small wagers were quietly laid down. Confrontation was in the air; drama was unfolding. Hughberta, appropriately costumed and made up (she had unpacked and set out on shelves every beauty product offered for sale in Prairie duChien) was on center stage.
She was not unaware of her audience. The venerable Circle was unusually quiet. She might as well play her part, for, in truth, she was beyond tears, beyond doubts and recriminations, beyond anger and vengeful schemes: even beyond annoyance. A fluid elevation of the chin to rest upon a slender hand, the pointed nails polished a dangerous red languished above her drink. With a world weary sigh, she lifted her mascared lashes and pursed her lips firmly together. Disdain. Regret. A Garbo-esque performance- all of which was pretty much lost on Cletus, who was staring at the glass of whiskey. He slid into the booth beside her and flashed his knock-em-dead grin. “Hey Steenie, did you order one for me?”
“Order your own damn drink, Cletus.”
“Aw, come on, Steen. Cheer up. What’s goin’ on?”
“What’s going on? You’re asking me what’s going on? I’ve been stuck here in this muddy little town , taking care of your business, making excuses, afraid for months to even ask myself ‘What’s going on.’ But you had to know that really I knew. I keep the books. Money going out. Inventory dwindling- war shortages. You’re gone to Madison, gone to Dubuque, gone to St. Paul. Lame excuses. Looking for markets. Looking for stock. Shrewd investments. Apparently you forgot. I am smart. I am way smarter than you.”
“Oh, calm down, Hughie. I’ve got some good prospects out there- it’s gonna take a while for something to happen."
He drew his fingers through a softly waving shock of light brown hair- no greasy kid stuff for that handsome head- which he turned abruptly and shouted across the aisle,
“Hey, Al! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?”
Then, just as quickly, he turned again toward Hughberta, looking a bit stunned as she escalated her verbal attack in a voice clearly heard on the other side of the room.
“Take a while?! About nine months, I’d guess. You’re a rat! A two-timer! A three-timer! A four or five timer!”
Hughberta took a satisfying gulp of her whiskey sour. She was now in her Barbara Stanwyck mode. She took some unexpressed delight in noticing Cletus’ thirsty eyes follow the movement of her hand to lip.
“You told me we were working for something real. Something permanent. You said that when this business was profitable, we’d build up the store and get that rose-covered cottage. Phooey!”
Cletus knew how to handle this. Feisty little thing- she'd get her dander up once in a while, but he could always bring her around. And he was thinking that he’d have to get past this little spat so he could relax with his seven-seven.
“Ah, Steenie. Nobody else matters to me but you. Other women are just- passing fancies- they don’t mean anything. You know how I feel about you.”
“Yes, I do know how you feel about me. You feel that you can depend on your faithful little pal to run your store, clean your house, fry your eggs and wipe your...nose so that you can run around sowing your oats over three states. You feel that you don’t have to do a damn thing arond here because your galley slave will do it all. Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re going back to work. Six days a week- nine to five. Your addled friend has come to her senses and has locked up the Ben Franklin for the last time. I’m leaving.”
“What? Don’t be stupid. You can’t leave your job. Where do you think you’ll find another deal like the one you've got here?”
“Not around this one-horse burg. My uncle just hired me for a swell new position with room, board and free travel to exciting places.”
Cletus was now on his feet, an index finger thrust derisively in Hughberta’s face.
“What uncle? You don’t have an uncle with a pot to piss in.”
“My uncle Sam. Don’t get tough with me, Mr. Dime Store. I am a United States Marine.”

A collective gasp wafted to the timbered ceiling of the Circle Tavern.

Why Should She Care?

Her isolation and humiliation is almost palpable. Hughberta’s dark hair, bright eyes and quick tongue made her an easy target. An out-of-towner, over thirty years old, openly co-habitating with her boss!
Well, let them talk. Who cares what fantasies the scurrilous minds of this dumpy river town find entertaining. She’ll live her life as she damn pleases. It’s nobody else’s business where she sleeps. This “business “ arrangement is fine with Cletus, so it’s just fine with her. Just fine. Fine and dandy.
They can put that in their pipe and smoke it.

Hughie was never an insider. Really poor in a city that was just bursting with prosperity in the hot-cha twenties, her dresses were plain; her coat was a cast-off from her much taller sister. Already a reluctant party-goer, she shunned further social gatherings after uproarious laughter assailed her rendition of The Charleston, which was made ludicrous not by her dancing (she was always light on her feet), but by her creative ensemble. Diaphanous gowns with tight, sequined bodices quivered softly upon their nubile bodies in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s pre-Depression Midwest. Those golden flappers may not have been the norm in Minneapolis, but they were the ideal- to be emulated. Hughberta was no Daisy.

Confronting society’s expectations with a defiant posture became a kind of autonomic response. Defiant postures are, by definition, inflexible and inflexibility affects not only one’s reactions, but one’s vision.

Sidelong glances, barely suppressed snickers, obvious even to her as she walked alone through the door of the Circle Tavern at five-fifteen, were tossed off like a straight shot of Jack Daniels: stupid gossips with nothing better to occupy their pea-sized brains. She was right, of course, about their mean-spiritedness, but that resolute demeanor rendered her just as incapable of seeing the truth as those judgemental patrons at the bar. It took more than a few Whiskey Sours, more than a few solitary nights in a chilly booth at the Circle Tavern before she let her guard down, looked around and saw what everyone else in Prairie duChien could see: an unmarried woman living with a man who all too often wasn’t there.

Hughberta Smells A Rat


"What in the hell is keeping Cletus?"

She slammed the ledger shut and stalked across the faux marble floor, down the center aisle past the Beauty Care display: jars of Tussy Emulsified Cream pyramided behind concentric circles of Max Factor Pancake, Tussy and Coty lipsticks and Revlon Nail polish. Beauty products were becoming scarce and her artistic talents were put to the test in arranging the meager supplies on the half bare counters. It was 5:00 o’clock, quitting time at the Prairie Ben Franklin, and Hughberta was locking up.

It wasn’t exactly her job- opening and closing- Hughie kept the books, managed inventory, waited on customers when there was a rush- or what could be considered a rush in this one floor Five and Dime in this one-horse burg. But with Cletus gone on business – twice this week, three days last week- running the whole damn place was her job lately.

Her major annoyance with closing up the store was turning out the lights. Six hanging fixtures with their green enamel shades were operated by means of a beaded brass chain. 4'11' in heels, the procedure for her involved dragging a step stool down the main aisle, climbing up, pulling the little chain, moving to the next light and the next until finally she had to descend in the dark and grope her way to the back office.

She knew that she didn’t need to fix dinner for him tonight- he wouldn’t get back from Madison ‘til late. She’d fix a plate for him, though- a cold plate- chicken and potato salad with a nice tall glass of fresh milk. Of course, he’d knock off a half glass of Seagrams with it. No doubt he would already have had a high-ball or two in Madison.

Hughberta was not in her most cheerful mood as she trudged down Black Hawk Street toward Cletus’ apartment. Even in her calf-length gray squirrel coat, a bitter March wind blowing off the river chilled her to the bone.

"What in the hell is his big business deal in Madison? What is going on in Dubuque? What’s the big secret? There’s something fishy going on here."


To be continued

Storytelling

Where Did The Stories Come From?

Many of the stories and vignettes among these reminiscences are not based upon my own observations. I met Zora and Hughberta in October, 1970: as I noted earlier, I knew them later in their lives. A few documents and photographs were tucked into the bundles and boxes, plastic bags and suitcases left in the basement of the last house they shared. Most of what we recovered was- thank goodness- art work. However, amid sheaves of textured watercolor paper profusely embellished in masterful designs and yellowed drawing paper tenderly exposing "life" figures, I retrieved a handful of notes, letters and documents: just enough biographical information to give credence to some of the anecdotes told to me by their sister-in-law, my mother-in-law, Vera.
Had the Steenson sisters not been unique personalities who unapologetically followed their own drumbeats, I wouldn’t be writing about them and you wouldn’t care whether anyone wrote about them. They were, and are, interesting. But the independent mindedness that in retrospect seems somewhat charming was not always so delightful to those who were more or less impressed into relationship.
If we do, as some assert, bring into this life vestiges of a prior life-span: left-over attitudes, expectations and a certain bearing, then, without a doubt, Zora in a former life was born to the Court. An erect posture, high forehead and cheekbones and an imperious nose bespoke an interior dignity. She was the kind of classic beauty one might imagine in a deposed aristocrat- Anastasia, say. That chronology doesn’t quite work, but there was definitely a sense of superior breeding emanating from Zora, especially in relation to her brother’s wife.
With a few rough spots along the way, and the blessing of geographical distance, Zora and Vera managed an accommodation of amicable familial relations. But the original impression was just below the surface and even fifty years out, little asides and innuendo alluded to her disappointment in DeVern’s unfortunate choice. Which, on the face of it, was patently absurd. Vera’s father was a 20th century entrepreneur- holder of hundreds of patents and owner of several fine pieces of real estate while the luckless Steensons were pretty much raised single handedly by their mother, barely making ends meet. Their father who was divorced from his first wife, married Christine, twenty-five years younger that he. Orlando Steenson, “Orrie”, followed railroad lines across the prairie as a contractor of sorts. He was an alcoholic, and by his son’s account, a poor excuse for a parent. All reasonable considerations aside , Zora felt that DeVern had married “beneath him.” This position may have originated with Zora, but Hughberta obviously concurred.
I have imagined a telephone conversation in the Spring of 1933:

"Oh, sister, I'm sorry to bring you this awful news."
"That hussy! How could he get mixed up with that strumpet!"
"Well, they're married now."
"Poor little brother. I hope he sees through her soon enough, before it's too late."
"Maybe it is too late."
"She probably is. I don't doubt it for a minute. Mark my words, Huberta: there’ll be a nine-pound “premature” baby in six to seven months!”

Robert was born a respectable thirteen months later, and, as a growing boy, became the apple of his aunt’s eye, but his mother was never disabused of Zora’s stinging condescension. Many years later, those bitter perceptions erupted, fracturing fragile cords of courtesy and mutual concern that had held them all in familial grace.
Given the thinly disguised disparagement that Vera endured- endured,
with some humor, she could hardly be faulted or be considered malicious and catty for passing on a few interesting details of the foibles- particularly regarding the romances- of her sisters-in-law. Personally, I’m grateful.
My embellished account of Hughberta’s love life gone awry begins with the next post.

Beginning At The End

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

T.S. Eliot

Where Do I Begin?

Over each newly dug gravesite, a pewter urn was placed upon a small table draped in satin. Situated to the right of the old grave, one urn was inscribed: Zora M. Steenson 1904-2001 "Ars Longa; Vita Brevis." The urn on the left, was inscribed: Hughberta E. Steenson 1908-1998 "Semper Fidelis". A crisply uniformed Honor Guard snapped to attention saluting the remains of this United States Marine, veteran of the Second World War. In full dress attire, the aging veterans' ribbons and medals celebrated valiant ascendancy over brutal assaults of history. At last, respectful formalities were accorded: dignified attention was being paid to the lives of two brave and fiercely independent women. Plaintive strains of Taps called through a bright October afternoon, finalizing the journey of Zora and Hughberta to their mother's side. There was not another sound other than the soft breaths of the tiny group of mourners. Brilliant vestiges of Minnesota's autumn bravado splashed intense shades of scarlet and gold, a color mix that might have been projected from one of Zora's paintings. Nature's own artwork painted the hillside sheltering the diminutive, sweetly tended cemetery. After the minister spoke of eternal life and recited the Twenty-third Psalm, the little congregation joined hands and prayed together:
The light of God surrounds us; the love of God enfolds us; the power of God protects us and the presence of God watches over us. Wherever we are, God is, and all is well.
A folded American flag was ceremoniously presented to my husband,Robert, their nephew. The urns were set into the earth. I drew in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. When I slowly exhaled, releasing a burden of guilt and sorrow, I felt at peace.

I had known them well. I thought that I knew them well. But I didn’t know them in the prime of their careers. The women I knew were living their last trimester- the final third of their long lives. “Meeting the aunts” was Bob’s and my second date. That was when we all lived in Southern California. Five years later, Bob and I, having legitimized our life together through the offices of the State of California with the kindly officiating of Rev. Lovely of the Pasadena Unitarian Church, moved to Washington State with our “blended” family. Within a couple of years Bob’s grandmother, who lived with her two aging daughters, passed away in 1977 and so Bob and James, his son, drove our van down to Los Angeles, packed up their belongings and transported Zora and Hughberta to Tacoma, Washington. Plucked from their sunny hacienda and plunked down in a drafty old house in gray, disconsolate Tacoma, they hung as many paintings as wall space and good taste would permit and defied the clouds to obscure their surrogate sunshine. We were now the only other planets in their universe and, with jobs and business, not to mention children, we were less attentive we might have been. Regardless of jam-packed schedules and commitments, Bob and I had many delightful times with them: we had pleasant little dinners at their house- Hughberta's Turkey Curry was a splendid repast with bowls of condiments and spicy sauces. Family celebrations- birthdays, holidays were, and continue to be, gatherings of 25-30 people at our house and always included the aunts.

I must share one memorable outing. We had four tickets for La Traviata, a gorgeously costumed tear-jerker at the Seattle Opera House. Both Zora and Hughberta were too hard-of-hearing to get much out of the legitimate theater, but one would have to be as deaf as Beethoven to miss the passion, betrayal and decadent gaiety expressed in Puccinni's glorious score. We queued up in the atrium, merging with the excited, dressed-to-the-nines crowd. Bob presented our tickets to the formally dressed usher at the door.
"Sir, your tickets were for the performance last night."
"It can't be. These are our season tickets. We always come on Wednesday."
"I'm sorry. You need to discuss this with ticket sales."
Baffled and outraged, we approached the ticket window, protesting that we always attend the Wednesday performance. Most apologetic, the gentleman inside the booth, explained that on this occasion only, the Wednesday performance had been rescheduled to Tuesday, and said we should have received notification of the change. Bob pointed out the elderly ladies in our company and pleaded for some special accommodation.
"To night has been sold out for four months, but we are setting up portable seating in the front. Would you mind sitting in the front row?"
"Well, yes, if that was all that was available."
It was better than disappointing the aunts and leaving without even entering the Opera House. The transaction accomplished, Bob led us toward the entrance. As he was about to hand over the newly issued tickets, he read the printing.
"This has turned out well!"
He handed me my ticket. We were going see and hear Luciano Pavarotti- in the first row.

I have many personal remembrances of Zora and Hughberta including quite a few contentious episodes as they became older and wackier - two women who had called all the shots in their long lives: accepted directions, followed advice from very few and for a long glorious season, lived the life of their dreams. In describing some of these episodes, I am attempting to clarify for myself my role in their declining years. With hind-sight, I see that there were many choices that I could have made differently, encounters that could have been handled more skillfully.
To justify my participation in the Steenson sisters lives, I could present my reminiscences as a cautionary tale. But who might be cautioned? A young artist, determined to live her life doing what she loves to do? There may be consequences of following one's bliss that are not blissful. Should one set orange cones or yellow caution tape around the path she seeks? To avoid the anguish of Zora's ninetieth year, I might encourage that young woman to prudently consider the years beyond passionate production: to make a financial plan, set a little aside and invest, marry someone with a practical degree. I know that's what their brother, DeVern, my husband's father, wanted his artistic sisters to consider. A familiar filial posture involved a shaking of the head, a rolling of the eyes, exasperated sighing and gloomy predictions of the fate awaiting the improvidential sisters.
As I watched Zora sabotage her health and eyesight with misinformation and prejudice regarding medical practitioners and was aware of Hughberta endangering every pedestrian between her house and the Safeway with her myopic and unlicensed driving habits, I joined the chorus. Nevertheless, even at times of highest frustration, when they referred to me as "bossy boots"in confidence with their short term care-giver, I admired them. I admired their enormous talent and I admired their guts.
As I said, I thought that I knew them well. But it wasn't until after their world finally dwindled to a shared room in a nursing home, that I began to really become acquainted with Zora and Hughberta. When I cleaned out the basement of the house they had occupied- the house we bought for them to live in, I came upon boxes and bags and bundles neatly tied up in twine, suitcases and satchels filled with their art. Paintings, drawings, sketches from life drawing classes- stacks and piles of images we had never seen before. The life they loved- about thirty years as Southern California artists- was contained in that treasure trove.
It has taken several years to sort, store and preserve with acid-free liners the contents of that basement find. My respect for their legacy increases as my intimacy deepens with what is truly tangible, visible projections not only of their inventive minds and skillful hands, but of their very souls. They may have died penniless in the medicare ward of a nursing home, but their essence has survived them.
If Zora and Hughie encountered their generation's equivalent of orange cones and yellow tape, they would have regarded them with the contempt accorded any such philistine caution. I'm certain this was more true of Zora; Hughberta, had greater ambivalence about self preservation, but that's part of the longer story.
It is not up to me to add more orange cones and yellow caution tape to the infrastructure: the landscape is cluttered with them already. If my tales of Zora and Hughie bear any message at all for the young female artist, it is something like this:
Do what you must, what you should to sustain and maintain your existence on this sweet blue-green planet, but above all, let your spirit have its say.

Starting Over

I am rewriting history. That's what all memoir writers do: create a movie seen through the eyes of one completely unobjective viewer. Although I am not in the starring role of this film, I admit, unabashedly, that it is all about me.
The main characters are two women whom I admired- loved even- and was most often baffled by: great souls whom, in my frustration, I abandoned in the end and only came to really know several years after their deaths.
Zora and Hughberta Steenson were my husband's aunts. They were artists: Zora made her living as a professional artist all of her very long life; Hughberta had a more varied working career, but always had her hand in some art related business. Both were lifelong art students- accomplished and at times well recognized. Bob's father was their "baby" brother: a rational, practical man who survived an impoverished childhood and the material and educational deprivations of the Depression to become an executive in one of the nation's largest corporations. Forces of Nature and Nurture in their quirky dynamics had produced a remarkably dissimilar set of siblings.