The Winds of Change

My idyllic childhood came to a screeching halt the year I was 6. Oh, not really, but it was a year fraught with change and not all of it was good change.

First grade was not nearly as fun as kindergarten. For one thing, you had to go all day long. Some of the things we had to learn were hard. Really hard. I had to give up my daily nap and that wasn’t my best deal, either.

Those little changes were nothing compared to some life shattering changes that were in store for me. The winds of change were howling at my door.

On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. They announced it at the end of the day. I remember feeling an overwhelming panic. My row was in the cloakroom, putting on our coats before dismissal when the announcement came. The look of horror on my teacher’s face was so frightening. Johnny, an annoying boy standing close to me said something like, “Good. Now he won’t be on the news all the time.” I smacked the boy and told him off. Even at the age of 6, I knew that this was a bad thing and that Johnny had said something insensitive and quite frankly, stupid. I understood the gravity of the situation all the more because the teacher didn’t say anything when I smacked little Johnny right in front of her. She simply put her hand on my shoulder and patted me, with tears running down her face.

I spent hours in front of the television set, watching all of the ceremony involved. I remember seeing John-John salute the coffin as it passed by. I cried and cried because that little boy’s daddy was dead. And if that could happen to his daddy, couldn’t it happen to mine?

That was probably the first time I ever really understood that the world is a dangerous place. Sure, I knew not to take candy from strangers. I knew to look both ways before crossing the street. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to touch the stove when it was turned on. I even knew it wasn’t very smart to continue whining when one or both of my parents told me to stop. But I don’t think I ever made the connection between those rules and the danger around me the way I did during that sad week we watched history unfold on that old black and white television.

After Christmas that year, my family settled in for a long winter in northeastern Iowa. It was a cold and blustery winter. In February of 1964, my mother had her last child…my little sister, Linda. Within 2 weeks, the blowing winds brought my older cousin (she was 16), Pat, to live with us as well. Pat was a troubled teen and my parents were doing their best to try to help her.

Take one 6 year old Mollianne whose Daddy was the center of the universe, who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that SHE was her Sweet Daddy’s girl and add not only a baby sister but also a manipulative, troubled teenage cousin and my world was rocked off course. Pat and Linda shared the room that had been mine. I was moved to my own space, a dressing room down the hall. Where our life had been somewhat calm as a family of 5, we were all of the sudden a family of 7. This was the days before mini-vans. We didn’t even have to wear our seat belts. Before March was over, I had been left at the church after Sunday Worship, standing out in the cold…wondering if they would come back and get me. There were so many kids in the car, it was probably easy to miss one small girl. They did come back to get me once they realized I was missing.

At some point during all of this, I did a very naughty thing. I recall very deliberately getting a ball point pen and marching up the stairs and scratching my name, Mollianne Buster, into the woodwork of the door frame of my old door. That was very destructive and I was punished for that defiant act of marking my space…as I ought to have been. Nothing excuses being destructive. Especially in a rented parsonage.

My cousin was getting more and more out of hand and I imagine I was being naughtier and naughtier. When school was out, my Mother did the best thing she knew to do for me. I went to spend the summer with my grandmother, my precious Neenie. Of course, when they all left and I was sitting on the porch steps, I was certain that they were leaving me with Neenie because they simply didn’t want me anymore…just like my cousin, Pat, had viciously said.

Years later, I understood that they left me with Neenie because it was a safe place where I would get plenty of attention and nurturing. My Mother had her hands full with all those other children. I imagine she thought she was in danger of me turning into a rebellious hellion. That summer at Neenie’s was one of the most delightful I have ever spent. I spent hours with my great-grandmother, Bigmama. I went to Vacation Bible School at the church where my Grandfather, Bobo, was the pastor. I went for ‘ladies lunch’ at Aunt Ruth’s house, where you always had a present at your plate. I made new friends with some of the children in town and had plenty of playmates. I got to go with my Neenie to a statewide Missions event and watch her give a program to what seemed like a million ladies. I even got to talk to my Mother and Sweet Daddy long distance on the telephone.

At the end of the visit, I went home feeling very loved and very secure in my place in the family. Not long after I returned, Pat left. I’m not at all certain that I ever saw her again. I’m afraid her path took her away from everyone who loved or cared about her. She is a sorrowful memory for most everyone in our family.

Mollianne and Linda

The winds of change blew through our family in 1963-1964. In the same way that our nation lost some innocence, so did out little family…at least in my mind’s eye. The nation suffered tragedy and loss and so did my family. We were never the same again…dynamics changed, all of us were older and perhaps wiser, and by the end of the year we had once again settled in for another cold Iowa winter. We were warm and as secure as you can be in our house on 19th Place.

~Mollianne