Beginnings and Endings

(Listen to Audio)

December 1952, Sonora, California

Clemens siblings, Sonora, California, 1950
Carleen, Claudia, Cathy in middle, Betty, Larry

Carleen snapped at us. “For the umpteenth time, I don’t know why she left, when we’ll see her again, or where she went, and no, I don’t know if she’s coming back. Now don’t ask any more questions!” Mom was gone, and this time, Carleen knew she wasn’t coming back. My sister was in charge now and there was no need to discuss it further.

The first time our mother left was in April of 1950, before I was two. Claudia was seven years older than I was, so that made her eight; Betty was ten, Carleen was fifteen, and Larry sixteen.

Our lives continued. Spring faded. Summer passed. Fall blew into winter. Mom once returned for a week, wept the whole time she was home, then fled again. She came back a few times more, but knew she couldn’t live a life she didn’t want. She told Larry she didn’t know what to do, that she’d go crazy if she didn’t get away, that she had to leave.

our mother, Noreen Clemens

A lot happened in the family during that time; Daddy could no longer hold his head up in town, kids were told not to play with my sisters, and people whispered. Some of it had to do with sex, the very thing my father couldn’t tolerate, especially when it had to do with anyone in the family.

Finally, in 1952, packing what she could carry in two suitcases, she left for good. Mothers didn’t run away in those days—except ours did—and Betty never forgave her.

Even though she hated Mom, Betty was miserable without her. She didn’t want to go to school and constantly complained that her throat hurt, so after several weeks of too many absences, Daddy decided she needed her tonsils out. When summer arrived, it was time.

Carleen woke us up on Tuesday and told us to get dressed. That day, Claudia was signed up for a novice tennis tournament sponsored by the recreation department. Carleen told her she wasn’t going to be able to play, we were going somewhere with Daddy. She didn’t tell us where. When we drove up to the Columbia Way Hospital, Daddy was waiting at the entrance. He informed us we were having our tonsils taken out.

“Since Betty needs hers out, you two might as well have yours removed, too.”

“Who’s first?” The nurse asked.

Betty and Claudia glanced at each other, then in unison pointed to me. My not quite four-year-old body was packed up and carried howling down the short corridor, my sisters listening to my screams. My wailing was muffled as I was strapped to the bed, then silent from the metal cone of ether held over my face. Claudia was next.

When we all came to, we were told not to throw up or cough because we could bleed to death, as if we had a choice about not throwing up. Of course we all threw up, and did so for days afterwards, sick from the ether, certain we were going to die and wishing we would. It took me the longest to recover.

That was the beginning of my several hospital stays, and the end of Claudia’s tennis career.