My German-born parents immigrated to the United States shortly before World War I; I was born shortly after it ended.
Both soon achieved their dreams of becoming American citizens and learned English. Unlike my undauntable dad, who was part of the workforce, my mother was very sensitive to America’s natural prejudice against foreigners and their accents. In the early days, she avoided speaking English or being around anyone who might think she was responsible for the recent hostilities.
By the time I was in first grade, I became her emissary, sent after groceries or to the neighborhood druggist or cobbler.
When I was only 8, because my chef dad was always at work and because my mom was even shyer when she became pregnant, they decided to entrust me with household bills. Clutching four pennies for fare in my fist, I would hop on board the bright yellow, wooden-sided streetcar. In my other hand was a manila envelope containing three smaller, labeled ones. Each contained the exact number of bills and coins for rent, electricity and telephone – probably two-thirds of my dad’s salary. My instructions were not to talk to strangers, to go to each of the addresses in the specified order, and to be sure to get receipts.
After my errands were completed, I would explore downtown. Sometimes I spent a nickel on paper dolls or candy at Woolworth’s or listened to the store’s pianist/clerk as she played current tunes for prospective buyers, songs like “If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie,” “Baby Face,” or “Ain’t We Got Fun?” I enjoyed looking at window displays at department stores like Neusteters, Gano-Downs, Daniels & Fisher. I was fascinated watching clerks at the Golden Eagle put customers’ money into small metal boxes attached to wires and send them whizzing overhead to a cashier. They made change and sent them flying back.
It was fun to watch the gigantic presses of The Denver Post on Champa Street and to hear and feel their rumble as they roared into action when the printer pulled the switch.
Outside the Empress, the Orpheum, the Denver or the Rivoli, I studied motion-picture placards for films starring Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd, trying to guess what the film was about, wishing I didn’t have to wait until it reached our neighborhood Ogden Theater.
I especially liked watching wealthy women outside the Brown Palace Hotel in their fancy gowns, beautiful furs, beribboned or beflowered hats. Often they rode away in chauffeur-driven cars. Occasionally if a woman was walking, I would follow a few feet behind. Once one saw me and angrily called me a “ragamuffin” and told me to go away. (Years later, I became convinced that that woman was Molly Brown.)
During my mom’s few years of being shy, I brought her books from the library, first in German and later in English. I had to take care of all of the correspondence. Mom would tell me what she wanted to say; I would write it in English, and she would carefully copy it – even my school excuses.
By the time I was 11, my family owned our home and Mom had lost her timidity. She had made neighborhood friends, was active in several women’s organizations and had become interested in politics.
One day I told her I needed a note for having been tardy again. As usual, I started to write it so Mom could copy it, but she said she could do it. Miss White opened the envelope, glanced at the message and smiled. She read the note aloud: “Dear Teacher, It is not my fault that Louise again is late. In time I wake her up and fix breakfast, but she reads a book instead of hurrying. Punish her any way you want.” The kids laughed. I was never late again.
Promptness was only one of the lessons she taught me. Honesty was another. A clerk’s overpayment, whether pennies or dollars, was promptly returned. Generosity was a third. During the Depression, no beggar was ever turned away.
Mom received no formal education, yet she could total the grocery bill in her head as she shopped. She prepared delicious meals almost like magazine illustrations, staying within our income, pinching every nickel in order to save money for her daughters’ education.
As a young woman, she was beautiful, with a lovely face, long auburn hair and a curvaceous figure. She was fiercely independent, determined to seek her fortune and her future 4,000 miles away. Her father warned her that America was populated with blood-thirsty Indians eager to scalp her head. Nevertheless, she left home the day she was 18, not knowing that by law she could not leave the country without his consent until she was 21.
How difficult and humbling it must have been to return home. Three years later, she embarked again. I cannot imagine the courage it must have taken to leave friends and family, with very little money, few skills, unable to understand or speak English, and knowing no one in a strange new country. Early explorers were not that much alone; they had shipmates and a compass.
Sometimes when the bugaboos of today’s existence coupled with the problems of aging seem ominous, I think of Mom’s fearlessness in facing her new world and meeting its challenges. I hope that I’ve inherited at least a few of her genes. I could use them.
Louise Turnbull is a Denver native and retired teacher who has written commercial film scripts and an animated television special.
