My Dad

No secret to those who know me well, I've idolized my father from the get-go. His death in 2000 ripped my universe apart, and 10 years later I now realize I won't ever recover completely. I'm not sure if my progeny know his story enough to pass on to their progeny, so here it is in print.

Jim Frame

Separated at birth?

His parents were James and Edith. Edith Mary Jenkins was a Philadelphia society debutante. She met "unsuitable" James Frame, a funny and vibrant shoe salesman with Triangle Shoes, but was ostracized by her family when she married him. Their only child was my dad, Jimmy, born April13, 1926 in Miner's Mills, PA. Their sun rose and set on their son. Little Jimmy led a sheltered, doting existence, and wasn't allowed to get dirty. Tons of photographs depict a chubby, soft, near-sighted, smiling boy in knickers. The three of them specialized in comedy, and witty puns were common and expected.

Jimmy at 8

Jimmy at 10

Jimmy, Edith, James. High School.

Jimmy's passion was model airplanes, the big ones with engines. When he was drafted into the Army Air Corps after high school graduation in 1944, his parents were crushed. Luckily for them, Jim's eyesight was too poor to be a pilot: he became a radio operator. One night during Radio School in Sioux Falls, SD, he and a buddy went to the roller rink, where Jimmy (who couldn't skate, and was in fact athletically-impaired in all sports) ran into and knocked over a very pretty girl, Mary Brown. He loved her at that moment and forever. Turns out his buddy had once dated her, and Jimmy gladly paid him $5 for her phone number.

Shipping Out

Jimmy the Radioman

Mary Brown at 21. Jimmy fell hard!

Mary only knew dull farm boys until then, and this laughing, gentle boy from "the far east" stole her heart. She was extremely intelligent, and knew a good thing when she saw it.

Jimmy's parents traveled by train to Sioux Falls to meet Mary's family, where Edith whispered to Jimmy that there was something very wrong with them. (Edith's bon-mots have survived: she told her son "There's a fly in their ointment.") Blanche-the-mother (Blanche Delora Matthisen, one of 8 children) was self-effacing with a nervous giggle, and looked to be tired by life. Felix-the-father (one of 9 children) was silent and negative. And Evelyn-the-younger-sister was possibly slightly retarded in Edith's eyes. Even if they'd been Kennedys, she still would have hated anyone that stole her boy from her, but this was too much. Jimmy rejected her advice, and he and Mary became engaged.

I have all the letters that passed back and forth between Jimmy and Edith during his war service in Turkey, Northern Africa, Afghanistan, and Iran. He is quick to reassure his mom that he's safe, healthy, well-fed, happy, and looking forward to a life with Mary that does NOT exclude his parents. Edith is skeptical., but seems unwilling to crush his optimism.

Edith and James, much later!

After Jimmy was discharged, he and Mary married and moved into the upstairs apartment of Edith and James' house in Kingston, PA. Jimmy became a shoe salesman, but Mary pined for her home and huge extended family in Sioux Falls. And since Edith was unable to avoid criticizing Mary, love and duty prevailed: Jimmy managed to obtain a job transfer to Sioux Falls. Edith never forgave Mary.

Jim and Mary didn't stay in Sioux Falls very long, because Kinney Shoes transferred it's managers frequently. Within the next 6 years, Jim was sent to Davenport IA, Omaha NE, Fremont NE, and eventually back to Omaha with 2 babies. We stayed there 8 years.

Me, Dad, and Edie

Four Frames

This was a newspaper photo in Davenport, "Welcome Newcomers"

 At first there was a large, shabby, rental house at 11th and Castellar. It's gone, now. Kitty-corner from us was the Calabro family, a boisterous Italian-American family, and two of their kids were the same ages as us (Donny and Cathy). They went to the Catholic school, but we were inseparable nevertheless.

My brother Thom, me, Donny, Tom, and Cathy Calabro

Mom worked the counter and did the books for the Kinney store downtown, so we had babysitters: Karen and Anita Trotter. They were very big girls, and their mom made homemade bread every day: without a bread machine. Covered with bacon gravy, it was to die for. I believe Thom and I lived on that, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, plus whatever great Italian food the Calabros fed us. Mom's cooking was pitiful.

When I started kindergarten at Bancroft Elementary, we met The Murphys: two girls our age, Linda and Kitzie, plus two older brothers Harold and Mike. Their parents became our parents' best friends. Bernie Murphy was an amazing cook. She made fried tacos every Saturday. Kitzie became my best friend for life, after we fought over a cubby the first day of school.

Jim and Harold Murphy, after a big dinner.

Harold, Bernie, Mom, Dad

My parents had a house built and we moved when I was in the 4th grade to 2811 S. 4th. St. It was closer to the Murphys, and the bathroom was entirely lavender, Dad's favorite color. Toilet, too. The basement was flamingo pink. It was on a steep, curving hill and made for endless enjoyment with sledding and water balloon races: parked cars were natural hazards.We walked a mile to school, and home daily for lunch unless the weather was too bad. All our friends' parents watched out for all the kids, we couldn't make a move that didn't get home before we did.

Repainting-the-house trip in early 1970s. That's Dad's only car he ever bought new: 1971 Chevy Vega.

Our social contacts were primarily the Calabro kids, Murphy family, Mom's parents and sister's family in Sioux Falls, school events (Dad was the president of the PTA), and the Kinney manager Jim Lause's family.They had three kids: John was a couple of years older, Reta was a year younger, and Tim a couple of years younger. Every Friday night we all went to Joe Tess's Fish Place for fried carp. It's still there. Ribs or tails, and you get rye bread and pickles with it.

Fried Carp at Joe Tess's

Idyllic childhood, our parents gave us that. It all changed in 1964 when my maternal grandfather began sexually molesting me. He said if I told, my parents would hate me, so I didn't tell. We spent maybe a weekend there every month, plus school vacations and holidays. I'm certain now that my mother knew, and I'm also certain she was also molested and STILL left me with him. It continued until I was 17, and I was in complete denial the entire time. He died when I was 23, coincidently the night my son was born, and I then told my dad all about it. He held me and he cried, sobbing-shuddering-grief. He agreed it would serve no purpose to tell my mom, that she probably was a victim, and he thought it explained a lot.

Also that year (1964), Jim Lause was transferred to Minneapolis, and he arranged for my dad to transfer, too. There must have been fights between my parents over it, but I don't remember them. Mom had been so happy in Omaha, but never was again. She spent the rest of her life punishing Dad for moving her away from all she loved, and she developed an open preference for Thom and scathing condemnation for me. I have a couple of theories on this, most likely was my adoration for my dad, whom she now despised and treated badly. She became viciously critical of my words and movements, blistering with searing rebuke. Like Sade: "When people are screaming, I know they're paying attention to me." 

My brother and I adapted quickly to Minnesota, especially Thom-the-football-star. I made several new friends in sixth grade, however, the school "accelerated" them all (combined 7th and 8th grades in one year) and my mom refused permission for me to go with them because she didn't want me in the same grade as her golden boy. So I had to make new friends. AND, Mom got a job in the English Department at the same school. That sucked! One weird thing was my brother soon adopted Mom's hatred of me. It was much darker than sibling rivalry, and I remember studying my friends' relationships with their siblings and wondering which was supposed to be "normal". Mom assured me OURS was.

Somewhere in this time period is when I acknowledged that God was a myth. I've been an atheist since, trying to live honorably with no fear of hell, or hope of heaven. I already knew what hell was.

High school was fun. I was "smart" (labels always) plus my brother was so popular that it was hard for me to fly completely under the radar. I had a steady boyfriend (friend of my brother, he was still useful to me for that!), always had after-school, weekend, and summer jobs, and my dad's love and support for me sort of made up for Thom and Mom. My Dad's general affect toward me was one of delighted approval and deep affection. (Mom called me a whore after my first date.) Plus I liked Thom's girlfriend Sue, who was nice to me, and ended up being the mother of my niece and nephews.

Dad was now a traveling "Window Trimmer" for Kinney's, which he loved. He was forever a "putzing" type, perfectionism the result when one's entire ethos is "doing the right thing". Putzing in the garage (where after his passing, we found stashes of Scotch, cigars, and salted peanuts), putzing in the kitchen, putzing in the yard. He loved sitting in a lawn chair at dusk, with a highball, watching cars go by. "Wonder what the rich people are doing right now?"  He always took the road less traveled. "Wonder where that goes?" is in my heart.

(Segue 10 years, another story to be told later. I now am married-with-child, and a dialysis RN.)

The estrangement between my mother and I became official when I divorced my first husband and moved in with my current husband. She could not accept the divorce, refused to even meet Ron, and my parents were not present at our wedding. Partly to distance myself and my son Jon from that toxic situation, we moved to San Diego in 1982. And so began 14 years of meeting my parents in motels and restaurants so Mom could see her grandson without my husband present, and I could see my beloved Dad. Dad didn't support my mother's dictates, and a therapist once pointed out to me that he didn't forbid them either. But as I told the therapist, no one on earth would ever again tell my mother what to do, especially Dad. Dad did get to know Ron, and continued always to ensure I knew he loved me. But I lost forever all those years with my Dad, missed him achingly, and can never get it back.

Dad, Jon, Mom at Coronado Beach

(Segue another 12 years, another story to be told later. I'm now a traveling dialysis nurse educator, a recovering alcoholic, and my son survived childhood.)


In 1994, we lived in a condo we'd bought in Lakeside, outside San Diego. Jon worked summers at Grand Tetons National Park (his field of study was sort of Political Anthropology) and we'd go visit him there. In 1996, we accidentally ran into my parents there in the park, having failed to coordinate our visits properly. Mom airily suggested we all have lunch together, and Voila! The estrangement was over. Ron graciously never mentioned to her the 14 years of her boycotting our marriage.

In 1997, my Dad was recuperating from a heart attack and valve failure, and mom was unable to cope with it. In retrospect, I think this was the onset of her dementia. I got my company to transfer me home to Minnesota, and we rented a lake home in rural Buffalo, MN, only 30 minutes from them. Little did I suspect I only had a few years left with my Dad. They were good years, though.

After valve replacement

In 2000, I lost 2/3 of my family: both my dad and my brother died from cancer, and they both went fairly quickly, Thom first from chemo complications and Dad 3 months later after radiation therapy at The Mayo failed. As sick as Dad was, losing Thom took a lot of the fight out of him. Dad had unconditional love, much pride, and respect for his son, and his grief was terrible to witness. Mom was utterly devastated, and her dementia began accelerating then. (She said to me at Thom's funeral "Why couldn't it have been you instead of him?")

Dad was otherwise outwardly confident and cheerful throughout his ordeal. He had just begun chemo (his last hope, per the oncologists) when he began bleeding. They talked frankly to us all, and I'll never forget the moment and his face when Dad accepted he wasn't going to beat it. He withdrew from us gently, turned inward, and died in my arms 5 days later.

Dad and Linda

That was one of the last photos of my dad, on tube feedings. There's a later one, in a wheelchair at the Minnesota State Fair, but he's absolutely skeletal. I want to remember him "squashy".

During the interval after Thom died and before Dad died, Dad was anxious to assure my Mom's future needs. He asked me to avoid ever placing her in a home, IF I COULD HELP IT (a loophole!) Turns out I couldn't help it: Mom's Alzheimer's was the worst kind, and I had no background that commanded respect or duty toward her.

I would have gone to the moon for my Dad, though.

Relics and treasures in my possession (for my progeny) include Dad's letters and military memorabilia, Grandma Edie's beaded evening bag she carried at her coming-out ball, and every pair of round steel-rimmed eyeglasses my Dad wore as a child. Edie saved them all. I even have the pottery jug he used to pour his milk on his cereal every morning, and the china teaspoon caddy with sterling teaspoons.

Jim never met his great-grandchildren, but Dylan James DeMent is named for him, and to me, Nora often looks like him (only pretty!).

Introducing Dylan James

Miss Nora

I quote him daily, if sometimes only to myself. For some odd reason, I believe he became a butterfly, and whenever I see one, I feel all warm and happy.