Thursday, November 4, 2010

Processing the Pain




Occasionally I wake up in the morning under the spell and sadness of the Gillinghams.


They would appear, after an absence of years and do magical things in your life, while their lives remained a secret, a mystery. Mildred always was private, the submarine woman, her periscope up and her life below the surface, out of sight. They tore at me emotionally because I loved them but could never get my love through the perimeter, to envelope them as I desired.


They were three, James, “Gillie”, Mildred and Peter. I called them my Godparents and Peter used to jokingly call me his “God-sister”. We all shared this unique history of the Yoga Colony, the Clarkstown Country Club, in Nyack, New York.


This history started in about 1925 and lasted for my parents and myself, until 1938. The Gillinghams had left earlier and settled in California, Alameda.


Aunt Mildred was a namedropper and I remember “Dan Dana” being mentioned. I felt that they went because there were more glamorous, important people out there.


Our lives intersected on the Gillingham timetable. The first episode was on their little ranch in Canelo Arizona, 1938-39. Next was in Arizona in 1948. Aunt Mildred waved her magic wand and got me a three-year scholarship to Verde Valley School. She convinced my future husband’s parents to send him as well.


Our lives went their separate ways. Peter would appear on my screen periodically; news of his marriage to the “beautiful and talented Molly Scott” from Aunt Mildred; his Graduation from Yale Law School, his work for the Government.


Some times the contacts seemed unreal. My husband, who was a tenured professor at MIT recounted Peter’s suggestion that he, Ken, return to Canelo and dig up this giant bird, and make a name for himself. My mother’s response to this was, “Gillie was always looking for buried treasure.”


Earlier, after college graduation Peter, who had been studying Russian at the Army Language Training School, told Ken that


“They wanted to operate on my eyes, to make them look Asian, and drop me behind enemy lines in Russia.”


Peter’s name appeared as the Director of the new program of Viet Namese Studies at Carbondale, Illinois. Ken and I were actively opposing the Viet Nam War at this point and I knew some of the history of this program, which major universities had refused to host. We thought it tainted and began to wonder if Peter had a CIA connection. I wrote him a long, disparaging letter giving our views on the whole Viet Nam involvement, asking, “how can you be involved with this illegal and immoral war?” I didn’t get an answer then but later he said,


“We knew the Tet Offensive was coming and warned the Military but they didn’t accept our analysis.”


I thought the “we” was an oblique acknowledgement of his CIA status.


In 1989 I visited Nyack and had lunch with Viola Bernard, a former “club” member and then a Psychiatrist, practicing in New York City. I was working as a Psychiatric Nurse at that time. We were recounting what we knew of former Club members, and the Gillinghams came up. Viola said,


“Mildred asked me to see Peter. I did. He was crazy.”


She then looked uncomfortable, realizing that she had violated his confidentiality.


The last time I saw Peter he drove across the country in a pick up truck to wish my mother a Happy Birthday in her 100th year. It would have been 1995. He stayed with us in Lexington. I remember being struck by him having his own bottle of Scotch along. He brought it in from his truck then took it with him when he left. I thought, “I wonder if he has a problem with alcohol?”


I next heard he had died. He checked himself into the VA Hospital, in the process of a stroke, and it had taken his family ten days to find him.


I was crying and crying. Couldn’t believe he was gone.


Some five or six years ago I had reason to go to Portland Oregon. I remembered Peter saying his son, Ian, lived there. I looked him up, found him, and went to dinner with him, his wife and her parents.

I realized they knew very little of the Gillingham family history, victims of the family style. I recounted what I remembered and enjoyed seeing their interest and surprise.

Ian recounted the sad history of his father's decline. It seemed that all the things that were of Peter got distorted, inflated, out of control. That was hard to hear.