Lake Erie pier, Pennsylvania, 1949. My mother, Edna Wescott Bowes with my sisters Rebecca Ann and Barbara Jean. Here a formidable Lake Erie, where the cold wind never stops, meets the equally formidable Edna. Her given name was Jessie Irene. Hard to imagine anyone would choose to be called Edna; who gave her that nickname? We all grew up knowing that our mother was like no other. She was a stunning beauty who wielded a power over those around her like no other mom we knew in the neighborhood, or even on TV. She was a movie star without a movie. I thought she was Lucille Ball, without the loud voice and the Cuban husband. She never wore a housecoat or put her hair in a ponytail. She was never seen without make-up and heels. Dress or suit, stockings, earrings, nails polished and red hair done, she was the first up and about in the morning, and the last to turn out the light at night. Unlike our friends' moms, our mom was always a working mom. She always had a job, or maybe two. Whatever she did, she was always the best at it; she took her career very seriously. She was small, but mighty. Her fierce blue eyes could burn a hole right through you. She loved us just as fiercely. She was the head of our family, there was no doubt, and we knew to never, ever cross her. Hell hath no fury like the wrath of Edna. She was a whirlwind of activity, 24/7; a powder keg, dynamite with a short fuse. We feared her and loved her, and spent our lives trying to please her. Some of us fared better than others, or at least we each believed "Mom liked you best" about the other. But what I didn't know, until I was married and had children of my own, was that my mother had dark and frightening secrets. Some secrets were revealed to us slowly, piece by piece, in her later years. Some will never be known to us.
... and my father, Richard Arden Bowes, with his first two daughters. A slightly built man of few words and little ambition. He was content to work at Sears or Montgomery Ward's, selling appliances. He didn't smoke or drink, play cards or golf. He hummed everywhere he went. On Sunday he would take a nap on the couch. My mother would say, "Dick, when you are dead and gone, I won't need a picture to remember you by. I will remember you just that way, asleep on the couch."My father was handsome. As I remember him, he always wore a moustache. I thought he was Clark Gable, or maybe Dennis Weaver. My father was brilliant. I loved to watch jeopardy on TV with my father; he would say the question for every answer, before the contestants could hit the buzzer. There wasn't anything in our house that my father couldn't fix. We never had a repairman of any kind come to our house, never took the car to a garage to be fixed. I didn't know, until I married, that there were men in the world that did not know how to fix everything that was broken. While my mother wished only for a son, my father loved having daughters, even having three daughters. He had a quick temper, and not much patience, but was also quick to laugh. While much of what my sisters and brother and I did was exasperating to my mother, the same antics were humorous to my father. He loved us at arms length; he never said, "I love you", but I knew that he did. My father probably had secrets too, but he was a contemplative man and didn't share much about himself. I wish I had known him better; I wish I had asked the questions I want to ask now.
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