Dad

William Grant Klave in 1946

It’s hard to know what to say or where to begin to write about my dad. He was not my birth father, but he was the only father I ever had. He married my mother when I was five years old—I was at the wedding. It was a beautiful Michigan fall day; I helped Mom and Dad collect red and gold leaves to decorate the windows of the little country church where they were married. Following the ceremony, we lived in a tiny, gray cottage across the street from my new Grandma and Grandpa’s cottage on Portage Lake.

Soon after the wedding, my new Grandma and Grandpa sold that cottage to Mom and my new Dad, and we moved into the home where I lived for the next 15 years. It was a good life—swimming, fishing and boating in summers, and skating and sledding in winters. Dad built a barbecue pit and a picnic table, and we had glorious backyard cookouts in the summer. He’d water the back yard at dusk to make the night crawlers come up so John and I could catch them and then sell them to the fishermen for a little spending money. In the winter Dad cleared the snow from the lake ice and flooded it so we could have a perfectly smooth ice skating rink. Ah yes, we thought it was a good life.

I’m not sure when I realized that all was not The Donna Reed Show or Ozzie and Harriet at our house. Dad left a steady job to start his own small business, worked nights in piano bars and dinner clubs, produced two new babies, and had no family medical insurance. All these would contribute to stress in any marriage. But it was alcoholism that brought down my parents—our family.

“You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’.” Toby Keith

Following a drunk-driving arrest, a judge gave him the option of an alcohol recovery program over jail, and Dad began the long process of putting his life back together. He joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and for the rest of his life, he spent holidays and Sundays visiting and counseling other addicts in rehab centers and at AA meetings. My father was bitter that my mother couldn’t get and stay sober. Their last years together before Mom’s death were not pleasant ones. In fact, I would call their lives “hell on earth.” My cousin Charlotte called it “living in the trenches.”

Dad was sober for the last twenty years of his life, but died before he could receive his twenty-year AA sobriety challenge coin. My brothers and I asked the pastor at Dad’s memorial service to use the Serenity Prayer as a foundation for his sermon, and we led the service in the manner of an AA meeting. I began with, “My name is Donna Klave Hodgson, and I’m Bill’s daughter.” Everyone in turn introduced themselves and told the group how they knew Dad. We sat in silence while we listened to a recording of Dad playing some ragtime on the piano, realizing we’d never have him sit down and play for us again.

Dad, I hope you knew how proud we are of your success in your war on alcoholism. I hope we honored you fittingly given the magnitude of your battle. And I pray that you knew—that I made you know—how grateful I am that you chose to be my father.

Love,
Your daughter Donna

Jean

Funny thing, Donna, I remember that same Mom. Where in the world does one begin when describing my mom? Known to her friends as Jean, (short for Imogene), my mother was a very unique lady in many ways. One thing was for sure: you did not mess with Imogene and I mean that with the utmost sincerity. I didn't have a lot of warm, cuddly moments with my mom; that’s just how things were way back then. Now don't get me wrong. Mom did a lot for us four kids, you know—roof over our heads and food in our bellies, if you get my drift.

Well, enough of the introduction to my mom. As you can imagine, the warm moments I do have with her will be forever cherished. One such memory was around 1960. It was right about Mother’s Day on one of those beautiful spring Portage Lake, Michigan days. I was heading out in the row boat over to Mud Bay to do some fishing; Mom was sunning on the dock and asked if she could go along. I said, "Sure, Mom." Mom climbed in the back of the boat and off we rowed.

I was looking forward to showing off my fishing skills and making sure my mom knew that all my past fishing trips had not been wasted. Well, guess what? Not one darn fish—not even a minnow. On the trip back Mom assured me that the trip had not been a waste and that she had enjoyed the little excursion. As you can imagine my pride had been severely tested.

We were close to home and Mom, always the observant one, had noticed some weeds in about 12 foot of water, and she suggested that I wet a line and try my luck. I reluctantly baited my hook with a crawdad and got down to business, cause as we all knew when Mom suggested something, well. . .by now you get the point. Can you imagine my delight when I quickly caught two smallmouth (keepers) bass? She never brought that fishing trip up again; it remained a private moment between Mom and me, and I thought this would be a nice time in my life to share it with all of you. For all you avid bass fishermen, that spot became one of the Klave boys’ favorites; and to get to it you row straight out from the Bartlett’s yellow house. If you want more detail you'll have to ask Donna.

By the way Mom, point well taken and I didn't give up.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom!
Lv. John

Note: I found this damaged old promotional photo in a cardboard box with other old pics and memoirs. Mom was a "chanteuse" and sang with my dad's dance band. She was quite glamorous in her day. Thanks to my brother, John, for sharing this personal memory about a very talented, complex, and truly original woman: Our Mom.

Donna

Tiptoe Through the Tulips

When I was around six years old, my younger brother John and I wanted to give our mother a very special gift for Mother’s Day. We had no money since there was no such thing as an “allowance” in my family, and we were certainly too young to have jobs. We were just little tykes, but we were resourceful.

Our home was an old, converted cottage on Portage Lake, a small summer resort area about fifty miles west of Detroit. By converted I mean that the walls were insulated, a furnace was installed, and the place was inhabitable twelve months a year. Most of the structures on all sides of our home were still summer cottages; we only saw the owners from June, when school let out, until the beginning of September when school started again. During the winter months we would snoop around the vacant cottages and peek in the windows, and even play on their porches.

Good fences make good neighbors.

There was no such thing as a fence between the cottages, but owner’s planted beautiful garden borders that served as a kind of property line between the yards. Our next-door neighbors had a way with tulips. Now that I think of it, they were probably Dutch because their last name was Van-Something-Burg. Brother John and I knew true beauty when we saw it, and we knew those tulips would make our mom smile. Besides, I reasoned, the Van-Something-Burgs wouldn’t even know their tulips were missing since it would be another month before they arrived for the summer.

That was probably the first time I was ever aware that people could cry and laugh at the same time. John and I each presented Mom with armfuls of the loveliest, fresh-ripped tulips you can imagine. And she kept saying, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” through her laughter and her tears. Of course the Van-Something-Burgs came out to the lake, (we always said the city folks “came out”), soon after Mother’s Day to get the cottage ready for summer—and probably to admire their tulips. Poor Mom. She never punished us, but she did tell us years later that it was one of the most wonderful horrible days of her life.

Your turn.

Now I’d like to read your stories about your mom, being a mom or step mom, or any mom you know, love, remember, or miss. Please try to keep your story under 500 words. I know you can’t condense a lifetime of love into one short piece, but please share one especially touching, funny, or sad incident with us. I'll be posting your stories, for everyone to read, from now until Mother's Day. Thanks.

Send your story to me at donna.hodgson@gmail.com. (Copy and paste this address).

I think of my mother often; and always when I see tulips.
Donna