Windsor

Roger bought Go-Go her first house. It was large and new and looked over a golf course. It was also in an unincorporated township north of the City, which was awful for me, and my older teen age sibling, Scott. Windsor was two miles outside of DeForest, the nearest town: population seven thousand something. Both Go-Go and my Dad were from a small town in Northern Wisconsin, Phillips – a place we spent holidays – I hated it. I hated that my teenage cousins went to Church functions to do their socializing; I hated the hot rod cars, “parking” at the cemetery, and all town people knowing everyone’s business. Moving to Windsor was like being trapped in Phillips, back in time, and never being able to get out.

That first summer we moved to Windsor I ate Sara Lee pound cake and watched television, obsessively. I missed my friends and I missed my apartment complex. I was miserable, cranky, and lonely. I spent a lot of time alone; exploring the neighboring farms, the creek behind our house, the American Breeders Service land, and the country roads our little housing development, sprung amongst. As I explored I would see hick boys in loud, souped up, 50’s style cars and feel like I had been dropped into time-warp nightmare.

Go-Go was in heaven. Roger gave her free reign with furnishing and decorating her new house. She demanded the best of everything and she was decisive about her taste: ivory and gold trimmed Lenox China with gold rimmed crystal stem-ware, service for twenty-four, gold and sterling flat-ware and furniture from the most expensive store in Madison. I used to think she had impeccable taste, well, she told me she did, and I, lacking any other design blueprint, believed her.

Go-Go was a social creature, and in no time at all, she made friends with the neighbors who golfed and drank at the Lake Windsor Country Club. She had a knack for attracting to biggest drunks in town and Windsor was no exception. I developed a similar aptitude. At the end of the summer, I began eighth grade in the small town middle school and began my hellish travails into adolescence, torturing and being tortured by Go-Go.

I’ve been struggling to write about this time in my life. I was in hell and I took hostages. She tried to control me, briefly, but I spit in her face and dared her to ground me, “what are you going to do, chain me to my bed?” I challenged. I started getting high and drinking and staying out late. The more rebellious I became the more desperate she was. We fought violently. One night I came home at one or two in the morning to find every single one of my albums folded and broken in fourths. My music was my solace. She found a way to get to me, and it worked. From that night on, I swore vengeance. I spent countless hours fantasizing about breaking all of her precious dishes and nick-knacks. My rage was palpable and I had no place to put it, except to do numb myself with drugs, alcohol and sex.

At Four

I am lying underneath a rack of clothing in Marshall Fields. I am four and my mom is in the dressing room. I spend a long time running my hands over the clothes, touching the fabrics, the buttons, and zippers - getting lost in the colors and shapes. I love shopping with my mom. Today we are in Milwaukee visiting my Aunt Marian and Mom is trying to find a new bathing suit because she left hers at home. She goes into the dressing room and tells me not to move and I try really hard to stay put in the swimming suit section but there aren’t any good clothing tents to hide under plus I’m too short to reach them. I go through dresses and that was my favorite because they are easy to see and feel. The hangers slide over the bars like the wheels of roller skates, smooth and well oiled. After dresses I go through the skirts and blouses and eventually find a rack stuffed full of clothes to hide beneath. It is really cool in here. I am a queen and each item of clothing is one of my charges. I tell them all about the important events of the royal family and the castle. I’m getting a little sleepy so I think I’ll close my eyes.

I hear a man bellowing over the loud speaker, “if there is a little girl by the name of Diane Haas, please report to a sales clerk immediately. I am very sleepy but I’m pretty certain that’s me being paged to a sales clerk. I wonder what is taking my mom so long. I duck under the clothes and try to find a sales clerk. I tug on a lady and ask her if she is a clerk and she is startled, “are you the child they are looking for?”

“I guess so.”

“Where have you been?”

“Over there,” I point toward the rack and see now it has a big “Sale” sign above it. She takes my hand and hurriedly scurries to a sales clerk. The clerk puts her hands over her mouth and says “oh my god, here she is” now I’m afraid I’m in big trouble with my mom. Clearly all these people are very upset, and they don’t even know me. “where’s my mom,” I ask?

“Honey, you come with me” and again I am being rushed off to yet another location.

“My mom’s in the dressing room over there” I offer sheepishly.
“Okay, darling, you come with me.”

We are walking and walking and finally she brings me into an office. It smells like metal and cigarette smoke in here. She walks up to a man and announces proudly she has the child, as if her discovery will win her a prize. She tells him she needs to get back to her section. “What’s your name young lady, the man who introduces himself as the manager asks? “Diane” I say weakly, wishing my mom would come. “Well Diane, there been an accident and your mom had to go away in an ambulance but someone is going to come and pick you up real soon.”


I don’t think I knew what an ambulance was but it didn’t sound good. I wished for the comfort of my hiding place underneath the clothes rather than the stale stuffiness of the manager’s office. I now know that Go-Go was taken to the hospital and somehow my Aunt was called to pick me up. If I was frightened I don’t remember, but I had already become accustomed to strange and unpredictable things happening around me, and learned to stuff any feelings I might be having and ride the waves of uncertainty.

The Barbeque

The celebration of life memorial potluck barbeque family reunion party gathering was coming to a close. I was too busy catching up with relatives and friends of the family to realize there wasn’t going to be a “memorial.” Not long after it occurred to me I was standing in my sister’s kitchen and my brother shared a conversation with me. He said he was talking to our brother-in-law and said “someone better tell Diane there isn’t going to be a memorial service.” To that I replied, “I certainly didn’t drive two thousand miles in two days for a fucking barbeque.” Everyone laughed. But that’s exactly what I did.

If there had been some sort of public sending off, a blessing, a shared story telling session, who would have facilitated it? I think my years in California and countless “celebrations of life” had me confused with how things are done in my family. I really did imagine there would be chairs set up class room style in the park adjacent to my sister’s house. I really thought we would publicly express our grief and tell stories about how generous and funny and talented she was, and how much she’ll be missed, and what a train wreck she was. That’s what happens at memorials, or celebrations of life, or whatever you call them, isn’t it? Not in my family.

I am still shaking my head at the weirdness of it. People came from all over the country, people who had known Go-Go much of her life, and all of mine. Dottie and Arnie Carpenter came with their daughter Kitty, the one who watched my heel get torn off in the spokes of my sister’s bike, and as it turns out, the one who has a life long crush on my older brother Tom. A bunch of my cousins, my parent's friends from Windsor, friends of my sisters who didn't even know Go-Go came. Roger’s family was there, goofy and strange as ever. Roger’s sister, Aunt Margie could not stop saying “you look just like Pete,” my younger brother. I had a chance to visit with a few of my nieces and nephews and their kids, and that was pretty much the highlight of the day.

When I introduced Trish as my honey, to Go-Go's eighty eight year old sister, Aunt Marian, she put her hand over her mouth and said “ohhhh” but quickly recovered and withdrew her extended hand and reached out to hug her, saying “well, you’re a part of the family then, you get a hug.” I’ve been “out” to my family for thirty years - did my mom never tell her sister? Still, I shake my head at the strangeness.

By midnight everyone was gone and it was over. Trish and I were grateful to spend the night in a tent in my sister’s back yard. It was our first night in the tent and it was glorious to sleep on her cushy lawn and breathe the fresh, clean Midwestern air. With that part of the trip over, we were ready to begin our great road trip adventure.

Photograph by Trish Tunney

"For The Way You Live"

I was three years old the day Go-Go left me inside Marshall Fields. Well, she didn’t exactly leave me. She passed out and forgot to tell the paramedics that I was with her. I was happily playing underneath a rack of women’s clothing. The circular shape of the rack and the way the clothes hung fashioned a perfect fort for me. I was fascinated by the shapes and colors of the clothing and was used to busying myself so I wasn’t a burden to Go-Go.

The Marshall Field’s was in Milwaukee where we were visiting my Aunt Marian. It was hot, very hot – or that’s the story Go-Go liked to tell to explain why she passed out. I now understand she had to tell a story because she didn’t want anyone to know she was pregnant.

I must have fallen asleep under the clothes rack. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I heard the intercom, “If there is a child by the name of Diane Kathryn Haas, please report to a sales clerk immediately.” Go-Go remembered I was still in the store and arranged to have Aunt Marian rescue me. It took forever for her to free me from the manager’s office in the back of the store. The clothing fort had been a lot more fun.

It was 35 years later when Go-Go confessed to me, in a haze of alcohol, that she had tried to abort me. She described the whole event in detail, from how her sister, Marian, found a doctor in another city, to the trip they took, and the consent forms in the doctors office. She said she felt horrible, she felt like a criminal, it was the worst experience of her life and she’d never forget it. She told Marian she couldn’t go through with it and we left the clinic. She vowed I would be her last child.

So that hot autumn day in Marshall Fields, when her seventh pregnancy was confirmed, she was convinced she would go through with the abortion this time.
It wasn’t just that she did not want any more children. She was planning to start fresh, and leave her husband to be with her boyfriend Roger. A new infant, even if it was Roger’s child, complicated things. She made the doctors’ appointment and a second time did not have the stomach for it. Peter was born the following June.

The stories she told me that night included that she was not certain who my father was when I was born. And it drove her crazy. It was 1959, she was raised a Catholic, thought herself as a good mother, a devoted wife and had ideas about women who had affairs. What I realized was I had been a walking symbol of her infidelity and she hated that.

Vacation Association

The after glow of our first family vacation in a fancy hotel came to an abrupt end when Go-Go discovered the damage done while we were away.

Judy had some competition and couldn’t go with us and when Go-Go finally gave in, Scott insisted that as long as Judy didn’t have to go, he should also be allowed to stay home. They were both still in high school so Go-Go asked my older brother Tim to drop in on them and make sure they were okay. What she didn't know is Tim had just received a bag of Seconals (barbituates) from our brother Tom in Vietnam and was more than happy to share them with his kid brother and sister so they could have a party. I think the party lasted the entire week we were away.

I was focused on how excited I was my friend Jackie was going with us. We drove in Roger's brand new enormous Buick with electric windows and we felt like we had our own private limo, even though there were four of us in the back seat. Somewhere along the way we stayed in a Howard Johnson motel with a swimming pool and telephones inside the rooms - it was a whole new world, one that was truly thrilling.

We were in D.C. for a week long conference for truck stop owners and operators. While our parents did grown up stuff, we were bused around on "kid friendly tours" to the White House, the Washington monument, the Lincoln Memorial and other points of interest. Jackie and I, being the precocious children we were, started skipping the tours to wander the streets of D.C. by ourselves. How we escaped death or serious injury is a mystery.

We had a blast. We swam in the hotel pool, ordered room service, played with my brothers and other convention kids in the hotel halls and ballrooms and wandered the streets around the hotel. We had never been to such a big city or fancy hotel as that Hilton. We spent the long drive home feeling like royalty.

When we arrived home to our apartment, the damage to the house was not immediately obvious. We hauled our suitcases in and were ready to have a happy reunion with our siblings and tell them all about our amazing adventures. It did not take long before Go-Go began to notice the cigarette burns. The more burns she found, the more unraveled she became. Within an hour of our homecoming, Go-Go was in a full fledged freak out, screaming, shaking, and crying until she was hoarse, but unable to stop her fury. She screamed for hours, days, weeks, and months. The good time vacation came to an abrupt and startling end and was replaced by Go-Go's rage.

The worst room of all, the living room - the one we rarely used because the furniture was too new to be soiled by dirty little children. Every single piece of furniture, including the lamps were covered in cigarette burns.

Turns out, Seconals when mixed with alcohol, make you fall asleep. When Go-Go stopped screaming long enough to get an explanation from Judy and Scott, they told her they had a party and their friends smoked pot. Even I knew that was a dumb story, and I was only eleven.

Celebration of Life

My brother-in-law sent me the invitation for Go-Go's upcoming memorial service in August. I don't know why we decided to wait until August to have her "Celebration of Life," considering she died on January 3rd. Maybe it has to do with some unconscious honoring of Midwest tradition- those who die in the winter are stored in the Church mausoleum until the ground thaws when they can be buried. It's not like we needed to wait; Go-Go was cremated in a cardboard box in a low budget crematorium in Bradenton Florida on January 5th. We decided to have her memorial in Wisconsin on her birthday, and at the time it made sense. The fact that we would wait nearly seven months after her death to have closure never occurred to us as a bad idea.

When I opened the invitation and saw the attached photo of her, I felt so sad that she is dead. I might have even said out loud: "damn, you are dead." Then I noticed that the photo was taken in my home in Bernal Heights! Go-Go had only been to my house a few times, and I'm pretty sure this picture was taken the last time she visited. She and Roger sold their place in Naples and decided to take a road trip out to California. They stopped at every gambling establishment between Florida and California. By the time they arrived, a week or so later than scheduled, they were so hungover it was astounding. They were cranky and exhausted and had a bunch of money they were spending like lottery winners, rather than retirees on a fixed income.

One day Trish agreed to take Go-Go, Roger and I shopping to Crate and Barrel in Union Square. Go-Go loved Crate and Barrel and had never seen the San Francisco store. She was beside herself with shopping madness. Moments after arriving inside the store, she began waving her arms in the air while yelling my name with her raspy cigarette and alcohol voice, "Diane, oh, Diane, come here and look at this." My girl was cringing and fighting an urge to hide from us. But Go-Go was oblivious to the inappropriateness of her shouting across the store-she was in shopping heaven. Trish does a great imitation of her inside the Crate and Barrel complete with overhead arm waving. They bought a ton of stuff for my home, stuff that was meant to make me feel loved and cared for, but rather fills me with regret and confusion. She died penniless.

Whenever Go-Go gambled she developed a sleepy eye. It was a combination of lack of sleep and alcohol consumption. I also have one lazy eye, that drifts out of focus when I am over tired. Her right eye was the one that drooped a bit after a night at the casino. In this photo, after weeks of gambling, I recognized the eye tiredness right away. Most people don't even see it. It's like her voice after a few drinks, I always noticed the elongated syllables and slurry cadence, but others looked at me like I was crazy. In this picture she is swollen from years of Prednisone, poor diet and too much booze, and she looks incredibly familiar-like herself. I did not recognize what my feelings were until my friend Jane put a name to them. Seeing that photo made me miss her terribly.

Holding Court

hold·ing (hldng) n.

1. Tending to impede or delay progress: a holding action.

2. Designed for usually short-term storage or retention: a holding tank; a holding cell.

court (kôrt, krt)n.

1. The retinue of a sovereign, including the royal family and personal servants, advisers, and ministers.

2. A formal meeting or reception presided over by a sovereign.

I woke up in the middle of the night to someone pounding on the glass door in the back of the house. I felt a rush of fear and dread. I somehow knew, even in my sleepy stupor, this ruckus was related to me. I was spending the night at Tracy Higgs’ house and I heard her Mom and brother walk down the stairs toward the disturbance, whispering anxiously to one another. And then I heard Go-Go. The humiliation was excruciating. Up until now, the Higgs’ home had been a sanctuary for me –a place Go-Go had never been or seen. A place free from her bad behavior. I lay frozen in bed as long as I could stand it, hoping that the house would go quiet again and it would be over as quickly as it began. But that was not Go-Go’s way. Once she had it in her mind to have a conversation with someone after the bars closed, there was very little anyone could do to stop her.

Go-Go began to get nervous whenever I formed relationships with girls whose homes I preferred to spend more time in than my own. I was only eleven, but I was already starting my pre-teen rejection of her. The Higgs’ family adopted me for dinners, sleepovers, after school snacks, and weekend outings-I was even enlisted to canvas for George McGovern for President. The family was from Colorado and I guess you could say they were hippies. Tracy’s Mom, who insisted I call her Barbara, had long hair which she wore in a thick braid down her back. She wore long skirts, Birkenstocks, and drove a Volkswagen bus. She was raising her four kids by herself, which was just one more reason Go-Go was suspicious of her – that and the peace sign on the back of her VW bus.

When I came downstairs Go-Go was sitting on the couch, Barbara Higgs and her oldest son Mark were sitting across from her, held hostage by their own politeness and maybe their love for me. I don’t know what was more humiliating, her smeared makeup and slurry speech or watching my friends sit, like statues, unable to interrupt this bizarre and crazy night time intruder, my mom. She went on and on, which was her way when she was this smashed, speaking about things she would otherwise never dare mention; politics and the upcoming election between Nixon and McGovern, how strange their family was to her, how she wondered why I liked them better than my own family, and much, much more.

I don’t remember how long she stayed or how she got home. In my fantasy I imagine a light suddenly going off for her and she stands up and says goodnight – maybe even recognizing how pointless it is to torture these innocents. A more likely scenario is that one of the boys walked her home-our apartment was only a couple hundred feet away. I do recall pleading with her to please leave and let the family go to sleep. Maybe I was the one who finally got my clothes on and dragged her out of the house and aided with her stagger home. Maybe I stayed home rather than wake up the following morning to face the humiliation of the Higgs family seeing me for who I truly was. Maybe I went back to sleep with the rest of the Higgs family and pretended it never happened. Or maybe I apologized for her, which would also have been my way.