Begin to Unfold
My Thoughts about Leaving Lakeville
Author’s Note
My husband Evan died on September 6, 1996. I have been reflecting on our forty-two years of married life and how this wonderful man helped me to learn about life and all that I had missed in my childhood. He is gone. Hot tears rolling down my cheeks, my heart beating so fast it felt as though it was going to explode.
I heard a voice calling to me, “Mom it is time to leave now. The limousine is here.” It took me a minute to realize it was my daughter speaking to me. It was time to leave for the funeral. My body stiffened.
I looked at my daughter. Her eyes were filled with grief and pain, trying to be so strong for me, and I said, “Cindy, I am not going.” Getting in that car and leaving would make everything so final.
Having faced so many traumas in my life, this had to be the most difficult for me. Cindy gently convinced me that we had to go. Looking at her and my two sons, Alan and Paul, gave me the courage and strength to get in the car for the longest ride of my life.
To think of a future at this time seemed impossible. I felt empty and hopeless. I had to drift back to how Evan had taught me to cope with difficult times and really call on all the skills I had learned. I found comfort in holding a doll that I created from childhood, but then it reminded me of all the things that had been taken away from me in life such as my parents, my childhood, my health, but none as painful as losing the love of my life.
It was time to start looking back on my journey in life and reflect on all the positive happenings, to write the story that Evan thought was so important to share with the world. My story is one that tells of pain, hope, love, faith, and determination to live.
My life started on November 14, 1933. It was during a period of time when so many families were hit with an epidemic of tuberculosis. My premature birth was the cause for much worry, and many things were tried to save my life. My story begins on my date of birth at which time I was given the name of Cynthia Mitchell.
Birth to Three Years of Age
On November 14, 1933 I came into this world two months premature and weighing in at just a little less than two pounds. In those days they didn’t have the technology of today to keep babies alive, and I was sent home to die. My journey towards survival began when I left Boston City Hospital in Massachusetts shortly after birth and went to my grandparent’s home in Dorchester, Massachusetts.
My parents were Marjorie Leona (Logan) Mitchell and Joseph Archibald Mitchell. My mom was living with my grandparents at the time as she and my dad had separated. My grandparents, Mary Francis Crowley (Logan) and McGrady Lang Logan, along with my Mom did everything they knew how to keep me alive. They tried different formulas as my Mom was unable to breastfeed, yet I continued to reject whatever they put together. I was losing weight fast. They would keep me warm by setting me in a box close to the wood stove and wrapping me in many blankets. My mom did not know what to do and was losing hope. One day she was sitting with me wrapped in a blanket, rocking me and singing to me when a knock came on the door. The neighbor from down the street had recently given birth and was blessed with an abundance of breast milk. She had heard that I was not thriving and was rejecting all formula. She told my mom that she was blessed with an abundance of breast milk and wanted to share it with them for me. My mom and grandparents were willing to try anything at this point. They carefully put some milk in a bottle and began feeding me. An hour later I was sleeping and had not rejected the breast milk. What a wonderful and exciting day for the home on Cedar Street. I had no problem keeping the milk down. I slept for two hours and woke up, and they fed me some more.
My grandmother walked up the street and reported the good news to Mrs. Coakley, who then gave her more milk and told her that she could have as much as she needed. My grandmother Molly sat at the kitchen table with my mom, and they tearfully yet joyfully thanked God for this miracle. I continued to flourish and gain weight much to the delight of not only my family but the whole neighborhood. When it was time for my christening, my mom asked Mrs. Coakley’s son John to be my godfather; Aunty Eunice was to be my godmother.
When I was six months old my mom and dad were divorced. My grandmother and grandfather talked about adopting me. My grandfather received a small pension from the government due to an injury in the war; his children also received a pension until they were twenty one. He felt it would be helpful to my mom if they adopted me; this would allow me to receive the same monies and it would also help my mom. The adoption took place when I was 2 years old. My grandparents became my parents, my aunts became my sisters, and my uncle Paul became my brother. My mom was in the status of a sister but was still my mom. The big change was my name. I was now Cynthia Gale Logan but was called Gale, except by the Ford family whose son Donald called me Baby Gale because the families were always telling him to be nice to Baby Gale. It always tickeled me later in years when the song I’m my own Grandpa was written; I could relate to it.
The household I lived in was filled with love. I became the focus of everyone. My survival was a miracle and to this very religious, Catholic family it surely was a gift from God. Ginnie, the youngest daughter of Molly and Mac was twelve and would spend a lot of time with me, helping her mom and my mom Marjie take care of me. She told me later in life how she would take me to the park and comb and brush my beautiful, black curly hair and dress me in all the beautiful dresses that had been bought for me and also made by my great-grandmother in Chicago who owned her own millinery shop. Ginnie told me later on in years that to her I was like a live doll.
Mollie spoiled me and would tell everyone in the house that whatever the baby wanted she should have. I really loved tomatoes, and when she would buy them at the store and bring them home, she would tie a towel around my neck, put me up on a chair by the sink, and let me eat as many as I wanted. I still love tomatoes; they are one of my favorite foods.
I did not like going to sleep at night. I kept getting up and calling out for whoever would come up and pick me up out of the crib. They would then bring me downstairs, and I would be taken in the car, and they would ride around the block until I fell asleep; then they would bring me back and put me in my crib. I had really captured the heart of this household and at a young age knew how to get them to respond to me.
Molly owned a lot of rental properties and did most of her renting from the house. Ginnie would go with her and bring me along to collect the rents. Sometimes Molly would go by herself and Ginnie would be left to take care of me. One day when she was caring for me, I was wearing a pair of her high heeled shoes. I started to go down the cellar stairs with her, then tripped and fell. Ginnie immediately picked me up and tried to get me to stop crying. I eventually did
