Three Grandmothers, Part 1

The ‘Bentley’ problem.

Ivy Bentley, Inez Alexander, Mattie Adams, Era Blick.
Steve Bentley. Photo circa 1953.

Daniel  Efford Bentley was married three times. I say this only to point out an eery coincidence, in that myself and both my male siblings have also been married three times. Daniel's third marriage was to Ivy (or Iva) Cypress Burnam, whom I knew as Grandma Bentley.

She was already pretty old by the time I knew her. In fact when she died at the age of eighty six, I was only seven years old. But I do remember her. She watched over me from time to time while mom and dad worked right across the street from where she lived in Cadiz. Dad had a store called Bentley’s Maytag. Yeah, my dear dad was, for a while at least, a Maytag repairman.

Grandma’s place was half a house as I recall. I clearly remember the fireplace, roaring with burning coal chunks. Grandma, a wisp of an old woman always seemed frail and small, poking at the embers with an iron rod then leaning back and heaving forth a dirty brown and smelly spit of tobacco juice into a coffee can by the fireplace. Her voice was high, and a little raspy. I knew enough even then to know that she was from a very different time. I don’t recall a TV in her place at all, there might have been a radio, I just remember the fireplace. She once handed me a couple of D cell batteries, she called them ‘play-pretties’ and left me alone to amuse myself with them. I did. I stuck them to my tongue to feel that tiny ionizing tickle of a shock. This was of course a bad idea. In a few short years I’d graduated from D cells and was hooked on self-shocking with the vastly faster and more amp’ed up nine volt batteries. To this day, the mere sight of a battery, AA, D, or even the big one in my car makes me drool with anticipation.

We took her on a road trip to Evansville Indiana once, where one of her sons lived, ‘Uncle Tobe’ as he was known to us, ‘William Efford Bentley’ as he was known on paper. I don’t know exactly the story or origins of the ‘Tobe’ part.

We had a red, 1960 Ford Falcon station wagon. My sister and I were in the very back (long before such a thing was declared illegal), Grandma Bentley sat behind the driver’s seat. At some point she got uncomfortable and rolled down her window, stuck her head out and puked. I can in my mind, still see the streaking splatter on the back windows, it stayed there the whole trip.

Frankly that’s about all I recall about her. The memories are very vivid, though admittedly few. The next and last thing I recall about her was her funeral in 1964.

As I said she was the third wife of Daniel Efford Bentley. She bore him three sons, Uncle Tobe I mentioned, I also knew Uncle Bob in Russelville, Ky. There was one other, John, who died in 1944,  I do not recall at all. My own father was not one of the three boys.

You see the problem with Grandpa Bentley is that he died in 1918, nearly ten years before my father was born.

Grandma Bentley was born in 1878. She married Daniel while in her very early twenties, around 1901. Daniel was already in his late fifties by then, he was born in 1844, thus, thirty four years her senior. It was a different time.

Daniel and his younger brother had served in the war together, the Civil War. He was rostered with Company B, 13^th Virginia Light Artillery Battalion, CSA. As best as we can tell, he was with his unit at the battle of, and subsequent Confederate surrender at, Appomattox. Daniel’s own grandfather, Peter Efford Bentley, had served three tours of duty during the Revolutionary war and his ancestry can be dated back in the U.S. to the 1600’s with an apparent direct line of kinship to Pocahontas. This connection is interesting, though hardly rare. Pocahontas’s descendants were quite prolific.
After the war of northern aggression ended, Daniel became an ordained minister. He served several rural churches in Trigg County. Because of the huge offset in their ages, Grandma Bentley was one of the last widows in Kentucky still receiving a Civil War pension when she died, ninety nine years after that war was over.

So, about my father and his relationship to the Bentley’s.

My dad was born in 1927. His birth parents were Henry Ray and Era Crabtree. By the time I was a kid Era had married another man and I always knew her as Grandma Blick. Yes, I knew her as well.  Grandma Blick’s birth name was Era Dennis.

That’s right, the source of my own first name was my grandmother’s maiden name. What, you thought it was something else?

Henry Crabtree was not by any account or measure I can come up with, an upstanding citizen. Put more plainly, he was a mean, violent drunk. I never met him. Being poor and nearly illiterate in Alabama in the late 1920’s is a pretty tough way to raise a family. Made even more desperate if the breadwinner drinks all the very few bread winnings that occasionally occurred. A couple of years into the great depression, Grandma put my dad and one of his sisters out for adoption. They ended up in the Kentucky Children’s Home in Lyndon (Louisville) Ky. Dad has only ever had scant memories of this period. He recalls looking through a fence at his sister, behind another fence. The children's home segregated kids by gender.

 KCH took part in a system that became known as ‘orphan trains’. They would put some of their ‘destitute’ kids on trains, or in my dad’s case, the rumble seat of a car, and take them to various county courthouses to try to find them new homes. Not at all unlike what my wife does with dogs now.

The Bentley boys, then adults with their own growing families and farms, were in the market for a young boy to live with their aging mother and help her out. At the Trigg County courthouse they came across my dad, around ten years old at the time.

Kentucky Children's Home

They paid the fee and signed the papers, adopting him into the family. Young, destitute Samuel Ray Crabtree became Sam Bentley and started a new life just outside Cadiz.

By every recollection I have heard from him, my dad never had a problem with this. In fact Grandma Bentley and her sons always treated him very well, even into adulthood. By the time I was a young kid I was closer to and more familiar with my Bentley cousins and aunts and uncles than my blood-relatives on my father’s side. That had a lot to do with geography though.

Grandma Blick with a couple
of my real cousins.

So I was raised with three grandmothers and for all practical purposes, no grandfather. Mr. Blick was, to put it mildly, not very ‘nurturing’. He barely tolerated our once per year or so visits to the small, state line-straddling, Adairville Ky. farm. Grandma Blick lived until 1985. I recall many visits to her home. The original house on the farm had no running water and only enough electricity to power a couple of light bulbs and the big TV, which was as I recall only capable of picking up professional wrestling.

Grandma Blick's mother
 Inez Alexander 1880-1961

Grandma Blick was easy to laugh, very kind and above all, quite chatty. A stereotypical barely-literate, hardscrabble woman. She made fresh eggs and biscuits (with lard) and sausage every morning and poured warm, fresh, whole milk for us. There was anything but animosity between her and the Bentley’s.

In my mind and heart it is hard to separate exactly who I am related to by blood and who I am related to in name only. This is not only true for my father’s situation, but for my own as well. My own daughter Leslye is adopted. Her oldest child is Ashton Bentley. I am not related by blood to my daughter or Ashton, but that’s only DNA. The topic of this series of essays is ‘family’, not bloodline, since family is much, much more than biology. If the goal of genealogy is the same as the role of ‘pedigree’ in dog breeds, then I simply have no use for it. Everybody knows we mutts are the best.

Sources:

http://wc.rootsweb.ancestry.com/cgi-bin/igm.cgi?op=GET&db=danielbsr&id=I11687

http://ranger95.com/civil_war/virginia/artillery/rosters/13th_bn_lite_arty_rost_b.html

http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~vapittsy/MR1.htm

http://www.danvilleartillery.org/historical.htm

http://books.google.com/books?id=f9gpAAAAYAAJ&dq=Daniel+Efford+Bentley&source=gbs_navlinks_s

http://wc.rootsweb.ancestry.com/cgi-bin/igm.cgi?op=GET&db=danielbsr&id=I2529

Dr. Steve's Change of Life

As an introduction to what will likely become an ongoing series, I should say something about my relationship with my big brother. Frankly there’s not that much to say. He’s a few years older than me, so growing up we were not close at all. I never shared a room with him nor did I hang around with him and his buds. By the time I finished middle school he’d already gone off for his first year of college. After that we saw each other maybe once per year, if that often. Even those were short and shallow affairs. Holidays at the parents’ house, jocular insults being hurled across the room, a few words about work, families and home, and that was pretty much it. We’ve never seriously corresponded and only phoned each other once a decade or so. All I really know about him is what he infrequently tells me, or what my other siblings say about him, all of which may be a steamy, stinky pile of lies for all I really know.

I’ve never disliked or argued with him, once again because we so seldom interact. However we do come together in times of familial drama, so after I received a short email from him announcing the latest development, I felt it a moral imperative to give him a ring and check on his state of mind.

Steve (standing), My lovely sister
and me.

My older brother, Steve, said he wanted me to write a blog about him. Actually he wanted me to write about his recent change in life and the day to day challenges it presents.

He’s divorcing his wife of twenty plus years. His third wife, by the way. All three of the male siblings in our parents’ flock have been married three times. Steve, the eldest, is the first to chuck away the third. (Why did I say 'first' instead of 'only'? If only I knew someone with Freudian insight to help me understand this. . . ) The why’s and wherefores will not be covered here, suffice it to say there were no known felonious behaviors leading to or involved in the breakup and for what it is worth, it was about as mutual as these things can get. They shared a single lawyer and amicably divided the property. When using the word ‘amicably’ when discussing divorce, it only means ‘no overt physical violence ensued.’

Which means Steve lost (bartered away) the house, the furniture, the electronics...

So now, homeless yet again, he had his staff of overeducated and underpaid lackeys find him an apartment. Steve’s a psychologist, a real one, PHD and everything. His staff are mostly graduate level psychics, er, psychologists (I've never been able to comprehend the real difference) and those poor mopes probably make less than minimum wage as a result of choosing to work for my ‘thrifty’, business savvy, brother. I don’t know this first hand, but I seriously imagine threadbare, sweat-shop like working conditions. Dutiful yet frightened scribes churning out grant proposals by hand beneath a stingily filled, flickering oil lamp. (This would closely resemble my dear, sweet sister's management style, except for her it wasn't about pinching pennies, it was about power, power, power!)

As is common when suffering from Stockholm syndrome, those in his captivity readily work to please their tyrannical captor. So they found him a nice apartment, eight hundred square feet with covered parking, swimming pool and gym for a very reasonable rate, just ten minutes from his office. The kind of place his poor minions could only ever dream about.

When I talked to him over the weekend he told me that he’d gone furniture shopping but that the delivery was still a few days out. He was making do with a small bed, and a folding table he stole from his own workplace. (don't worry, he'll find a way to deduct this theft from both his personal and business taxes.)

From what he described, the furniture he picked out will look quite nice on a bright orange shag carpet, assuming of course that the disco ball is twirling. His swinging bachelor plans include a sixty inch TV and a Bose sound system. I asked him about a sporty red convertible and a white leisure suit to complete the stereotype. He said he’d think about it.

Steve is not exactly a young man. He’s pocket change over sixty, though in pretty good health with a full head of hair. He bears a family resemblance, sort of, which means I can call him nothing less than ruggedly handsome. ‘Dreamboat’ however, simply does not apply. He has lost some weight recently, a certain result of the divorce process that goes largely unreported in the mainstream media. Fortunately he’s in good financial shape so the possibility of dating, should he actually want to, is not completely out of the question. He’d make some nice girl a great and grateful sugar daddy.

As we spoke he told me he’d just returned from Kroger, which is a chain of big grocery stores. Having not been to a grocery store by himself in a few years this was wildly exciting for him. He boasted about his new Kroger discount card. You’d think he was in on a big secret, part of an exclusive club.

Aside from food, most of which will likely go bad long before he figures out how to prepare it, he also bragged about his new coffee maker. A Black and Decker model, “. . .with a built in timer!”

It’s not that Steve doesn’t know how to go shopping, he just hasn’t had to in quite a while. This experience for him was like revisiting childhood. I can identify with that, I used to go to the store with Angel every payday, but hardly at all in the past ten years. Not that I won’t go, or even don’t want to participate, it’s just that our schedules are a little screwy and the only time I would have time would be on a weekend, which tend to be very busy days for Angel. But this isn’t about me.

Steve stopped me as I was telling him something deeply personal about my own life challenges. “Do lemons go in the refrigerator?” was his dilemma.

“You bought more than one lemon?” I asked. I’ve been single myself.

“Yeah, I’ve been juicing.” He answered, I immediately understood this to mean he mixes fruit and vegetables to drink, not that he injects himself with steroids and human growth hormones. He’s a lot like me in that one respect, not at all athletically inclined.

“I got one of those things that lets me make lemonade from fresh lemons.”

“A lemon juicer?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Lemons do not go into the refrigerator, just keep them out of direct sunlight.” I added.

“Thanks, I’ve been wondering about that.”

He’s going to need a lot of help. There’s a ton of things he hasn’t had to do, at least without substantial help, in quite a while. I'd suggest to his staff that they check daily to see if his socks match and that his shirt is properly buttoned, if only for their own good.

He’d been struggling with the installation of his new stereo speakers and had considered calling his ex to get her help. I advised against that course of action. It’s never a good idea to let your ex see your fancy new bachelor pad.

“Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you found yourself single again?” He asked.

“Sure, a small trailer in the woods surrounded by razor wire and bullet-riddled ‘No Trespassing!’ signs, it’s a dream. Chicks love that sort of thing.”

“I’d like to live in the country, but it’s too far from work.” Is all he could find fault with in my contrived plan. He doesn't have a very high opinion of me.

“Yeah, the commute, that’s what’s stopping me too.” I answered.

We chatted a bit about furnishings, he ‘tried on’ all the furniture he bought. “It’s harder than I thought it would be, I never really gave furniture that much thought.” He sighed.

“I’d need a recliner, and maybe something to set stuff on.” I replied. I really hadn’t given being single again much thought either.

“I got a sleigh bed.” He added proudly. My mind wandered to that racing car bed I used to want as a kid. “We don’t even have a headboard.” I told him. Our philosophy on furniture leans heavily towards utilitarianism. We couldn’t decide on the actual function of a headboard, so we just never bothered. He went on to describe the new double-wide living room chair, the bistro-style dining table with eight chairs and the comfortable sofa he’d picked out. I stumbled over the need for eight dining room chairs. Our table has three or maybe four chairs, I don’t even recall exactly. A couple of our dining room chairs are in the bedroom holding up the window fans we use to provide white noise for sleeping. We don’t really ‘dine’ at home and we certainly would never come up with a reason for eight chairs. But Steve’s different, maybe he actually likes seven other people well enough to have them over for a meal at the same time.

I then tried to talk him into a large tattoo to commemorate his new relationship status. He declined. I also tried to talk him into a pet to help him through this difficult time. I suggested a python or boa constrictor since they don’t need a lot of hands-on care. That’s when I discovered that Steve’s a bit of an ophidiophobiac. I could sense him quivering over the phone. "I HATE snakes!" he shouted. 
"It’s always good to know your brothers’ weaknesses." Sun Tzu said that, I think.

He then started joking about dating nineteen-year-olds named Trixie, Bambi and the like, which prompted him to also openly consider installing a stripper pole. He asked me if nineteen year old girls liked that sort of thing. "How do I know? I haven't been out with a nineteen year old girl in, in, well, never.” I had to tell him. In hindsight, I should have told him to call our sister, she was an exotic dancer once, or maybe that's someone else I'm thinking of, she'd probably just deny it anyhow.

I’m pretty sure he was joking about this dating children stuff, he kept assuring me it was all in jest. Sure it is, sure it is… I wasn’t born in a turnip truck you know.

So the new life continues for him. He promises to update me as he faces new frontiers, new tasks and new challenges. I’ve been divorced before, I remember a little about the process and readjustment, but it’s been twenty five or so years, maybe it is different now. I have no plans to even consider divorce as an option in my life at this point, so I’ll just live vicariously through Steve’s.

___________________

Obligatory disclaimer:

I don’t mean to make light of divorce. It’s a very serious path to tread down and is never, amongst normal people, a rosy path. But I’m not a therapist or counselor. I’ve been through divorce(s) and know a lot of other people that have as well. We tend to make light of it primarily as a catharsis. There will be tough, painful times for Steve as well as with any not-completely-sociopathic person that goes through the process. The process of divorce often uses the same terminology as a death in the family or the loss of a long-held job. There are those who say that the processes are nearly identical. Grief varies from one person to another, so it’s hard to quantify which is worse, divorce or the death of a loved one, but this much I can tell you, it is not pleasant. There are sleepless nights, constant self-evaluation and tortuous questioning and moments of stark regret. To be able to grab on to a piece of it and find humor in at least a crumb of the experience is necessary, vital. So that is the role I’ll take with Steve, as a sidekick/foil for the few but important funny bits. I don’t know him well enough to wag my finger at him or share a hug and a tear. He’s got friends (I think) and fellow therapists for that sort of thing, far more qualified than I.

Though I mourn the breakup, I trust and know my oldest brother well enough to know he is not a man who makes rash decisions, especially when it comes to matters of this magnitude. He’s a good man and a caring man.

Besides, he knows I took a crack at psychology, a couple of semesters in grad school, and I ran, not walked, away from it. I’m not cut out for helping people with their personal problems seriously. I simply lack the specific brain nuggets that enable a person like Steve to do what he does professionally, to console and counsel the emotionally damaged. I admire him for this, I once thought I’d like to do what he does. But no, that simply wasn’t my path. However, he knows that if he needs someone to help cheer him up, to find a chuckle in the chasms of darkness, I’m the man. I can find humor in the deepest dark. That’s my coping mechanism anyhow. If I laugh at sad things, it's only because I'd rather not cry.