Life without a father

It was terrible to be reared without a father. However, I don’t think I had to fill out any blanks on any forms that asked for anything except parent’s name. Mother’s name, Johnnie, could be interpreted as masculine, so that may have saved me some questions. I haven’t much memory about what I would say when people asked me direct questions about my father.

Mother did not like pet names; she never called me darling or any pet name—always Kathryn. I have never been called Kathy or Kath.

Mother’s name was Johnnie Kathryn, and we were both named for Mama’s sister, whose name was Kathryn Cordelia. Kathryn Cordelia was called Keel. Mama called Mother, John Kate and called me Little John Kate.

Aunt Velma called me Katty—sometimes Katty Pie!!

The worst part about not having a father was that I couldn’t talk to any one about it. Aunt Lura and Mama would say my mother didn’t want me to think about it. Ha!

I can remember going into a private place, sobbing, and silently saying, “Why did you go off and leave me like this?” It was always silent, though. Mother would just go into hysterics if I mentioned him.

I was certainly never allowed to know my father’s name. I don’t even remember when I first learned it. After I was a teen-ager, Aunt Nan dared to talk to me about him, but it was Aunt Lura who probably told me for the first time.

Aunt Lura lived with us most of her life. She was a very good seamstress. Made lots of my clothes as I was growing up. She was a wonderful “mother” to me.

I remember once after Mother had fussed at me for hours about some trivial thing, I was crying, and I asked Aunt Lura if she weren’t really my mother, because she seemed to love me more than my own.

Aunt Lura always soothed me and loved me. I remember that once she walked in the room, pulled herself up as tall as she could and said, “Now Johnnie, you’ve said enough to that child. There won’t be another word said today.” And there wasn’t.

Mother was a manic-depressive and she had schizophrenic episodes. I try to remember the good times with her, and there were some.

Had we known what psychiatrists know now, my life with her might have been different, but I expect she was pretty miserable herself a lot of the time. I am able now, after these years, to try to forgive the bad times and remember the good.

Mother’s brother Uncle Dan and Aunt Eva’s husband Uncle Bill, were the father figures in my life. They couldn’t have been better to me. I adored them both.