Rhoda
Daddy would describe his first wife as "a red-headed hillbilly from Kentucky", speaking with pride of the strong woman we children knew only as a name: "Rhoda."
He told of a journey he and Mommy, (then his fiancee or new bride,) took...one of those little trips that assumed epic proportions.
Rhoda was in trouble and called on Daddy, still a friend. He and Mom deposited us with grandparents and went off on a drive across the midwest to help the damsel in distress.
Once they reached her, Mom and she settled into the back seat of the car and hit it off right away, swapping 'war' stories about life with Daddy, conveniently ignoring the poor man's presence in the driver's seat. Thoroughly enjoying each other's company, a bottle of wine was somehow produced, shoes were removed, and the back seat became quite the riot.
Peanut (as he was then still known,) was speeding as fast as he could to get wherever he needed to be so that the ladies having an uproarious time at his expense could do so *out* of his presence--'please, God, just give me a beer and some peace!'
At the proverbial moment when he didn't think things could get any worse, he realized that a state trooper had him in radar. After pulling over, he held his driver's license out of the window with a resigned air. The vehicle itself had obvious problems, and the drunken women with open containers in the back weren't making things any easier. The trooper came up with a swagger, glanced in the back seat as he barked out the standard, "Do you know how fast you were going?" and took the license. I can almost picture my Daddy's face of misery as he said, "Yes." and then..."See those two? THAT'S my ex-wife," pointing to a drunken spitfire in one corner of the backseat. "THAT'S my current wife," pointing to the other feisty drunk, giggling away. "And I'm trying to reach ----."
Daddy said the trooper's gaze changed o so slightly--signifying "you poor dope." He handed the license back to my dad, mapped out a route for Daddy to take that would allow maximum speeding, pointed out speed trap areas, and mentioned that he should get some details about the car taken care of. The trooper then walked back to his car and drove off.
This, then, was what I knew of Rhoda. None of us thought to contact her until Cousin Allen spoke up (he won't let me call him Uncle, though that's what he's been to me--good man!) Mommy agreed, and I was commissioned with the unusual task of finding my Daddy's ex-wife at the behest of my Mom and the nearest man to a twin my Daddy had.
Mommy gave me a sketchy outline consisting of possible names for children, (you know...anything from Adam to Zander,) possible birth decades, and a large swath of Kentucky as a possible birth place, adding helpfully that things like publicly accessible documentation of birth would be unlikely since Rhoda's family did things the old-fashioned way at home. Armed with my vast store of facts, you can imagine my delight when my first serious attempt yielded pay dirt. More searches located a possible phone number. I thought of testing it, but then realized how ridiculous that conversation would be:
"Hello?"
"Yes, hello. May I please speak with Rhoda?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm your ex-husband's stepdaughter; I page stalked you on behalf of my mom, whom you may or may not remember meeting back in the early 1980s, and of my cousin/uncle, a shorter version of my Daddy. I have absolutely nothing to tell you that could be of interest to you beyond my daddy's demise, but am calling to say hi on behalf of the family."
I think Mommy realized the same, as she volunteered to make that call. Apparently, once a mother, always a mother--protecting strangers from her daughter's randomness one person at a time.
He told of a journey he and Mommy, (then his fiancee or new bride,) took...one of those little trips that assumed epic proportions.
Rhoda was in trouble and called on Daddy, still a friend. He and Mom deposited us with grandparents and went off on a drive across the midwest to help the damsel in distress.
Once they reached her, Mom and she settled into the back seat of the car and hit it off right away, swapping 'war' stories about life with Daddy, conveniently ignoring the poor man's presence in the driver's seat. Thoroughly enjoying each other's company, a bottle of wine was somehow produced, shoes were removed, and the back seat became quite the riot.
Peanut (as he was then still known,) was speeding as fast as he could to get wherever he needed to be so that the ladies having an uproarious time at his expense could do so *out* of his presence--'please, God, just give me a beer and some peace!'
At the proverbial moment when he didn't think things could get any worse, he realized that a state trooper had him in radar. After pulling over, he held his driver's license out of the window with a resigned air. The vehicle itself had obvious problems, and the drunken women with open containers in the back weren't making things any easier. The trooper came up with a swagger, glanced in the back seat as he barked out the standard, "Do you know how fast you were going?" and took the license. I can almost picture my Daddy's face of misery as he said, "Yes." and then..."See those two? THAT'S my ex-wife," pointing to a drunken spitfire in one corner of the backseat. "THAT'S my current wife," pointing to the other feisty drunk, giggling away. "And I'm trying to reach ----."
Daddy said the trooper's gaze changed o so slightly--signifying "you poor dope." He handed the license back to my dad, mapped out a route for Daddy to take that would allow maximum speeding, pointed out speed trap areas, and mentioned that he should get some details about the car taken care of. The trooper then walked back to his car and drove off.
This, then, was what I knew of Rhoda. None of us thought to contact her until Cousin Allen spoke up (he won't let me call him Uncle, though that's what he's been to me--good man!) Mommy agreed, and I was commissioned with the unusual task of finding my Daddy's ex-wife at the behest of my Mom and the nearest man to a twin my Daddy had.
Mommy gave me a sketchy outline consisting of possible names for children, (you know...anything from Adam to Zander,) possible birth decades, and a large swath of Kentucky as a possible birth place, adding helpfully that things like publicly accessible documentation of birth would be unlikely since Rhoda's family did things the old-fashioned way at home. Armed with my vast store of facts, you can imagine my delight when my first serious attempt yielded pay dirt. More searches located a possible phone number. I thought of testing it, but then realized how ridiculous that conversation would be:
"Hello?"
"Yes, hello. May I please speak with Rhoda?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm your ex-husband's stepdaughter; I page stalked you on behalf of my mom, whom you may or may not remember meeting back in the early 1980s, and of my cousin/uncle, a shorter version of my Daddy. I have absolutely nothing to tell you that could be of interest to you beyond my daddy's demise, but am calling to say hi on behalf of the family."
I think Mommy realized the same, as she volunteered to make that call. Apparently, once a mother, always a mother--protecting strangers from her daughter's randomness one person at a time.
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