Women Who Write - First Time . . . .

 

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Last year, I joined a women's writing group.  Each month a different member gives a prompt to use if we don't have any other projects we're working on.  In June 2024, the prompt was

First Time . . . on my own                                                           © Lori Allen, June 2024

I graduated from high school in May of 1974. I was an average student who could have been an
honor roll student if I’d have dedicated as much time to my academic life as I had to my social life.
My older brother and sister went to college and the same was expected of me. I was struggling to
know what I wanted to study.

Most people assumed I’d be a teacher if I went to college. My sister, my mom, my grandmother and
all her sisters, and my mother’s idol, Laura Ingalls Wilder, were all teachers. My mom assumed it was
a done deal. “Lori,” she’d say, “you’d be best working with very young children. You need to get your
elementary certification, but concentrate on kindergarten or grade one, no preschool.” My sister’s
track was to be an elementary principal and my brother a shop teacher for junior high. Mom’s plan
was that specific.

When I said I thought I’d like to get a BFA and work with art or music – perhaps a music librarian or art
historian, my parents wouldn’t hear it. “You need something to fall back on in case something
happens to your husband,” my dad would remind me. This husband, an unknown entity, didn’t want
a wife without a marketable, money-making degree.

I put off filling out all the paperwork needed in 1974 to be accepted to Southwest State College in
Marshall, Minnesota – the college of choice for my siblings and only one I’d even considered. One
night shortly after graduation, I was sharing my education dilemma with my coworkers at the Trimont
Community Hospital. I’d been trained, with one other girl my age, to be a nurse’s aide at age 15.
“You’re not going into nursing?” the director of nursing asked in horror? “All our aides have gone on
to nursing school! Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to be a nurse when I was training you?”

“Uh,” I told her in my mind, “because I was a fifteen-year-old kid whose mom said yes when you
asked her if she thought I’d like to be a nurse’s aide and I thought this was a better job than
babysitting or walking beans.” I smiled sheepishly and whispered, “I don’t know.”

Beverly Borntrager wasted no time in contacting her alma mater, an ancient hospital in Minneapolis
with a nursing program, and asked them to reach out to me. Two days later, the administrator of the
program was sitting at my parent’s dining room table and I was signing my education over to a
nursing program. I hadn’t even realized I was the best nurse’s aide Mrs. Borntrager had ever trained
until that guy from Mrs. Borntrager's alma mater  told me so. I was set to start school in their summer session which started June 24, 5 days after my eighteenth birthday. I’d be moving into one of the school’s dorm type apartments on June 23. I had 10 days to get ready.

I wrote a check from my personal checking account for a deposit on the tuition and a deposit for the
apartment - $200 each. That took quite a dip out of my nurse’s aide earnings. I wondered how I’d
pay the rest of the tuition or the monthly $200 rent. 

I found that out on June 21 when my dad came home at lunch time and said, “let’s go kiddo. Your mom said I need to take you to the bank.” I sat at a table Kal Skaalen informed me of interest rates and deferment and default. I smiled and nodded like I understood every word he was saying. I’d add an “I see” or “of course” or “great, thank you” when I felt acknowledgement was needed. I left the Triumph State Bank with $17,000 in debt and a few hundred more than that in my checking account.

I rode back home in my dad’s turquoise truck with Farmer’s Union Cooperative painted on the side.
We had the windows open and he hummed “I’ve Got a Home in Glory Land” the ten or so blocks from
the bank to our house. He pulled up in front of the house, didn’t even pull in the driveway, reached
across me and opened the door, “I’ve got to get back to work.” 

I walked into the house - dazed. I felt like I was back in our little country church in South Dakota. I had no idea what was going on. My xperience in asking questions in that religious community didn’t go well – I was chastised for not having faith, for questioning God. That experience informed the way I processed other things in my life as I was growing up. I’d learned to not ask questions and just go with the flow. The flow for now was to hang out with friends these last precious days, work as many shifts as I could, and pack for my move to 1880 Irving Avenue South in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Jump ahead to Sunday, June 23, 1974. Mom and dad drive me to the cities in the turquoise truck, the
back filled with suitcases and boxes of necessities, most of them that went back to Trimont as the
apartment was fully furnished. While mom helped me unpack, she told me that I needed to pay my
tuition bill when I got to school the next day, and that I had to be REALLY careful with spending. She
also said that she and dad would put $50 in my checking account every month for groceries
and spending money. They both gave me hugs and told me to write, not call (long distance phone calls were only for emergencies), to let them know how things were going.

Mom did put $50 in my account in July 1974. That was the last deposit she ever made. I didn’t
mention it. She didn’t mention it.  I knew better than to ask my dad for many reasons.  Who did mention similar things were my classmates. They were so open about their finances and brainstorming ways to make money while in school. Selling plasma, cashiering at the local Lunds, riding the bus to Target during the holiday season to restock shelves, being hair models at Christians, an upscale salon in the neighborhood were all popular ways to make ends meet.

For the first time in my life, that I knew about, I was eeking by. Looking back, I am certain that this is
how my parents managed their money. I continued piecing together finances during school and in
the first two years I worked as a nurse. My fulltime job was working for a surgeon in his surgeries and
then in his office. I also picked up shifts in the ER on weekends and nights. I also joined, then started a band. The money I made in my night and weekend ER shifts was replaced by the money we earned as a band.

Then, I got married. To a person who was good at managing and talking about money. I turned
everything over to him. No more side hustles. No more worries, other than his constant telling me I
was spending too much money. My financial world was secure until we divorced 20 years later.

It was back to the hustle, back to the side gigs. Facilitating workshops, flipping a house or two,
reselling found antiquities, serving on government committees, writing grants . . . even today, as a
retired person with a decent monthly income, I’m always working a side hustle. Today feels a lot like
summer of 1974, the first time I was an adult – without the urgency of making rent or buying all the
accoutrements needed by nursing school students.

Castle

Edinburgh Scotland May 2018

Like the day before, and I'd soon discover, the days following, the Edinburgh morning was chilly, damp and gray.  My seven year old companion, Mica, uncharacteristically held my hand tightly as we slowly wandered the unfamiliar streets.

"Where are we going, Gramma?"

"On an adventure!" I say in my most confident grandmother voice.

"That means you don't know where we're going," Mica knowingly reminded me.

We continued walking through the residential streets of our apartment to the busier streets leading into the heart of Edinburgh. We found ourselves in the cobblestone plaza outside Usher Hall, an expansive area with steps to hop on and coffee and cocoa vendors to chase away the chill.

"Cafe au'lait and hot cocoa" I ordered from a friendly looking young woman behind a vendor cart.

"This is not France," she scolded me.  Then with a bright smile said, "you will like the flat white more than au'lait."  She took a minute to explain the difference, and suggested a healthier juice and toast option for Mica.  She was so pleasant, asking where we were from and what were we wanting to see in Edinburgh today.

"Where's the playground?" Mica asked.  Our vendor gave intricate directions - half a kilometer north to St Cuthbert's graveyard, cut east through the main graveyard path to the Bungydome Playground.  Mica was hopping and clapping, "let's go, let's go, let's go."

Ten minutes later, and one spooky walk through a centuries old graveyard, we were at the playground - at the base of the backside of Edinburgh Castle.  Mica ran and played and made friends with some younger children who were there.    

I sat on a bench and watched Mica.  There were other women, about my age, sitting together talking.  One woman in particular kept looking at me and waving.  I'd smile and give a small wave back and act busy with my phone.  Finally, this woman walked over to me and asked, "what granny group do ya belong to? Or are ya new here?"

"Pardon?" I asked, confused.  

"What group darlin'?"  I didn't have any idea what she was asking.

"We're not from here."  I blurted.

"Aye.  No ya not."  She then explained that she and the other 5 women were a granny group.  I learned that these informal groups are abundant in Edinburgh.  Grandmothers watch their young grandchildren, ensuring they get 3-4 hours of fresh air every day.  

These women bring knitting, sewing, books, paints, blankets and pillows with them to the park.  They are incredibly "hands off" with their grandchildren, allowing them to work out differences and take care of each other when they fall or cry.  The grannies were very amused with my obsession with my granddaughter - pushing her in the swing, giving her a snack, having a water bottle, giving her a snuggle when she ran over to tell me she'd hurt her knee.

"Is she your first grand?" one woman asked.

"You're only?" suggested another.  It didn't take long for both Mica and me to feel self-conscious about my hovering.  By day two, we'd part ways at the playground gate and only re-connect when it was time to leave.  

I learned about the other granny's families and the work they used to do.  When I was in Scotland, I was on vacation from job as the ISU sexual assault advocate.  The women were fascinated by the fact that such a position was needed.  I tried to explain that a lot of my work was about prevention and safety.  One granny, Lila, suggested that "cutting it off if it got in the wrong place" would be an effective way to prevent assault and keep people safe.  

One of the other grannies, Doret, kept asking me if I knew specific people.  I'd say, "oh, do they live in Ames?  or Iowa?"  She'd answer that they lived in Dallas, or Boston, or Atlanta.  We'd all laugh when she finally admitted she had no idea about US geography.  "Same for me about Scotland," I assured her.

We were in Edinburgh for the next three weeks.  While my daughter, a visiting professor at Edinburgh University, took my 12 year old grandson to class with her, Mica and I hustled down to the playground to meet up with the grannies and their grandchildren.  

Mica, now thirteen years old, claims to have no memories of these play groups.  She only remembers me making her walk each morning to get my coffee, then on through the creepy graveyard so we could sit at the base of Edinburgh Castle.  There, I would talk with old people in the rain and order her to go play.