“Coco” reminds us of value of family stories

Some personal history friends recently gave me a copy of the “Coco” DVD/Blue Ray. I watched the film over the weekend, and I was mighty impressed. I wept when the impact hit me–the importance of telling stories about our loved ones so they are never forgotten. Here is how I transcribed the pivotal scene about the importance of stories:

Hector and Miguel

In “Coco,” Disney’s Academy Award-winning animated feature film, Hector and Miguel are visiting part of the world of the dead inhabited by the “nearly forgotten,” those who are friendless or have no family in the living world to go home to during the annual observance of “Dia de los Muertos,” or Day of the Dead. Hector, a skeleton who is dead, introduces Miguel, a young visitor from the living world, to Chicharron. “Chich” asks Hector to sing him a song. When the song is done, Chich’s skeleton lights up like neon and is gone. This puzzles Miguel.

Miguel: “Wait. What happened?”
Hector: “He’s been forgotten. When there’s no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the final death.”
Miguel: “Where did he go?”
Hector: “No one knows.”
Miguel: “But I’ve met him. I could remember him when I go back.”
Hector: “No. It doesn’t work like that. Our memories. They have to be passed down by those who knew us in life…from the stories they tell about us.”

Without knowing anything about “Coco,” Bonnie Hawkins recognized the importance of family stories. She wrote “Life on the Edge,” and it preserves some of the many stories about her. “Life on the Edge” is serialized in this blog, beginning with chapter one here.

Bonnie will not be forgotten. “I wrote it for our son, Hawk, our daughter-in-law, Martha (who is more like our daughter), our grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and my sister,” Bonnie wrote in the preface of her book. We are all the beneficiaries.

We can all learn a lesson from “Coco” and Bonnie Hawkins.

Life on the Road

[Editor’s note: This is Chapter 5 in “Life on the Edge.”]

By Bonnie Hawkins

When the war ended in 1945, my parents were no longer needed in the shipyards, and they had to find other employment. As it happened, my dad’s father, Hans Hansen, had just expanded his own harvesting business and wanted Joe to help. He had combines, trucks and trailers and was planning to take them on the road. My parents decided to try it, so we all left for Minnesota, and for the next two years, we would live in one of our Grandfather Hans’ trailers, traveling from Texas to North Dakota with the combines and trucks. The harvesting season started in May and lasted until November.

Bonnie looks tiny among the harvesting crew.

During the four months of off-season, from December through April, we always came home to our grandparent’s home in Gilroy, and that’s where I have most of my early memories. In 1947, after just two harvesting seasons in the Midwest, our family returned to California for good. By this time, I was four.

Dad knew a lot about machinery and crops, so it seemed like a good decision for Mom and Dad to buy their own custom combines to harvest crops on the West Coast. These particular combines could be altered to work on many different kinds of crops, which made them versatile enough to work a longer season.

My mom’s younger brother, Uncle Glen, sometimes worked with them along with a few other crew members. We all traveled together as a group throughout parts of California and Idaho. As the owner and operator, Dad hired and managed the crew. He contacted the farmers ahead of time to be sure the work was waiting for the crew when we arrived. We all traveled together in a kind of caravan from one farm area to another.

Linda and I were with our parents full time. Mom did all the cooking for the crew, took care of Linda and me, and sometimes drove trucks or even combines when needed. There were usually four or five crew members, some of whom had their own combines or trucks.

When we were very young and traveling with the harvesting crew all the time, Mom taught us lots of games and songs to sing while we were in the car. It kept us from getting too bored and made riding in the car more fun. All of our games were meant to be educational as well as fun. We played mostly word games like “the alphabet game” and “ghost,” and later on we added spelling bees. There were usually things to count, like cows and sheep on each side of the road, and we took turns guessing what make and year of car was coming toward us.

We liked to read every sign we saw, but we especially liked the Burma Shave signs. These were a series of signs which advertised shaving cream with just a few words on each sign, placed 50 feet apart along the side of the road, and they were on nearly every single road in the ‘40s and ‘50s. I haven’t seen one in many years.

Don’t pass cars
On curve or hill
If the cops
Don’t get you
Morticians will
Burma-Shave

If you don’t know
Whose signs
These are
You can’t have
Driven very far
Burma-Shave

Playing games and singing in the car continued for many years, long after we had cars with radios. It’s a favorite memory of mine to this day. We had our mom to thank for coming up with so many ways of entertaining us.

We never had air conditioning in any of our cars from the ‘40s through the ‘60s. In fact, I’m not sure it was even available, unless it was in the more expensive cars. Many times in our travels around the country, we’d be in the desert or other hot places. There was no carpeting on the floor boards, at least not in the cars we had. There were rubber mats, so mom would put a large block of ice on the floor of the back seat. Blocks of ice could be bought very cheaply at most gas stations. As it melted, the excess water would fall into the cracks of the floor boards and onto the pavement. Each of us kids had a washcloth or towel that we’d drag across the melting ice block to get wet and cold, and then we’d put it on our faces and necks to cool off.

Life in a House Trailer

Bonnie was 3, and Linda was 5.

Uncle Glen remembers that the house trailer our parents bought was about 24 feet long and eight feet wide, had no insulation and no bathroom. I think most (or all) house trailers in those days were fairly primitive, and ours was no exception.

There were challenges for four people living in a trailer of that size. Since we didn’t have a bathroom, we used whatever facility was available at whichever trailer court we parked in. If there was no trailer park near the crops, we parked in a farmer’s yard and used his outhouse.

Sometimes there was a roll of toilet paper in the outhouse, or we’d bring our own paper, but more often there was a Sears and Roebuck catalog sitting out there, which we used in place of toilet paper. There was never any light in those outhouses, of course, since there was no electricity hooked up to them. It was so dark in there that we could only see because the cracks in the walls let in slivers of light, and that was only in the daytime. Every outhouse I had the misfortune to enter was dirty, dark and smelly, and I really hated going inside any of them.

I think that’s when I first started being afraid of spiders, as there were nearly always spiders in there, and I was pretty sure they were going to bite me on the bum.

If we had to urinate in the middle of the night, we usually made do with a can, which was always close at hand in the bedroom of our trailer. I can still remember the sharp edges of the Folger’s coffee can. I learned that when sitting down on a coffee can, it is not a good idea to put too much of your weight on it.

As for showers and baths, we used the method my mother called a “sponge bath.” We’d stand in a pan of soapy water, to catch some of the drips, and we’d dip a washcloth into soapy water at the sink and scrub our whole body, starting with our face and ending with our feet. After we rinsed ourselves, dried off and put on our pajamas, we’d stand on a stool, and Mom would wash our hair as we bent over the sink.

Linda in the second grade.

Usually, we stayed in a trailer park, although there were no showers there either. In those days, trailer parks were more like camping out than what are now known as mobile home parks.

Outdoors, we often played “kick the can” with other kids in the trailer park. It was a game similar to “hide and seek” with a twist. One evening we were playing kick the can rather late, and it was just starting to get dark. Linda and I ran into some barbed wire that surrounded the park. The barbs cut up Linda’s face around her mouth while my cuts were around my eyes. After that, our mom insisted that we come inside before it even started to get dusk.

Another memory I have when I was about four is watching while my sister, Linda, who was then six, vomited into an empty coffee can. We were living in the trailer at the time, and Linda’s appendix had ruptured. There was a lot of anxiety about her illness, and I think that’s why I remember it. She was taken to the hospital, her appendix was removed, and everything turned out fine. For a long time I associated vomiting with a serious and scary illness.

Bonnie in the second grade.

Tommy is Born

In November 1948 our little brother, Thomas Richard, was born in Gilroy. Linda was seven, and I was five. With the exception of when he cried, we thought it was kind of fun to take care of him. Of course, that made our trailer even more crowded, but Dad made a trundle bed underneath our bunk beds, so that problem was easily solved.

Mom taught Linda and me a version of kindergarten in the trailer when she wasn’t too busy, and she invited other kids from the trailer court to share our lessons. Back then, kindergarten was not part of the school system in most states.

But, of course, the time would come when we were old enough to start having our lessons in a real school. Linda started the first grade at the age of five in 1946, and I started first grade at age five in 1948. Since neither of us turned six until February, we were always younger than everyone else in our class.

Linda and I had to change schools quite often because of traveling from place to place so much. In the fall, we’d find ourselves in a different school every few weeks. In the four months of off-season from December through April we lived in Gilroy, with our trailer parked next to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. For those years, we were never in any one place long enough to make friends at school or feel as if we belonged anywhere. We were living a nomadic life, which was kind of lonely at school because we were mostly ignored by the other kids. That was understandable, as they already had their friends, and we weren’t going to be there very long.

One day when I was in the first grade at one of the schools, I was standing outside with my hands behind me, watching some kids jump rope. A bee came along and stung me on the finger. It seemed to me, at the time, to be very painful. I got tears in my eyes, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to cry.

There was no teacher around and nobody to help, so I just stood there holding my finger and stared at the stinger. It was still in my finger as the bell rang to go back to the classroom. When I got inside, I showed my finger to my teacher, and she sent me to the nurse’s office where I was patched up and given a hug. I especially remember the hug, as it was the best thing that had ever happened to me in school. From then on, for many years, I wanted to be a school nurse when I grew up.

By Thanksgiving 1950, when I was in the third grade and seven years old, we quit the harvesting business and moved into a trailer court in Antioch, California, for about a year.

As an adult, I had trouble remembering the sequence of the early events of our lives, so I asked my mother to write it all down for me.

“We lived in the trailer off and on for several years while we were harvesting. Then we sold the combines and trucks and moved to Antioch in 1950, about Thanksgiving. You were in the 3rd grade at that time. I started working before Christmas at the dime store. Your dad got a job as a machinist at Pioneer Rubber Mills in Pittsburgh.

“The next summer (1951) I went back to college, and in the fall I started teaching at Oakley Grammar School. You and Linda transferred to the same school. By then, Linda was in the 6th and you were in the 4th grade.

“You rode back and forth to school with me until we bought the brown house in February 1952. Your dad was drinking heavily before I ever started teaching. In fact, that was the reason I decided to do it. While we were still at the trailer court, he started carrying wine to work in his thermos bottle. How he ever got away with it for so long is a mystery.”

Ruth Hansen

Moving to the brown house would be the beginning of turbulent times in our family. We thought it would be wonderful to live in a real house. And it was…for a
while.

Those Were the Days, My Friend

[Editor’s note: This is chapter 4 in “Life on the Edge.”]

By Bonnie Hawkins

My parents began their married life in an apartment in Los Gatos, but soon they started building their own home in San Jose. Their first child, my sister Linda Muriel, was born on February 5, 1941, at O’Connor Hospital in San Jose. That was just ten months before Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and our country entered World War II. Uncle Rich, my dad’s younger brother, joined the Navy before the war started, and soon after that, he found himself in the fighting. We have letters written by Uncle Rich while he was stationed in San Diego. Rich wrote to Mom and Dad on December 18, 1941, just 10 days after war was formally declared by Congress.

“Dear Ruth and Joe,

“When we leave here we’ll likely go right to the Pacific fleet. I signed up for aviation radio again, but doubt I can pass the physical exam, eyes and teeth; hope I make it though.

“I’m more anxious to see Linda than I am to see you monkeys. I sure got a kick out of Ruth saying Linda’s got her wires crossed and says ‘mama’ for ‘bye-bye.’

“Sailors are sure popular now—I knew we’d be discovered. Even before this thing broke, we could have been more fun than people, but now—wow! Well, I’ll say ‘mama’ for a while and write soon. Best regards to your family, Ruth, and love to all. Rich.”    

Richard Hansen in 1941

Uncle Rich and my dad were very close. They loved to tease each other. I wish I had known him. His plane was shot down just six months after this letter was written, one year after he enlisted. He was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Purple Heart. Dad tried to join the service when war was declared in 1941, but the military wouldn’t take him because he was deaf in one ear.

Mom and Dad decided to do what many other people were doing—join the effort to support the war by working in the ship-building industry. Our country was unprepared for the magnitude of a world war, so we had to play catch-up in a hurry.

After selling their house in San Jose, Mom and Dad moved to Richmond, California (near Oakland), where Joe became a machinist, and Ruth worked as a welder or “burner” in the Richmond shipyards. Since unemployment in this country was very high during the great depression of the 30s, supporting the war effort, for many people,

Joe Hansen is second from left, first row.

was also a great opportunity for jobs. Whether they came for economic reasons or for patriotism, more than 93,000 workers from around the country came to work in the Richmond shipyards during the war, and it became the world’s largest producer of ships, putting out one ship a day by the end of the war.

I am Born

For me, it all started with my birth, February 24, 1943, right in the middle of World War II and almost exactly two years after Linda was born. Mom named me Bonnie Jo, and I was born in a hospital in Albany, California, which was close to Richmond. Our mother had done extensive research to find names for Linda and me that meant both pretty and good in every language she could find.

The United States, Britain, France, Canada, and many other countries were known as the Allies. We were at war with Germany, Italy, and Japan, which were known as the Axis. Germany started the war in 1938 by invading and conquering Poland, Austria, France, and many other countries that surrounded it.

The United States entered the war when Japan dropped bombs on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Hawaii was not a state at that time, but it was our territory, and we had a navy base and many ships sitting in the harbor there. It was called a “sneak attack” because Japan had not declared war on us, and no one was expecting it.

The war years were difficult for civilians, as many things had to be rationed. In the U.S. nearly all food products, such as bread, meat, eggs and milk, were either rationed or impossible to get. Also rationed were gasoline, clothing, paper, ink, tires, wood and metal. Every family was issued a ration card based on the size of the family and the work they did and possibly other factors. Almost every country, but especially Great Britain, was even worse off than we were, as everything was sent to the military for the war effort. It was a time of shared sacrifice for everyone, which helped to unite our country.

Mom, Dad, Linda and I would live in Richmond from then until the war was over in 1945 when I was two.

Baby Spanking

My mom told me this story about my father many years after it happened. I have no memory of it at all, of course, as I was only six months old. That day Mom was out

Bonnie at six months

grocery shopping, and, while she was gone, my father spanked me until I was black and blue. When she got home and saw the bruises, she asked him why he had done that and he said, “She wouldn’t stop crying!”

Mom told me she was so angry, she hit him with a frying pan. I have never seen my mother hit anyone, but spanking a baby might be a good reason for it.

Since I was the second child, you’d think my dad would have figured out that spanking babies would not stop them from crying. In fact, it accomplished nothing except…more crying. But the truth was, my dad was incompetent in his role of fatherhood. He didn’t seem to have a clue.

Living at Grandma and Grandpa’s House

We visited our grandparents often and also lived with them during the off season of what I call “the harvesting years” between 1945 and 1950. I remember feeling safe and loved at Grandma’s. Her kitchen always smelled good, like cookies and pies, and that’s because she baked a lot of desserts.

She called me her “cookie girl” because I loved to eat the cookies she baked. When nobody was looking I would push a kitchen chair over to the counter, climb up on it and, faster than you could say “Bonnie’s in the cookie jar,” I would have eaten one cookie and had two more in my little hands.

Grandma had two cats that we got to call our own when we lived there. Linda’s cat was named Fluffy. Fluffy was a dainty little female and quite particular. But my cat, Ginger, was an old tomcat. Many times Ginger got into fights at night, and the next day I would try to fix his boo-boos and take care of him. I think he didn’t like it much when I tried to put band aids on his cuts, and as a consequence I was scratched more times than I like to say. I never seemed to believe that he didn’t want my help. He did sometimes allow me to carry him, though, and rock him back and forth when I felt sorry for him.

Linda, 4, and Bonnie, 2

Learning Good Manners

Mom and Grandma taught us children to have good manners. They corrected our table manners and insisted that we say “please” and “thank you” for everything we received. They taught us to get up and give our chair to an older person as soon as they walked in the room, not to interrupt adults when they were talking and countless other behaviors—from using good grammar to never saying a naughty word and never, ever telling a lie. Mom was teaching us to become civilized, and our grandmother reinforced all those lessons.

Whenever we veered from those lessons—and we often did—we were careful not to do it in front of anyone who might be likely to punish us or tell on us. Now, quite often, that meant that we had to break the “no-lying” rule.

As for me, I considered the “no-lying” rule to be more of a suggestion. I was pretty sure that everyone actually expected me to lie. Since I believed they often lied, too, it wasn’t exactly a bad thing to do, especially when adults called it a “white lie” or a “fib” or some other word to make it sound okay.

Sometimes I was spanked, but most often I was sent to my room “to think about it.” I’m sure I never really thought about it. I daydreamed, looked at my books or maybe took a nap, and I entertained myself very well.

As a result of not getting a stiffer punishment, you may think I wasn’t likely to have learned my good-manners lessons. While it’s true that it wasn’t apparent right away, I did finally get some sense, and as an adult I do pretty much follow those good-manners rules today. Well, except for the one about lying; we all know everyone tells a fib now and then.

The Way Things Were in the ‘40s and ‘50s

I fell out of moving cars at least twice when I was young. It may have been a fairly common event for kids because there were no seat belts in those days, and the doors didn’t always lock.

One time, when Dad was driving a truck, I was sitting on Mom’s lap on the passenger side. As he turned a corner, the door swung open, and Mom and I fell out together. She held on to me so I fell on top of her. Mom told me later about this as I was too young to remember it at the time. She said the door was defective and she absorbed the worst of the fall.

At about age six, I recall falling out of another car, this time from the back seat. I had lots of cuts and scrapes all down one leg and arm. I can still remember the sting of the red liquid antiseptic known as Merthiolate, which was poured over my cuts as I lay on the dining room floor. Mom and Grandma kept telling me to stop crying, which I couldn’t seem to do. That was a common theme also. We were not supposed to cry unless we were very badly hurt, and even then, it was never okay to cry more than absolutely necessary. The common words adults used when children cried were, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

And then there was the time, at age four or five, that I poked a weed of some sort into Grandma’s dog’s ear. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but the result was that the dog had to be taken to the vet. That cost a lot of money, and everyone seemed to be worried about the dog. Although the dog turned out to be fine, I was told that I would get a spanking when my dad came home. At that time, our trailer was parked in Grandma’s back yard, because it was early spring when there was no harvesting.

I worried and worried about the spanking I was going to get. I had to stay in the trailer by myself and wait for it. It seemed as if many hours went by as I made myself sick with anxiety. I kept hoping Dad would never come home, but eventually he did. And when he came through the door, he unbuckled his belt, and I knew what was coming.

It meant a belt spanking which was the worst kind. I backed up, trying to get myself under the table and into a corner where he couldn’t reach me, but he easily reached out and grabbed me by the arm. Of course, I begged him not to spank me, but he did it anyway. He spanked my bottom a couple of good whacks with his belt, and it was over. What I went through waiting for the spanking was infinitely worse than the spanking itself. Since my dad didn’t know how to counter the spanking with hugs or reassuring words, I became a little more afraid of him each time he spanked me.

After I grew up, I became opposed to spanking, which is just another word for hitting. It seems to me that violence toward anyone can’t be a good thing, no matter what you call it or who is doing it. There are better ways to teach children not to misbehave than to hit them, but for that time, it was the accepted way of punishing your children. One of the common expressions we all heard was “spare the rod and spoil the child.” I’m pretty sure there were people who used an actual rod or stick to hit their kids, although, luckily for us, it wasn’t done in our family.

The Good Old Days?

Those days—and I’m talking about the late ‘40s and early ‘50s—were what most people like to think of as the “good old days.” People usually didn’t see a doctor unless there was a pretty serious injury or illness. Children did many things that would be considered very risky today, but in those days it was just a part of growing up.

We must have thought that crime was going to happen somewhere else, as we often left our doors unlocked. We weren’t afraid to talk to strangers, but we had civil defense drills at school in case the Russians came over to bomb us. People called it “the age of innocence,” but it seems to me that we were afraid of all the things that weren’t likely to happen and not afraid or prepared enough for the things that were actually happening.

For example, sex crimes were taking place that we never heard about, and drunk driving and domestic violence were tolerated. If there was a drug problem, we had never heard of it. Many adults smoked cigarettes which were advertised everywhere with doctors and famous movie stars recommending different brands.

The standard for middle-class homes was usually two or three bedrooms and one and a half baths, with a living room, kitchen and dining room. Nobody I knew had a family room, office or den. The newer homes were being built with a garage to hold two cars, instead of the usual one, because more women were learning to drive and working outside the home. Most city homes had one phone which was usually in a hallway or living room. The average household was on a party line, meaning more than one family had the same line, but we had different phone numbers and different rings.

There was no television for most people, at least not until the late ‘50s, so we all read books, played games or listened to the radio. There was usually only one radio in each household, and in Grandma’s house it was in the kitchen. Everyone who wanted to hear the radio show would congregate around it and for some reason I still don’t understand, we all looked at the radio as we listened to it.”

Another difference was that there seemed to be a lot more interaction between family members. Since nobody had a cell phone or computer, there weren’t any electronic distractions as there are today. We were pretty much forced to talk to each other, and I think it was a good thing, for the most part. (However, I must admit that I love using all the electronic gadgets that have come my way over the years, including the computer that I’m using to write this memoir.)

All the children in our family went to Sunday school on Sundays while the adults were in church.  When we were living at Grandma’s, we all went to the Presbyterian church. After the little kids got out of Sunday school, we’d all make a mad dash for Mr. Hershey who was always waiting for us in front of the church door. I never knew Mr. Hershey’s real name, but that’s what we called him, because he’d hand out Hershey bars to all of us kids every Sunday. Those were the days when you could buy a full size candy bar for five cents.

Then our grandparents would get us in the car to go home, and we kids would call “dibs” on who would be the first to read the “funnies.” That’s what we called the comic pages of the Sunday newspaper.

We could always be sure Grandma would fix a big Sunday afternoon dinner and there would be lots of people at the table. On many occasions, when there was a large crowd, the grownups ate at the dining room table, and the children ate in the kitchen at the “kids table.”

I liked it when we ate at the kids table because we had more fun. Nobody was watching to make sure you used good manners. And, best of all, they couldn’t tell if you ate everything on your plate. That was important to me because I hardly ever wanted to eat much of anything on my plate. Many are the times we all heard, “C’mon now, eat your dinner. Think how lucky you are to have all this good food when the poor kids in China are starving.” I’m sure I often grumbled that those kids could eat my food any time they wanted to.

Every night after we got our pajamas on, Linda and I were taught to get on our knees next to our beds and say the prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless everybody. Amen.”

The part about “if I should die before I wake” was a little confusing, and I asked my mom about it. I knew that when people died, I never saw them again. I didn’t think they moved away. They just disappeared. And I wanted to know if I was going to die or go away before I woke up. Mom said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re not going to die.” Since she never lied to me, I believed her. And so far, she’s been right.

Next: “Life on the Road”

Bonnie Sunshine

Even though we were bathed in sunlight out of this morning’s clear-blue sky, by afternoon the sun has been eclipsed by a pesky overcast. Still, I am compelled to relate my conviction that sunshine has become the frequent reminder that Bonnie Hawkins remains a presence in our lives.

That presence had been the theme of the celebration of her life we held here in Salem last Sunday. It will be there again next Saturday when we hold another celebration in Ripon, California.

In her early years, Bonnie had been a sunbather. Every year she spent lots of time in the sun, and her gorgeous tan gave her that healthy, glowing

Bonnie, right, made an exception about the sun during the eclipse last year. Hawk and Martha are at left.

complexion that California girls seemed to desire. Later, however, she actively shunned the sun, convinced that it was bad for her skin and would lead to lots of wrinkles and skin cancer. When we went for walks in the park, we zig-zagged from one shady spot to another.

Ironically, it wasn’t skin cancer that claimed her but bladder cancer.

She and I spent two months at home this winter while the cancer spread. She insisted on using some of that time planning the celebration of life she wanted so people could laugh and sing and tell funny stories about her.

One of the songs she wanted people to sing was “You are my Sunshine.” When Jillian Lowery, the music therapist from Willamette Valley Hospice, came to sing for us, “Sunshine” was always what Bonnie wanted to hear.

Another day we had a nice visit here with Bill and Nita Woodard, who drove down from Vancouver, Washington. Before they left that day, Nita said she wanted to sing a song for Bonnie, who was seated in her recliner. Nita stood in front of Bonnie, and she sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

Nita couldn’t have known about our plans to use the song. I thought it was a wonderful coincidence.

Our niece, Laura Garrett, did know of those plans, and she decided to write her own lyrics to the song. We substituted her lyrics in the celebration program.

Bonnie Sunshine
(Dedicated to Bonnie Hawkins, from her loving niece,
Laura Garrett. Sung to the tune of “You are my Sunshine”)

You are such sunshine
Our Bonnie Sunshine
You make us happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much we love you
And your sunshine will light all our days

Your smile forgave us
It always saved us
Even when doubt or fear might try
To cast a shadow on life around us
Bonnie laughed, so we would not cry

You offered insights
To large and small plights
You taught acceptance and charity
Abiding flaws in yourself and others
The kind of friend that we all hope to be

You are our sunshine
Our Bonnie Sunshine
You’ve made us better for knowing you
We hope your path now is paved with sunlight
And your burdens have lifted from you

This morning I was scrolling through my Twitter feed, and I came across a link to a story from the Boston Globe about a cop and his wife. They had met on an ice rink when they were teens. Bobby pursued Katy even though she was two years his senior.

“I want to be your boyfriend,” Bobby said.

“You need a psychiatrist,” Katy replied.

Well, they were married, and 50 years later, Katy died.

“Not many 73-year-olds get tattoos, but after Katy died, Bobby had words from their favorite song tattooed on his left arm: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

I gasped out loud, and once again the tears flowed. You can tell me this is all coincidental, but I prefer to think that there are other forces at work here. In Bonnie’s celebration I read the words of the Irish poet John O’Donohue.

“Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows,
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us
To enter each day with a generous heart.”

There is a presence of Bonnie in our hearts, and all I need as a reminder is to think about (or sing) a few bars of “Bonnie Sunshine.”

Ruth’s story

[The serialization of Bonnie’s book, “Life on the Edge,” continues with chapter 3]

By Bonnie Hawkins

My mother’s father was Glenn Cleveland, born in 1897. Glenn met my grandmother, Edna Parker, at the Grange Hall near Gooding, Idaho. He was a young man of 19 when they married, and Edna was 15. She would be 16 just two months later, but the day they were married by a justice of the peace, in June 1916, her father, Benjamin Franklin Parker, and her step-mother, Emma Smith, had to give their permission for Edna to marry.

Glenn had a job with the federal government as a rural mail carrier, using a horse and sleigh in the winter months when snow covered the roads and a Model T Ford the rest of the year. Most country roads were not yet paved. As time went by, Grandpa would have several other jobs, but for the 30 years before he retired, he would again work as a rural mail carrier.

Grandpa was a steady, reliable man of few words. He was the type of guy who loved his family but seemed to be most comfortable in the company of other men.

When his children grew up and had children of their own, we all knew that Grandpa would take the babies and sit them on his lap, as he sat in his comfortable rocking chair in the living room. He would play with them for whatever time period they were happy for the attention, and give them back when they were unhappy.

Our Grandmother’s Family
My mom’s mother was Edna Violet Parker. She was born in Idaho in August 1900. Her mother, Mary Violet Parker, died at 33 of diabetes when Edna was 14 years old. There was no cure for diabetes at that time. Edna had been doing the work of a grown woman for a long time before her mother’s death, as her mother had been ill for years.

Being the eldest child, Edna helped to raise her two younger sisters, Vina and Mamie, and did most of the cooking and housework. All the girls helped their dad with farm chores while Ben farmed the crops. All the work my grandmother did at a young age sounded very hard to me, but she told me that she didn’t think of it that way. She just did what had to be done, just like everyone else in the family.

Ben Parker in 1905 at age 30: Bonnie’s great-grandfather

Edna’s father, Ben, was born in 1875. He had had a very exciting early life, having come across the plains in a covered wagon with his family. They started out from Missouri in a wagon train when Ben was five years old. Along the way, Ben lost his older brother and his father who both drowned as they were crossing a river. Ben was taught reading and writing by his mother and only attended school off and on for a total of 13 months.

Ben learned a lot about wagon trains, Indians, outlaws, hunting and freight hauling. From the age of 12, Ben was not only self-supporting, but he took care of his mother and a sister as well. He made a living as a blacksmith, miner, logger, farmer and boxer. As a boxer he was known as the “Bachelor Kid.”

I asked my grandmother about her life in those days. I was especially interested after I saw an old black and white picture of their house and yard. I wanted to know where the lawn was. She told me that there was no water to take care of a lawn. She said that the standards of cleanliness and beauty were much lower in those days. It was tough to keep yourself or your house very clean when your water had to be carried by the bucket into the house. With no indoor plumbing, everyone in the family used an outhouse as their bathroom.

Bonnie’s grandmother, Edna Parker, in 1910 at age 10.

In those days, girls and women of all ages wore mostly dresses. Grandma said most of those years she had only two dresses, both of which she hung on hooks on the wall. One dress was for everyday use, and one was for church and grange. She also had a pair of overalls for farm work. The only social outlets there were for farm kids were church, grange and school.

The entire family would dress in their best clothes and hitch their horses to the wagon to go to the Grange Hall. Sometimes they’d have a potluck dinner and either have a meeting or play cards. Kids played games and talked and sometimes there was a dance.

Although the telephone had been invented, it wasn’t usually available in rural areas, and even when it was, many people couldn’t afford one. Nobody left their kids at home. Babysitters were practically unknown.

At the farm where my grandmother grew up, the water was obtained from a well and brought up by a pump in the yard and carried indoors to use for drinking, cooking and baths. For the bathing, the water was heated on a wood-burning stove and everyone took their baths in a tin tub on the floor of the kitchen.

Ben and Mary Parker in 1910

The man of the house, in this case, my great-grandfather, Ben, took his bath first, and then, using the same bath water, his wife Mary, followed. The children were next, starting with the oldest child and continuing by age to the last one, which was often the baby. Meanwhile the bath water was getting dirtier and dirtier, sometimes so dirty you could hardly see the baby. There was an old saying, “Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.” Although it was a joke, there was a real meaning behind it.

After Edna’s mother died, Ben decided to marry again. He had trouble finding a wife in the area where they lived, so he advertised for a mail-order bride. In those days, in the western part of the country, women were scarce. The western states were becoming more civilized, but life in the west was still considered difficult, so there were more than twice as many men as there were women.

There were several magazines and periodicals that carried advertisements for brides, stating plainly what the man wanted in a woman. Most of the time, letters between the two parties were exchanged before the bride made her way west. The men generally agreed to pay their new bride’s train fare and then hoped that they would like each other on her arrival.

Thirty-nine-year-old Ben wrote an ad that was answered by 33-year-old Emma Smith. Emma had been married to a wealthy man and widowed, then married a second time and divorced. She had no children, did not know anything much about cooking or cleaning, and, Ben discovered, she was also extravagant and wasteful. So she wasn’t the ideal wife for a hardworking farmer. She and Ben had never met each other when she came by train from Missouri, but they must have liked each other enough to marry, which they did in November 1915. It was just one year after Edna’s mother had died.

From the way my grandmother talked and from what I’ve read in the book about Ben’s life, Edna and her sisters did not get along well with their new step-mother. Edna and Glenn married sooner than they otherwise might have because of the strained relationship Edna had with her step-mother. Six months after Emma, the mail-order bride, came to Idaho, my grandparents, Edna and Glenn, were married and set up their household in Gooding. Edna’s younger sisters also left home at a young age.

Years later, in 1931, Ben and his second wife decided to adopt a child. There were many abandoned and homeless children in those days of the Great Depression, so they wrote to an orphanage near Boise, Idaho, and asked for a little girl to be sent to them. There was no evaluation of their fitness to parent because there were many more children than there were homes willing to take them. The least expensive way for the orphanage to get the child to the Parkers, was to have her weighed as baggage and sent by train in the mail compartment. That was how little six-year old Jessie Haskins traveled by herself to her new home in Gooding. She had a note pinned to her coat lapel with her name on it and the names of the people who would be adopting her.

Jessie had brothers and sisters who had already been placed in homes, but there was still one brother left in the orphanage that she greatly missed. She cried and cried and begged Ben and Emma to adopt him too, and so Ben at 56 years and Emma at 49 sent for nine-year old Norman, and both children were adopted in 1932. When Ben was in his 80s and 90s he was a justice of the peace and a rural mail carrier. Ben lived to be 94, outliving both of his wives.

Ruth Ellowyn Cleveland
My grandparents, Edna and Glenn, had their first baby, Muriel Maxine, nicknamed Peggy, in April 1917, ten months after they married. A midwife came to the house and helped Edna deliver her baby.

A year and a half later, in September 1918, my mother, Ruth Ellowyn, was born at home, also with the help of a midwife. They all lived in a small house outside of town with no conveniences, such as running water or electricity.

In 1924 when Ruth was eight years old, Glenn and Edna and their two little girls moved to Gilroy, California, where they’d heard there were jobs and a better life. Glenn’s parents had already moved to Sunnyvale, and it wasn’t long before most of the rest of the Cleveland family moved to various parts of California. Glenn and Edna’s first house in Gilroy was in town and had all the modern conveniences of the day, which included an indoor toilet, running water and electricity. They must have felt as if they’d moved to heaven.

In April 1928 Ruth and Peggy welcomed their little brother, Glendon Parker Cleveland. For the third time Edna delivered her baby at home. Ruth was nearly 10 and Peggy was 11 when their little brother was born.

Ruth and Muriel in 1930

Throughout the years, the size of the family increased even further as Glenn and Edna took in many relatives who needed a place to stay. It was common for people in those days to help their sisters and brothers and their families by taking them to live with them for months and sometimes for years.

America in the 1930s was in the middle of a terrible depression, and jobs were hard, if not impossible, to find. Unemployment was as high as 25 percent, and there was no such thing as unemployment insurance or welfare. Many people went hungry, but at Mom’s home, the family was fortunate. For one thing, Grandpa always had a steady job. Also Grandma and Grandpa had a plot of land behind their garage where they planted rows of vegetables and berries, and there were fruit trees in the back yard, too. Grandma canned all the fruits and vegetables, so there was always plenty of good food, no matter the season.

One of Grandpa’s sisters was deserted by her husband, and she died soon after her fifth child was born, so her children were divided among her parents, sisters and brothers who were working. When my grandmother’s younger sister, Vina, was sent to a tuberculosis sanitarium for several years, Grandma and Grandpa raised Aunt Vina’s two children until she recovered. Between nieces and nephews, there was usually a houseful of kids and adults living with them and their own three children.

Mom, Aunt Peggy and Uncle Glen went to elementary school and high school in Gilroy. Mom learned to play the trombone, and, she told us later, some of her best memories were when she traveled to football games with the band. She also loved to sing in the school choir.

Ruth Cleveland, 16, in 1934

The first thing you’d notice about Ruth was her outgoing personality, the sparkle in her eyes and her warm smile. She loved her drama class in high school, and she was in several plays. Mom graduated from Gilroy High School in 1936. Her sister, Peggy, had graduated earlier and married Don McGlashan soon after.

Ruth was the first in their family to go to college. She went to live with her Aunt Pearl and Uncle Lyle who lived on University Avenue in San Jose while she attended San Jose State College. She paid her own tuition and bought her books, working part time in the Owl Drug Store as she attended classes. Her intended career path was nursing.

A couple years later, Ruth met Joe Hansen when he came into the drug store to buy tobacco for his pipe. She was the pretty girl behind the cash register. She was 20, and he was 27.

At the time Joe and his brother, Rich, were living in an apartment above a store on Main Street in Los Gatos. Ruth and Joe were married in the Presbyterian Church in Gilroy on September 23, 1939, just a few days after Ruth’s 21st birthday. Ruth’s younger brother, Glen, remembers that Joe was late to his wedding. Since there were no phones at the church, Ruth and all the guests worried until he finally showed up an hour late. He’d been in a car accident, but he had no way of letting anyone know. And that is how our family began.

Joe’s story

By Bonnie Hawkins

[This is chapter two of Bonnie’s life story, “Life on the Edge.”]

My dad, Joe Hansen, was tall, about 6’1”, lean and lanky, and he stayed slim throughout his life. He had blue eyes and wavy auburn hair, which later turned to gray, and I never saw him without a mustache. People who knew him, described Joe as tall and handsome with a good sense of humor—a guy who liked to play practical jokes on people and who laughed a lot. My cousin, Wilbur Cleveland, described him as a “happy-go-lucky kind of guy.” Wilbur was a teenager in the late 1930s when he remembers hanging around while my dad was building my parent’s first home in the Willow Glen area of San Jose. Wilbur said Joe built another house also and did all the plumbing and some of the wiring for both houses. The building codes weren’t as strict in those days as they are now. Wilbur said that there wasn’t anything Joe couldn’t build or fix, whether it was houses, cars, or anything mechanical. He said all those things about Joe before he started drinking, of course.

I have never heard anyone say Joe was a good father or wonderful husband, but there may have been a time when he was. If I look back and remember just his behavior and nothing else, I’d have to say that he seemed to have a split personality.

There was this one guy who was pleasant to be around—a guy who often laughed out loud and seemed to get a big kick out of everything. He loved his work as a machinist, he loved playing cards, and he loved to dance. He was funny and had a positive outlook. He was not affectionate with his children or anyone else, but he was what you’d probably call a pretty decent man. That was Joe, when he was sober.

Then there was this other, alcoholic guy. This guy was careless. He didn’t seem to care about anyone or anything. He was selfish. He wanted just one thing–to get his next drink. He could be mean too, when he was angry, and there was no love or kindness in his behavior. Worst of all, Joe took a lot of his anger out on his wife and kids, and he caused a whole lot of trouble for everyone.

But he didn’t start out that way. No one ever does.

Joe’s Parents
Joe’s mother was (Ida) Clara Trondson, born in 1881 in Lakefield, a small farming community in Minnesota. Both of Clara’s parents were born in Norway and immigrated to this country when they were young. Clara was their first child, followed by three little boys. Clara was nine when her mother died in 1890. She became the substitute mother for her young brothers until her dad re-married and had ten more children. By all accounts, Clara was a loving, nurturing woman and was adored by all her siblings.

Clara Trondson Hansen

Joe’s father, Hans J. Hansen, was born in 1884 in Krauland, Denmark. Hans was 15 when his father died, and a year later he and his younger brother,

Mathew, immigrated to America to avoid being conscripted into the German army. Although the Hansen family was Danish, the area where they lived was often dominated by the Germans. The two boys were 16 and 15 when they passed through Ellis Island in New York in 1900. Mathew immigrated to Canada where his descendants still reside.

My grandfather, Hans, first worked on a farm in Nebraska, then moved to Montana intending to homestead. He met Clara there while she was visiting with some of her family. On April 20, 1910, they were married in the Presbyterian church in Conrad, Montana, and established a homestead in the nearby small town of Valier. My dad, Joseph Thomas Valier Hansen, was born there on May 17, 1911. I don’t know why they gave him the second middle name of Valier, but maybe they thought his birthplace was significant. Four years later, March 13, 1915, they had one more son, Richard Mathew, who was born in Coburg, Oregon.

Hans Hansen passport photo

When Clara became ill with pernicious anemia, they moved to Lakefield, Minnesota, where she had grown up and where most of her family still lived. They bought a farm there, and Clara died on April 22, 1921, at the age of 40. Joe was nine, and Richard was six. In December of that year Hans became a naturalized citizen.

Joe and Richard
A few months before America’s entry into World War II in 1941, Joe’s brother, Richard, joined the U.S. Navy. In 1942, Rich’s plane was shot down in the Pacific Ocean during the Battle of Midway. He was a radioman on a Devastator, a Navy torpedo bomber, and one of many American servicemen who were killed that day. He became a local

Richard Hansen in 1941

hero, and nearly 40 years later, in 1980, The Worthington Daily Globe near Lakefield, Minnesota, published an extensive article about Richard Hansen, which included Rich’s family.

“In the 1920’s, southwest Minnesota farm families still lived in relative isolation. They rose early and did their long and heavy chores, turned to their field work and then returned to their chores once again before they went back to their beds. They ate breakfast and supper by the light of kerosene lamps and lanterns. Horses pulled their implements and wagons.

“There were many days and sometimes there were weeks during which a farm boy might not see another human save for those who comprised his family. He might see no human habitation other than the modest frame house which was his home. His upstairs bedroom would be frigid in the winter and a warehouse for heat in the summer.

“Everyone, even young children who lived on farms, had to work hard in those days. Though it didn’t seem so to many who experienced it, people who knew nothing else and nothing better, it was a hard, bleak life.

“Clara died at the age of 40. Mrs. Harry Hendrickson of rural Lakefield remembers well her half-sister Clara. ‘She was the most wonderful sister. All the nice clothes I ever had, she made and sent to us. We were a large family. She always remembered our birthdays. She was a wonderful person.’

“Then Clara died. ‘She had pernicious anemia.

Today they could have done something for her. But not in those days,’ Mrs. Hendrickson said.

“The father and two boys continued on the farm. In the neighborhood there is a lingering memory that Hans Hansen was hard on his boys.

“Mrs. Hendrickson said, ‘Well now, the father was stern. I have to say that. There was no nonsense about him. But he had a great deal to do. He had much land to work, and he worked hard. He was up late and early. They were his boys. It was not for us to say.’

“Joseph and Richard walked to their one-room frame country school, District 81. As with most country boys, their formal education concluded with the eighth grade.

“The years slipped by. Hans Hansen married again, ‘a fine woman, a very educated woman,’ Mrs. Hendrickson remembers.

“Joseph went to California. The Depression was on the land. There were farmers who burned their corn for fuel because they could get no money for it. There were no jobs in the towns.”

Worthington Daily Globe

Ten years after Joe’s mother died, Hans married Olga Wold in 1931. Joe would have been 19 by then. Hans and Olga had four more children. Joe’s half-sister and three half-brothers were born between 1932 and 1937.

Hans had promised Joe that, if he would work on the farm without pay for a few more years, he’d help Joe pay for college. When that time came, Hans was unable to keep his promise.

My dad used to tell us stories about incidents from his childhood, when he and Richard were living on the farm in Minnesota. I wish I had recorded his stories or at least remembered more of them, but two stories always stuck in my mind.
Joe was about ten or eleven when a storm hit, and the wind was pretty fierce. Joe was told to go outside, get the horses into the barn and close the barn doors. As he was trying to close one of the doors against the wind, he was hit by the other door in the head. It knocked him out, and when he recovered consciousness, his ear was bleeding from the inside. In those days, calling a doctor was rare, unless someone was near death, so nothing was done about it. Later he was told that his eardrum had been ruptured. This caused him to be deaf in one ear for the rest of his life.

Another story he told us happened when he was a teenager. He was being chased by his dad, although I can’t remember why. Joe was riding a horse, and Hans was behind him in a wagon pulled by a team of horses. Joe was riding as fast as his horse would take him. When he turned his head to see how close Hans was, he neglected to see a tree branch. He hit the branch, and it knocked him off his horse and right into the path of his dad’s horses and wagon. Hans tried to avoid running over him, but there was no time. Joe was hit in the head by either horse or wagon, and the wheels ran over his shoulder. He was lucky that he was only knocked unconscious and suffered a broken shoulder.

Joe Leaves the Farm
In about 1933 Joe, who was then 22, left the family farm and Minnesota. Although these were the years of a terrible depression in the United States, he decided to take a chance on working his way west. His plan was to end up in San Jose, California, where his favorite cousin, Ted Trondson, lived. He hopped on various freight trains, riding in boxcars, as many others did in those days. It was called “riding the rails.”

Joe spent several years traveling and working at odd jobs. He worked for a

Joe Hansen in 1939

mining company, broke horses on a ranch, worked construction, and had other adventures in South Dakota, Montana and California. About three years after he left Minnesota, he arrived in San Jose, California, and sent for Rich, who also rode the rails to be with his big brother.

“Joe said, ‘Well, I’ll tell you, we did a lot together. We worked together at one thing and another. You know how it was in those days. Then we went to college together. You could do that out here (California); you didn’t need a high school diploma. We went for two years, one year at San Jose State College and a year at the University School of Agriculture.”

Worthington Daily Globe

In 1938, Joe met our mother. Ruth and Joe dated for about a year and fell in love. He wasn’t drinking in those days. Our mother married the good Joe.

Bonnie Hawkins: Her Obituary

Bonnie Jo Hawkins

Feb. 24, 1943 – Jan. 29, 2018

Bonnie Jo (Hansen) Hawkins died in Salem, Oregon, on January 29, 2018, of bladder cancer at the age of 74.

In her early days, Bonnie lived mostly in California, with brief residences in Alaska, Nevada and Washington. Then in November 1970 at the Alameda Naval Air Station, Bonnie met John Hawkins. John was originally from Washington and had just returned from Vietnam. He was a captain in the Marine Corps and was then attending school in Berkeley. They were married in June 1971 and moved to Salem, where John worked at the Statesman-Journal. They lived in Salem until 1986 before moving to Illinois, Colorado and California and returning to Salem in 1993, where they have lived ever since.

Bonnie wrote the following, to be read at her death:

John and Bonnie at Pine Mountain Lake, California

“I’ve been blessed with a close and wonderful relationship with my dear husband, John, for many years. I will always be grateful for the time we’ve had together and the love we share that has grown to monumental proportions. He changed my life forever.

“I’ve also been blessed to have the greatest kid ever, Tim Hawkins, and his wonderful wife and my dearest daughter, Martha, as well as our grandchildren and great-grandchildren, Cora, Remo and Paolo Maggiora, and Annette, Richard, Anna, Robin, Trudy and Kenny Vande Pol.

“I feel blessed to have had my sister, Linda Jordan, and her children in my life, as well as the Hawkins, Bohner and Murray families. And I include the Edmonds family and many other friends, too numerous to mention here, in that list of caring people who have given me love and support for many years.

“I am so thankful for the gift of life I’ve been given, but mostly for the love I’ve known. Life is all about love of family and friends. I’ve been fortunate to have had a wonderful life and I am grateful.

“Good night, my dear John.”

Bonnie wrote the above obituary well before her death. To it, the family would like to add:

Arriving on Feb. 24, 1943, Bonnie was the second child born to Ruth and Joe Hansen. She joined older sister, Linda. and later a brother, Tom.

Ruth and Joe Hansen

The family owned harvesting equipment, and in the mid- to late-1940s they moved throughout the western United States harvesting wheat. After settling in Antioch, California, in 1951, Ruth and Joe were divorced, and she and her children moved to Saratoga, California.

In 1960 Bonnie moved to Pasadena, California, to live with her father. There she met and married Louis John Mass Jr. They moved to Seattle, where their son Timothy Alexander was born in 1961.

Bonnie and Tim returned to Saratoga in 1962 and then rejoined Lou in Alaska for several months. There she drove a cab and learned to ski and skydive. Following a divorce and after returning to California in 1965, she broke both ankles on her 12^th jump.

A second marriage ended in divorce. In 1970 she and Tim met John Hawkins in Alameda,

Bonnie, John and Tim on wedding day

California. Bonnie and John were married in 1971, after which they moved to Salem, where John adopted Tim as his son. Except for jobs that took them to Monmouth, Illinois; Canon City, Colorado; and Sunnyvale, California; they lived most of the next 47 years in Salem.

During her working years, Bonnie ran an antique shop, helped students in the counseling office at Chemeketa Community College, served voters in the Marion County Elections Department, became a facilitator and teacher for inmate classes at Oregon prisons, taught parenting classes and cared full-time for her brother who had been severally injured in a motorcycle accident.

She greatly enjoyed travel; she visited several exciting cities in the United States. She also traveled to Thailand, China, Korea and South Africa. She and John vacationed in Canada, Jamaica and Hawaii; they took three trips to Europe; and they enjoyed cruises to the Caribbean, Mexico and Alaska.

John and Bonnie were both retired by 2008. Bonnie became interested in writing her life story, and she worked on the project for nine years, finally publishing a book, “Life on the Edge,” in 2015.

In 2016 she was diagnosed with bladder cancer. In September a surgeon removed one of her kidneys which had at least one tumor, and in December she joined a clinical trial of a drug being tested for use against bladder cancer. Every two weeks for six months she was infused at Oregon Health & Science University in Portland, and last June she learned that her cancer had not been arrested, in part because, as a trial participant, she was not receiving the drug being tested but rather a placebo. Her doctors switched her to a drug that had just been approved for bladder cancer, and she received infusions every three weeks for another five months.

Last November a scan revealed that the cancer had grown and spread, and her expensive infusions were stopped. She could have started chemotherapy, but the chance of surviving more than a few more months was not great, and the chemical would have damaged her body. She decided against chemotherapy. Faced with only a few more months to live, she enrolled with Willamette Valley Hospice, which treated and cared for her the last 10 weeks of her life.

She died in her sleep early on Jan. 29 with John at her side. Assisting the family is Virgil T. Golden Funeral Service. Heartfelt thanks go to Willamette Valley Hospice for outstanding care during Bonnie’s last 10 weeks. Her life will be celebrated in two places and at future times with family and friends. For those wishing to make memorial gifts, the family encourages gifts to donors’ charities of choice.

Bonnie’s book “Life on the Edge” will be serialized on this blog. For chapter one, click on “Suicide is dangerous” below.

Suicide is dangerous

(Editor’s note: This begins serialization of Bonnie Hawkins personal life story, “Life on the Edge,” published in 2015.)

Bonnie Hansen in 1958

It was very early in the morning, sometime in November of 1959. I was 16 years old, and I’d been living in Pasadena, California for about 6 months, mostly living with my dad, and sometimes with some women friends. I’d been visiting my dad since Mom and her new husband, Tom, went to Europe on their summer-long honeymoon that same year.

Mom and Tom had returned to their home in Saratoga in September, and they were back at work by this time. I had talked with my mom on the phone and she said it was okay for me to stay where I was. Mom didn’t ask me to return home and I wasn’t sure she wanted me to. I guess she thought I was just fine where I was. It’s not as if I had run away from home. I just thought I’d visit my dad for awhile and it turned out to be a longer visit than I had originally planned.

Because of the bizarre living arrangements at my dad’s house, which I will explain later, I often stayed overnight with my friend, Marcy, who was about 34 years old. I was lying on her couch in the living room where I’d spent the night, tossing and turning. I’d been having trouble sleeping, not just that night, but every night for months. I remember feeling kind of lost and very lonely. I didn’t think of death or of killing myself, I was just kind of sad.

I could feel the warmth from the sun coming through the window. Usually, the sun made me feel cheerful, but that morning was different. I felt very tired. I don’t think I had slept at all. There seemed to be a voice telling me what to do. Maybe it was part of a dream, but it seemed real, though it began to feel more like a nightmare.

My body felt as if it was on auto-pilot. There was just a blank feeling of numbness and my body seemed to move without any direction from me. My body got up from the couch and walked through the living room. As I passed by Marcy’s bedroom, I knew she’d be sleeping. I didn’t really think much about it, I just assumed it. My body continued through her kitchen and then into the bathroom.

I looked at the little shelf next to the sink and sure enough, there was a razor blade. I must have subconsciously known it would be there. I picked it up and then, holding the razor blade with my right hand, I sliced my left wrist. There was no conscious thought that I can remember.

The second after I did it, I thought, “Oh, my gosh, that hurt! What did I do that for?” I don’t think I said it out loud but I was clearly shocked at what I had just done. I looked at all the blood spurting out into the sink and onto the wall and floor and I thought, “What a lot of blood there is.”

For a few minutes I just stood there watching the blood spurting, not knowing what to do, so I did nothing. After a while I felt kind of weak in the knees and tried to sit down. Since there was no chair, I ended up more or less dropping down onto the floor.

Maybe Marcy heard me fall and that’s what woke her up, or maybe she was already up, I don’t know, but suddenly there she was, staring down at me. I was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the bathtub, with the blood still flowing out of my wrist. She said in an anxious voice, “What did you do that for?” I wanted to tell her that I didn’t mean to do it, and that I was sorry, but the words didn’t come out. I just stared back at her.

Then, looking down at my wrist, I said, in a small voice, “I don’t know.” It was true; I really didn’t know why I had done this terrible thing. By this time there was blood all over my clothes and the floor. I don’t think Marcy heard me. She had gone into action. She grabbed a towel, tied it around my forearm as a tourniquet and put a lot of pressure on my wrist with another towel.

Then she said, “Get up and come with me.” I rolled onto my knees and she pulled me up, still holding tightly onto my arm. She dragged me into the kitchen where the phone was, and pushed me down onto a chair. While she dialed with one hand, she never let go of my arm. She seemed to know where to apply the pressure and she kept it on.

While she was waiting for the phone to be answered, she told me that she was calling a friend of hers and they would try to keep this quiet. I didn’t know exactly what she meant but I was sure I didn’t want anyone to know about this. I was already embarrassed by what I’d done.

She talked with her friend for a few minutes but I wasn’t paying too much attention to the conversation. I was looking at my wrist and thinking about how much it hurt and what was going to happen to me next. It seemed like a bad dream that was happening to someone else.

After she hung up, Marcy said her friend, Barbara, was coming right over and she would take us to see her doctor. She said, “In L.A. County, there’s a law against trying to kill yourself. If they know about it, they’ll take you to the county hospital. They’ll put you in a mental ward and keep you under observation for five days.”

I may have felt dazed before, but this statement got my attention. All I could think about were those old movies I’d seen on television about insane asylums, where crazy people wandered around screaming and tearing their hair out. The inmates were violent and the staff used horrendous methods to control them.
One movie in particular stood out in my mind. I’d seen it on late-night television when I was 14. It was a movie called “The Snake Pit,” made in 1948 and starring Olivia de Havilland. All those images were in black and white, of course, because most movies were in black and white in those days. That movie was the only reference point I had for a mental ward and those images scared the heck out of me.

It also flashed through my brain that she had said I was trying to kill myself and that sounded all wrong. I didn’t think I was doing that, but then again, maybe I was. After all, I had just cut my wrist. In some part of my mind I was denying it, and thinking, “But, I didn’t mean to.” I didn’t mean to so therefore it doesn’t count?

I looked up at her then, and in a voice just above a whisper, I asked, “Will they really take me there?” And she said, “Well, they will if the doctor reports it, and legally he’s supposed to.” I could feel the panic start in my stomach and rise up to my throat. My eyes filled with tears and I said, “No, no, no, I don’t want to go there. Don’t let them take me there.”

“Look,” she said, “I can’t stop the bleeding so you have to see a doctor. I won’t tell him how it happened unless I have to, but he’s going to know anyway. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he won’t report it. We’ll see what he says, but there’s a chance you won’t have to go to a mental ward.”

My mind was eased somewhat but it still didn’t sound like a sure thing. As I sat there, I kept seeing images of crazy people locked behind bars. I was more afraid of that than I was of death, because death wasn’t real to me.

Marcy showed me how to keep the pressure on my wrist and she went into her bedroom to get dressed. It occurred to me then that she had come into the bathroom with her robe on, but she must have taken the time to also attach her prosthetic leg when she first got out of bed. That had to take some time, so I must have been on the bathroom floor for quite a while before she got there. I had no idea how much time had passed.

I felt badly for causing her all this trouble; the mess I made with the blood, and now having to take me to the doctor. At that moment I felt a lot of regret and anger at myself.

It didn’t take long for her friend to get there. Marcy and I were waiting in the front yard for her when she drove up. We got into the back seat of an expensive-looking, black car. Marcy introduced me to Barbara and I thanked her for coming to my rescue. I knew I was very lucky that this woman, who didn’t even know me, was willing to do this. Until that minute I hadn’t thought about how I would pay the doctor. I whispered to Marcy that I didn’t have much money for the doctor, and she shrugged and said that was the last thing I should worry about.

She was right. I still had to worry about going to the mental ward. Every time I thought about it, I felt sick to my stomach. All this time I’d been keeping the pressure on my arm, which was still wrapped up in a bloody towel, and by now it was throbbing and really hurting. We drove into a parking lot and parked near a side door of a small, one-story brick building. I was glad we didn’t have to go through the front door, because this way we wouldn’t have to see any other patients. Barbara knocked on the door and someone who looked like a nurse, ushered us in.

The nurse and Barbara disappeared and I found myself in a small room with Marcy and the doctor. It seemed odd that there was no waiting room to sit in and that we’d gotten to see him so quickly. The doctor looked very grave as he gave me a shot to numb my wrist and then he stitched me up. It seemed to take a long time, and most of that time I was thinking that this man had the power to put me in a horrible place where I would be locked up.

After he was finished with the bandaging, the doctor looked at me and said in a stern voice, “Young lady, are you ever going to do this again?” His voice made me feel as if I was getting a reprimand, which made the tears start again. I was a little surprised at the question as I had no intention of ever doing it again. I wanted to say, “Are you kidding? This was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

But instead I said, with as much conviction as I could muster, “No, I will never do this again.” In an even sterner voice, he said, “Will you promise me you won’t?” Even though I was feeling vulnerable and trying hard not to cry, I knew I had to convince him. So I said, with as much sincerity in my voice as I could, “I promise, I promise, I will never, ever do this again.” He must have believed me as he said, “Alright then, you’d better not. You can go now.” He stood up and nodded to Marcy which I fervently hoped meant that he wouldn’t report me.
I was relieved to walk out of there and thanked Marcy and Barbara over and over again; not for having saved my life; but for keeping me out of the insane asylum.

My hand had a large white, gauzy bandage on it that wrapped around my wrist, my thumb and a couple of fingers. This was going to be mighty hard to hide. In the car on the way back to Marcy’s I started trying to think of a lie I could tell people to account for the bandage. “I broke a glass when I was doing dishes and accidentally cut myself” seemed like a good one and I asked Marcy if she’d back up my story. She looked at me with pity written all over her face and said in a disparaging voice, “Nobody is ever going to believe that.” I felt defeated then and very, very tired.

After we said goodbye to Barbara and thanked her again, we went into the house, and Marcy fixed us a bowl of soup. Later on, she scrubbed the blood off the sink and bathroom floor. I tried to help with it but she waved me off and said she would do it. Again I felt guilty, but of course, it was too late. What was done was done and I couldn’t undo it. All I could do now was try to keep it a secret.

Since the first time Marcy had talked about the mental ward, I was now convinced not only that I had done a very bad thing, but that if people found out what I’d done, they might think I really was crazy. I don’t even know which people I was thinking about—mostly my family, I guess.

However badly I might have felt before this, now I was facing the prospect of trying to convince everyone it was an accident, which Marcy thought would be impossible. She told me that she was going to tell my dad the truth. I begged her not to, but she insisted. I could see her point of view. After all, if I’d died in her house, she would have had a lot of explaining to do. It was really very, very inconsiderate of me. She told me that, and I agreed with her. She was determined to tell my dad and she called him that afternoon.

Dad came to Marcy’s and picked me up. I heard him tell her that he would pay the doctor bill. As I got in the car, I self-consciously held my hand behind my sweater. I didn’t know what to say to him. Nor did I know what he might do. He didn’t say anything for a while, and then he asked me how I was. I said I was fine. And then he gave me the news I was really dreading. He said that he’d called my mom and she wanted me to call her back. All my hopes of a cover story went down the drain. Now people would know. My heart sank. I felt like things couldn’t get any worse.

Of course, there is always a silver lining to just about everything that happens to us, but I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t know to ask myself the question of what I had learned from this. Eventually I would realize that it taught me to value my life, but that would come much later.

Right now I was just feeling embarrassed and kind of hopeless. I knew there would be questions about why I did this and I couldn’t answer them. I was a failure, and now everyone would know. I had thought I was freewheeling and happy-go-lucky, but something had gone wrong and I didn’t know what it was.
Eventually I called my mother. She said she wanted me to come home for a while. I didn’t want to go because I knew the family would ask questions. In those days, there was no such thing as political correctness. People joked all the time about “that nut case” or sending some “wacko” to the “funny farm.” I didn’t want to be known as a nut case.

Mom said nobody would call me any of those names and insisted that I come home. I was still 16 and had to answer to parental authority, especially now that I’d messed up so badly. I knew my dad would back her up. I could tell he was uncomfortable around me now. I think he didn’t know what to do with me and didn’t want the responsibility of having me around. Maybe he was afraid of what I’d do next. If that was the case, I can hardly blame him, as I didn’t know myself what I’d do next.

I don’t remember if I took a train or flew home, I just remember getting there and looking at the concern on my mother’s face. Of course, she asked me, “Why?” and I answered her as best I could, which was, that I didn’t really know.

Next: “Joe’s Story”

Putnam’s ‘Morning Glory’ a perfect fit for memoir

 

My client lives in the Willamette Valley, but her favorite vacation spot is Black Butte Ranch in Central Oregon. When it came time to select images for the cover of her memoir, there was only one choice: the Three Sisters.

She (the client, not one of the sisters) had a snapshot of the Three Sisters, which overlook the vacation homes and golf courses at Black Butte Ranch. However, the photo’s low resolution just wouldn’t work on the cover. Fortunately, an Internet search revealed a beautiful, fine-art photo of the Sisters in the early morning light.

It’s called “Morning Glory,” and it’s one of many glorious landscape photos from the work of Mike Putnam, a Bend photographer. Mike graciously allowed me to use his photo on the cover. Anyone interested in learning more about his work may visit his website at Oregon Landscape Photography.

“I’ve lived in Central Oregon for nearly 20 years,” Mike wrote on his website, “and I’ve cherished the Three Sisters every day….(T)hey are usually visible, even when conditions are rainy on the west side of the Pacific Crest.

“Despite being visually stunning, the Sisters are a difficult photographic subject. Most images of Oregon’s Three Sisters are a thin panoramic strip, with very little depth. I’ve stalked the Three Sisters for years in hopes of capturing a fine art print with excellent clouds that would stretch the image upward.

“In 2015, I captured the fine art print of the Sisters I was after. With the first light of morning igniting the summits of the Sisters and striated clouds reaching into the heavens, this image makes for a stunning fine art print.”

The Three Sisters, about 10 miles south of Sisters, are the third, fourth and fifth highest peaks in Oregon, and they all reach more than 10,000 feet above sea level. Originally, they were known as Faith, Hope and Charity, but the names didn’t stick, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. Now they are known simply as North Sister, Middle Sister and South Sister.

Increasing monthly giving: A ‘joy of giving adjustment’

Alongside traditional fundraising modes like direct mail appeals, special events and email blasts, growing numbers of donors have ditched writing the occasional check and have gone to making automatic monthly gifts from their checking and credit-card accounts.

And why not? From the donor’s standpoint,

• It’s easy and mostly hassle-free. The nonprofit arranges with my bank to deduct the gift from my checking account balance or add the gift to my credit card balance each month without my lifting a finger.
• I get to give more than I may be able to give in a single donation.
• I get to choose how much to give and when to start and stop my giving.
• I can have an immediate impact on the nonprofit’s work. The work of my charity continues all year long, so I get to help when there’s a need.
• If I want, I can increase my monthly giving.

It’s no wonder that several charities in Marion and Polk counties have developed monthly giving programs. The size of these programs ranges from a few hundred donors to almost 2,000. At the Willamette Humane Society, the number of monthly givers in the Golden Hearts Club has ballooned by 50 percent in the last four years. Development and Communications Director Susan Carey said some of the donors concluded that giving monthly caused no financial distress, and “they could do a little bit more.”

Of course, sometimes there are hassles associated with transferring funds using a credit or debit card. Your card can be lost or stolen, or you could change cards, both of which involve getting a new card number and expiration date. Local nonprofits are accustomed to dealing with these issues, and it is in their—and your—best interest to process these changes efficiently and as effortlessly as possible.

Some donors are reluctant to let go of their banking information, either over the phone or when submitted on a mailed-in form. No amount of reassurance will convince them that misuse of this information is never going to happen to them. The reality is that card fraud is rare, less than one-tenth of one percent of all card transactions.

When Kim Klein, the well-traveled fundraising consultant, trainer and author, was here two weeks ago, she urged local nonprofits to make monthly giving an option for their donors. Many donors will want to increase their giving periodically when they see how much their gifts are helping others, she said.

At Marion-Polk Food Share a ten-year monthly donor emailed, “I have been a monthly sustainer for many years. It is time I increased the amount I give each month. I would like to give $30 per month rather than the $20 I am currently giving.”

Three cheers for her generosity.

She reflects the values in the old adage, “Give until it feels good.”

In the public sector we hear about paychecks getting a boost because of a “cost of living adjustment.” Donors who increase their monthly gifts are experiencing a “joy of giving adjustment.”

This commentary appeared in the Statesman Journal Sunday, May 29, 2016.