Shirley Jones (2 page)

Her name was Marjorie, and she was born Williams, of English descent. Her father was a telephone lineman, she had two sisters, and when she met my father, she fell in love with him at first sight.

That love was to last a lifetime, but from as far back as I can remember, my mother continually appeared to be suffering from a deep and abiding disappointment. As I grew older and got to know my mother better, it became eminently clear to me that when she married my father, of the Jones Brewing Company, she had expected far more out of life and, forever afterward, desperately longed to get out of Smithton and move into the big city.

But despite my mother’s unfulfilled expectations, she loved my father unconditionally and adored him unreservedly. I never saw her fight with him, and even though he sometimes came home drunk, I never saw her get angry with him. Drunk as he was, she would undress him, get him ready for bed, and take care of him without a word of complaint. Looking back through the years, I realize that because from the time when I was a small child I watched my mother display such love and tolerance toward my father, her example unconsciously formed my own attitude toward men, in general, and to my first and second husbands, in particular.

My father was away from home a great deal, traveling from Pittsburgh-area saloon to saloon, selling Stoney’s beer. Now and again, to my joy and excitement, he would scoop me up and take me with him on his travels. Together, we would drive through the countryside in his gray Chevy, talking away, drinking in the beauty of the Pennsylvania countryside.

Our route always took us over one particular bridge across the Youghiogheny River, through farmland where cattle and horses peacefully grazed. My father would invariably stop the car and just sit there, gazing at the animals. “They are so beautiful, Shirley,” he would say, “so beautiful.” Witnessing my father’s deep reverence for animals and for nature bequeathed to me an enduring love for animals and nature, as well.

Once we arrived at a saloon, he would sell cases of Stoney’s beer to the saloon owner, then go up to the bar, put up a sign,
BUY STONEY’S BEER
, and place beers for everyone at the bar, while I played on the pinball machine to my heart’s content.

I couldn’t help noticing that wherever we went, women were all over my father. He was such a handsome man. Years later, I once asked him if he had ever cheated on my mother, and he smiled and said, “I just played at it. I patted a few asses now and again, but I didn’t do more than that.” And I believed him.

He was kind and loving, perhaps because he was the youngest son and had grown up very loved by his mother, Lulu, my grandmother.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother became the matriarch of the family. My mother and father and I lived with her in a fourteen-room brick house on the corner of Second Street in Smithton. The house had a huge front porch, which ran half the length of the street and looked warm and welcoming.

My mother and father and I had seven rooms in the house, my grandmother had the rest, and a door led between my grandmother’s kitchen and ours. Every morning, I would wake up and run to have tea and toast with my grandma in her kitchen.

She was the boss lady who owned the brewery, handed out paychecks, and gave a big Christmas party every year for her family and employees at Sweeney’s Restaurant and Lounge on Route 51 in Belle Vernon. She was a great role model, a tough lady who had to fight to stay on top in a man’s world.

My world, in contrast, was safe and secure. As an only child, I had my own room, with my own little desk in one corner, a blackboard in another, and all the toys I wanted. I had a tricycle I loved, every paper doll known to man, and countless real dolls.

I adored my dolls, one in particular named Carol, who had a huge china head, big blue eyes, and a body bigger than the average baby’s. She was so startlingly lifelike that one time I even dressed her in the hat and dress that my mother took me home from the hospital in and painted her nails. Now that same doll belongs to my granddaughter Megan, my youngest son Ryan’s child, and she loves Carol as much as I did all those decades ago.

Smithton was a classic all-American small town, like River City in
The Music Man
, made up of only four streets, and my childhood there was idyllic. The biggest house in the town belonged to Dr. Post and stood on top of the hill at the end of Fourth Street.

All us kids always looked up at Dr. Post’s house—a country-style home with white shutters, a lot of land, and a big fence around it—and dreamed of one day living in such an imposing and impressive mansion ourselves.

Meanwhile, as we all waited to grow up, we relished our childhood in Smithton. Our world was small, self-contained, innocent, and ideal. Smithton was so tiny that the town had no policemen, only a sheriff, and there was just one movie theater, the Smithton Movie House, which played movies only on the weekend.

Smithton boasted just one grocery store, a drugstore, and a little variety store, which sold toys and clothes and candy. When I was six, overcome by an uncharacteristic surge of greed, I grabbed a stick of bubble gum from the store, slipped it into my pocket, and skipped home with it. When my mother saw me open the bubble-gum packet, she asked where I got the money to buy bubble gum for myself, and I confessed that I had just snatched it from the store. Outraged, she immediately insisted that I return it to the store right away. So I trudged over there, declared to the shocked owner, “I took your bubble gum,” and threw it right back at him.

Afterward, my mother sent me up to my room in disgrace and told me to stay there until she gave me permission to come out. So I stomped upstairs into my bedroom, slammed the door, then tore the linens off the bed, the drapes off the windows, swept everything off the dresser, and dragged it all out into the middle of the room.

When my mother eventually came upstairs and yelled through the door that I could come out now, I yelled back defiantly, “Why don’t you come in and look at my room?”

She did, drank in all the chaos I had created, and ordered me to put everything back in its place again. Naturally, I couldn’t do that on my own, so I got one of my friends to help me instead. I didn’t feel guilty about what I had done, either. I was already a little hell-raiser, and proud of it.

Another quintessential story from my childhood as Shirley, the precocious little rebel: When I was five years old, my mother took me to the dentist. After examining my teeth, the dentist announced that I had to have a tooth pulled.

I shook my head and stamped my feet, but to no avail. An appointment was made for the dreaded extraction of my errant tooth.

When the morning of the appointment dawned, my mother and father accompanied me to the dentist, along with my favorite aunt, my mother’s sister, Aunt Ina.

In the car, I kept yelling that I wasn’t going to have my tooth pulled, no way, no how.

My mother, to her credit, was kind and patient and kept reassuring me, “Now, sweetheart, it’s not going to hurt. Your aunt Ina’s here, your daddy’s here, I’m here. Everything is going to be all right.”

I should have believed her, but being the child that I was, by the time we all climbed to the top of the stairs in the dentist’s building and stood outside his office door, I plainly did not. So I pulled away from my family and ran downstairs again.

All of them, my mother, my father, and Aunt Ina stood at the top of the stairs, begging me to come back.

I just kept shaking my head and stayed put at the bottom of the stairs, and out of reach.

Then Aunt Ina hit on a winning formula: “Listen, sweetheart, if you come up the stairs again, I’ll buy you a pony.”

Won over by her promise, I looked at my mother first, then at my father, and both of them nodded encouragingly.

“Come up, sweetheart, I’ll hold your hand and nothing’s going to hurt you, I promise,” Aunt Ina said.

Mollified, I ran upstairs, and my mother, my father, and Aunt Ina, all grabbed me and put me in the dentist’s chair. Within moments, the dentist had injected me with anesthetic, then yanked out my tooth.

“But where’s my pony? Where’s my pony?” I cried, when I woke up.

I looked questioningly at my mother, my father, and Aunt Ina. None of them met my gaze.

The dentist exchanged glances with my father, then shrugged.

The writing was on the wall.

I stuck my face straight into the dentist’s and yelled, “I’m not getting a pony. And you’re a big shit!”

I don’t know where or how I learned that particular word, but I was on the right track, really. Because over the next few months, however often I asked my mother, my father, or Aunt Ina where my pony was, however much I begged and cajoled, I always got the same answer: “It’s coming soon.”

Not surprisingly, my pony never did materialize, and I was angry with Aunt Ina, with my parents, and with the dentist. They had all lied to me, and I didn’t like it at all. Which is probably partly why I became even more of a rebel. The other reason, I guess, was that I was just born that way.

I was willful, stubborn, and determined to do exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. I was unable to follow rules, or to act in the way in which a well-bred young lady was supposed to act. From as far back as I can remember, everyone who knew me agreed that I was already my own person.

The dentist incident caused me to loose trust in adults, but I think yet another reason for my tendency to rebel at every turn and to be a tomboy so early on was because I knew that my father had always wanted a son, and because I loved him so much, I wanted to please him.

So I yearned to be a boy and to do everything that boys did, only better. I refused to wear dresses and did whatever I could to prove that I was as tough as any boy and could do exactly the same things as boys could, only better.

After my father taught me sports and took me to all the Pirates games, I became a great baseball and softball and basketball player and, down the line, became head majorette in high school.

My father was delighted by my sporting prowess and made sure that I knew it, praising me at every turn. My mother, however, was not amused that I wasn’t evolving into a nice, well-brought-up, little Shirley Temple–type young lady. Practically every morning, after I refused to wear a dress to school, or to comb my hair, my mother paddled me with whatever she could lay her hands on, from a hairbrush to a spatula. If I came home covered in mud or threw my clothes all over the floor, in the evening my mother paddled me again.

In retrospect, I don’t blame her, because I just flatly refused to take orders. The moment she—or anyone else—told me to do anything, I did exactly the opposite.

When I wasn’t rebelling against authority directly, I was causing trouble in other ways. One Sunday night at around seven o’clock, when I was nine years old and hanging out with my best friend, Red, and my cousin Joanne, I pressed the town’s fire alarm, just to see what would happen. The second I did it, sirens blared, and the Smithton Volunteer Fire Department truck pulled up outside the café where we were hanging out.

Red and Joanne and I ran away as fast as we could, but someone ratted on us. Before we could make our getaway, we were hauled in front of the sheriff, who read us the riot act, in front of our parents, who had been called down to witness our rebuke and disgrace. Terrified, I mustered up the courage to ask the sheriff if we were facing jail. Jail, he told me gravely, was a real possibility, reform school at the very least.

Red, Joanne, and I were white with terror. Luckily for us, though, the sheriff took pity on us and relented. We were too young to go to jail, he announced, and instead he presented each of us with a piece of paper, ordering us to check in with him once a month for the entire year, without fail. We did and thanked our lucky stars that we got off so easily.

Apart from my sporadic bursts of rebellion, life in Smithton had a leisurely rhythm to it, a serenity in common with that of many American small towns. Every Sunday, my mother would make a big dinner at our house. She was a good cook, and her signature recipe was City Chicken—chicken, beef, and veal meatballs on a skewer, coated in bread crumbs, then put in the oven with vegetables.

Usually my grandmother ate with us, and so did my aunts, and during dinner and afterward we would all sit around talking local talk—about the brewery, what Mrs. so-and-so did today, what the grocery man said—the kind of conversation that only goes on in small towns all over America. If anything out of turn happened to disturb the routine of the town, that became a big deal indeed.

Animals were always the biggest deal in my life. Many times when my father came home late at night after being out all day on the road selling beer—often starting at eight and getting back home to us at three in the morning—to my delight he would bring home a puppy or a kitten as a gift for me.

Best of all, when I was very young, he brought home a dalmatian puppy, whom I instantly named Spot. I was devoted to Spot; he swiftly became my chief confidant, and I told him my deepest secrets constantly, so I was devastated when—around my tenth birthday—I came home from school one day to find that Spot had disappeared.