For the first time in my life, I uttered a word that had never before crossed my lips: “Mom.” I wanted my mother.
I was born on Valentine’s Day 1960. My mother named me Guinevere Love Lemon. Yes, that’s my real name. In order to understand how I got that name you would have to understand my hopelessly romantic, hippie mother, Delia. And before you consider judging her for giving me such a ridiculous name, know that my name is what would ultimately lead to the fall of Satan’s Army.
Delia Lemon got pregnant with me while living in a commune and never cared to try to identify my father. She met my stepfather, Vince, at a war protest when I was around six years old, and they were married three years later at Woodstock. Oh yeah, I went to Woodstock. I say they were married, but I don’t know if it was legal. She continued to use her own last name, Lemon.
She was way too cool to be a mom, so I grew up calling her Delia. Delia Lemon was quite the character. I like to compare her to the mother from the Jeannie C. Riley song, “Harper Valley PTA.” You know the song—the PTA sends a note home to the little girl’s mother saying they objected to how she was raising her daughter. That mom goes to the next PTA meeting and basically rips everyone a new one.
The problem with that comparison is I think the mom from that song cared more about her daughter and her reputation than Delia cared about me. Delia wasn’t a bad person. She was just indifferent to rules. She truly didn’t care what people thought. She was the ultimate flower child. She would just go with the flow.
I still remember my first grade teacher’s horror when she discovered I didn’t call my mother “Mommy.” I called her by her first name. Always had. I remember asking Delia once who my mommy was, because all my friends had mommies, and she brushed it off with a laugh explaining she didn’t believe in labels. I was too young to understand what that meant.
Delia worked at a health food store before health food stores were popular. She grew her own herbs and her own pot. She took in stray animals. She never wore a bra and her wardrobe consisted of tank tops, tube tops and long, billowy skirts with stretchy waistbands. She went barefoot as often as possible. She had dirty blonde hair parted down the middle that she always wore in two braids that almost reached her waist.
She made sure I was fed and always had clean clothes to wear to school. Well, most of the time. Wrinkled, but clean. That was the extent of her mothering.
Our home was filled with plants hanging in homemade, elaborate macramé hangers. Scented candles and incense were always burning. Despite working in a health food store, Delia smoked a pack of cigarettes a day until Vince finally convinced her to quit. I used to light the candles to cover up the smell. Later it became a habit I continued long after she quit.
Vince drove a beer delivery truck. He had the same job for as long as I can remember. He was an okay guy. I can’t say anything bad about Vince.
Delia and Vince never beat or abused me. I don’t remember them ever yelling at me or punishing me. They just didn’t care enough. I wasn’t loved or nourished emotionally.
I guess they mostly ignored me. I have no memory of Delia or Vince helping me with homework. I don’t remember them ever attending any school pageants or volunteering for fundraisers. I do remember always taking care of myself, even at a young age. I still recall standing on a kitchen chair so I could reach the stove to boil water for macaroni and cheese. That was one of my favorite things to make. Unfortunately, I had a few too many meals of the same type, and to this day I cannot stomach macaroni and cheese, tomato soup or any kind of cherry-flavored drink mix.
By the way, Vince and Delia were serious alcoholics. Thank God they weren’t mean ones. Waiting for them at Smitty’s Bar after school felt normal to me at the time. It was the routine. This was back when Fort Lauderdale felt smaller and people knew each other. That’s where I grew up. Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
When I was in grade school I was what people called a latchkey kid. I walked home every day from Parkland Elementary School. I would let myself in and lock the door behind me. Delia didn’t even require a phone call from me telling her I made it home okay.
I was a loner but never lonely and was an excellent student. I buried myself in my books. I showed a real talent for working with numbers. I loved numbers. I still love numbers. I love how they never lie. They always fit. There is always a constant.
By the time I was thirteen I had completely taken over the family finances. Believe it or not, both Delia and Vince would cash their paychecks, keep what they wanted, and give me the rest. I rode my yellow ten-speed bike to the local bank every week to make a deposit. I paid all the bills, forging Delia’s signature on the checks. I reveled in feeling like I was an integral part of something. I liked to play chief financial officer for our small family.
I really felt important, too, when Vince would ask me, “Hey Gwinny, my boots are wearing out. Think I can keep back twenty for some new ones? You gonna have enough to pay the bills?”
It was a small empowerment, but it was better than nothing, and the fact that I was managing a family budget gave me confidence and a feeling of importance. I mattered to this family. I had never felt that way before.
I was Gwinny when they were drinking, which was most times. But by the time I was ten I’d started to insist that instead of Gwinny, I be called Ginny. I felt like Gwinny was more suited to one of the stray kittens Delia adopted. It was a baby name and I didn’t like it.
Eventually, Ginny was shortened to Gin. Yes, Gin, just like the alcohol. Some things are just plain ironic, aren’t they?