MEMORIES OF RAISING FOUR CHILDREN – PART II

Circa 1956 – 1984 – and beyond

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker

Now we come to Holly, who became Daughter #3 when Margaret and I got married in 1977. Due to the fact that I had never even met her mother before Holly was born, it deprived me of the honor of being her biological father. Still, at the age of not-quite 4, when Margaret and I got married, I feel secure in claiming her as Number Three Daughter. Oddly enough, I never wanted to adopt her formally; my reason being that the name Holly Plucker just didn't sound right, and I figured she'd get along better on school playgrounds as Holly Scott, and not with some name that kids could easily make fun of. She remained as Holly Scott until she took her husband's name and became famous as Holly Davis.

I have to admit that I felt rather like an interloper when she was little, and ruled over her empire that consisted of herself, her mother and her grandmother. On a boat trip one day she and my grandson Rob were having a heart-to-heart discussion on the foredeck. Margaret chanced to overhear Holly telling Rob that her mother and I had gotten married in the nick of time, or she would have been hopelessly spoiled.

 

Holly accepted me gradually. The first time Margaret ever left her alone with me as baby-sitter was before we were married. She had to do an errand quickly, and could not take the time to drive all the way from Madrona Beach, Camano Island, to Grandma in Stanwood. I was handy, and it would be for only a short time. Oh, but there was weeping and wailing and outright yelling when Margaret drove off in her Plymouth. Holly stood by the couch; hands clenched at her sides and had a great time howling. After a few minutes she began to suspect that there weren't going to be any sudden changes in her prospects, and she was getting tired. There was getting to be a little space between howls. I took the opportunity, and when I thought she might be able to hear what I said, I asked her calmly if she would like to walk along when I went to the fire-station to get a couple of big jugs of drinking water. The tap water was said to be too polluted to drink. She stood silent, for a beat or two, considering, and then said yes. We went off quite happily together, hand in hand. I have often marveled at the resilience of this young lady. She always springs back from adversity. On the other hand, perhaps she just wanted to play in the water. Every time she "helped" me wash my Fiat, or Margaret's Plymouth, I got at least as wet as the car.

Margaret and I took several long trips on our boat "Echappee" with Holly, of course. We were fond of going ashore somewhere and taking long walks. On one occasion we were anchored at Blakely Harbor on Bainbridge Island, and decided to walk to Winslow, not realizing what a mind-boggling distance this was for a little kid. We kept her going with promises of lemonade just around the next corner, but no corner turned out to be the right one. We did eventually get all the way to Winslow where we thought we would be able to deliver on the lemonade promise. Not a cupful in town! We must have gotten back to our boat somehow, but the disaster of not finding any lemonade destroyed my memory of the return trip.

Holly got to play the heroine's role on a boat trip to Nanaimo British Colombia. Newcastle Island is just across from the town, and looks small on the chart. We thought we could easily walk the trail all the way around the perimeter in what was left of the afternoon. The sun was quite bright and Margaret and I were both wearing our prescription sun-glasses. If we had realized how late it was, and if we had been much more careful in estimating the distance, and if we had known how obscure the trail on the far side of the island was, we could have avoided a lot of stumbling around in the brush. As I remember it, the side of this oval shaped island that faces Georgia Strait is well-marked and well-traveled. As you round the north end and start looking at the rather drab and grubby part of the city, hikers tend to be less interested. Also there is more brush and steep climbs and cliffs to navigate. About the time we got through the worst of the steep parts the sun was going down and it was getting dark fast. Margaret and I depended heavily on our glasses to see beyond our own noses, and these sun-glasses were the only ones we had with us. We were close to being blind, but Holly, bless her soul, was our seeing eye. "And a little child shall lead them."

Holly got stuck with accompanying many long walks. She would occupy herself by picking up a stick, which by its mere selection from amongst gazillions of sticks, would acquire great value to her. She would carry it, guard it, defend it against all comers, and would not drop it. A number of times, walking on Stewart Island (in the San Juan’s) over some steep narrow trail, I would worry that she would sacrifice herself to save her stick. Now, it seems to me that both of her little boys show the same tendencies, but I guess all kids do that.

One of the truly memorable moments with Holly was at Everett General Hospital, waiting for John to be born. Margaret thought she was ready on the afternoon of the 9th of April (1984), and so we went to Everett from Camano Island for the blessed event to occur. As it turned out, we waited all night in the hospital until after 9 o’clock the next morning. Most of that time Holly was by herself in a waiting room being extremely patient. I was with Margaret (things being totally different from 1956 and 1958), but would go down to check on Holly several times. She was awake, I think, most of the time, but there was no whining from her, not at the advanced and enlightened age of 10. She was ready and determined to wait for that baby no matter how long it took.

The birthing business was entirely new to me of course, not having been allowed to have the slightest part in the births of Daughters #1 and #2. I took it fairly well, having been prepared by attending classes in the preceding weeks. But this was a long and fairly difficult process, and my admiration for all mothers can hardly be stated. The only time I felt faint was when they got out a needle and stuck it in Margaret's arm!

After Margaret got the first chance to hold little John, I got the second. I asked Dr. Patton if I could take the baby to show to Holly in the waiting room, and to my amazement, she said yes, I could. I went down into this obscure waiting room carrying John; Holly was either asleep, or had just waked up. I showed her the baby and then asked her if she would like to hold him. Would she!! She couldn't have shown more excitement and delight than if she had hit a grand slam home run. (I was to see this kind of excitement and delight some years later on John's face, when he actually hit a grand slam home run.)

            This was certainly a great moment in both of our lives, but it was not just a brief flash in the pan. Holly and I went out to eat and celebrate together at Taylor's Landing, and of course Holly and John had many happy moments together in spite of their ten year age difference. I believe that John was never the pesky little brother in her eyes.
 

When John was perhaps six years old, he had a small bicycle which he learned to ride. (I might brag here, that I was the guy who ran behind the two-wheelers for all four kids when they learned to ride their bicycles, puff-puff.) I watched him come down a fairly steep hill one fall day, when a pickup truck started to back out of a driveway just below where he was barreling down the hill. John saw the truck, back-pedaled to brake, but there were wet slippery leaves on the road. He lost control and fell with his chin hitting some sharp object that put a nasty cut in it. The fellow in the truck had seen John, and had stopped backing, but by then John was out of control, and I was helplessly watching all this from maybe one hundred yards distance.

Anyhow, the truck driver took the bike, John, and me the short distance to our Camano Island house. Holly and I then rushed John to the Stanwood Clinic, with John well wrapped up in towels and things to stop bleeding. In the doctor's treatment room Dr. Minella set about cleaning up the cut, scraping out the gravel and dirt and so on. Holly held John's hand and comforted him while he was being sewed up. I attempted to help with the comforting, but sure enough, I couldn't stand the sight of it and had to go sit down. Holly bravely stuck to her job. John still has a small scar under his chin nearly 20 years later.

             So after all these adventures and experiences, I feel that I successfully overcame the feeling of being the interloper in the Holly-Grandma-Mom Corporation. This actually started early on, I think, when Holly stopped calling me Bob, and I became "Dad." This was a proud moment, as I had not asked her to do this.

*** Stay tuned to this blog for Part III of “Memories of Raising Four Children.”

 

Photos are all scanned from the files of

Jean E. Straatmeyer