It was Halloween, 1974.  I stood in the living room of the federally subsidized  house I had just purchased.  This would be ok.  In fact, it would be great. This was my first step in new lives for me and my three sons ages 7, 5, and 3.  The former owner of this new house had been transferred so he and his family had lived here for only months.  I had been wary of moving 28 miles from Winter Park to Sanford. I didn’t know anyone in Sanford, Florida, but I moved because it was close to the high school where I had just signed a contract to teach. I had qualified for the home loan because the boys and I were living at the poverty level.

  My husband, John, had a high-paying job and in February he told me he wanted a divorce. He said he just couldn’t continue with the burden of a wife, kids and a mortgage. He was 33 and having a mid-life crisis.  Go figure!  I was shocked and then I was terrified.  I would be bringing up three boys alone. Our friends had called John ”Super Dad” because he was so involved in the boys’ lives: hours of playing with him on the floor, taking them on adventures, and telling them stories before they went to sleep. Our marriage wasn’t perfect but we loved each other. I thought we did.  He had been loving and supportive of me, urging me to complete a Masters Degree at Rollins College.  We had made so many plans together. Although I was surprised at first, later I remembered the minute his life changed. It’s also the moment life changed for me, the boys, our family.  

        I had met John at a little theatre outside of New York City. We were both cast in Thurber Carnival with John playing the lead, Walter Mitty. At first we were just friends. He picked me up and brought me home from rehearsals. We began spending more time together. We contracted the flu. We recovered eating chunks of Italian bread and reading poetry to one another. I was teaching English at Nyack High School and living with three roommates. John was selling Olivetti typewriters to small businesses from the  back of his VW Karmann Ghia. He was not my “type” and I was not his. My “image” was macho; John’s was the ”pixie.”  John was 5'10" and had a slender build. I was 5'10" with heels. I towered over him and at size 14 probably outweighed him as well. We loved each other anyway. That summer my roommates and I drove to Colorado. We were going to attend summer classes at the University of Colorado. I wasn’t sure I would return. When we reached Colorado I discovered I was pregnant. I flew home. John met me with an engagement ring.

            We were married in 1963. We lived in New York and had two sons. We had been struggling financially.  Then a small office products company offered John a job in Florida. We moved there in 1967. As a salesman, John broke sales records.  Kimberly Clark picked him up. Within a year he had broken sales records for them nationwide.  Kimberly Clark rewarded him. He could be a district manager in Santa Barbara or Orlando. We chose Orlando. In 1967 we moved into a two bedroom one bath house there with no air conditioning. It was a good move for us. John's brother and his family lived in Orlando so we were close to family. I took a part time job teaching GED to airmen at McCoy Air Force Base. 

In 1969 we bought a house in Winter Park, the same year our third son was born. We planned to remodel the house but before that happened John received another offer from Kimberly Clark. This one was huge:  to become the manager of a division in Buffalo, New York.  We made the move and this time we had enough money to buy a charming 1912 bungalow in a suburb. Life was good. We joined a church and made friends easily. I threw myself into the role of housewife. I worked full time at the job I'd trained for my entire life - being a wife and mother.  I baked my own bread, made my spaghetti from scratch, and jelly which dripped from cheesecloth hanging in the middle of the kitchen. 

Two years later John began what he dubbed his three martini lunches with other men climbing the corporate ladder. They were all nervous. Kimberly Clark was closing several divisions. John’s division appeared to be on the chopping block. However, his division had done well, breaking production records. We figured a move to corporate headquarters was the next step. I called the Chamber of Commerce in Neenah-Menasha, Wisconsin. When the chamber sent the brochures we read them in bed at night and imagined what life might be like.

What came next was a scene l remember vividly. It was the beginning of our marriage collapsing. John received the phone call early in the evening of Christmas Eve 1971. His job was being eliminated. Another company taking over the division wanted to hire him. For John it was not only the end of a job, it was the end of his being part of a business family. He thought Kimberly Clark would take care of him, promote him, value him. John’s unraveling began that day.  That week he met with the head of the firm that was taking over the division. John had been so successful in Orlando they wanted him to return to Orlando and become a district manager. John took the job which came with a sizable pay raise. This time we bought a larger house with a mother-in-law suite in old Winter Park.  I was nervous about buying it. John had already started his unraveling. He drank too much and played  LP albums of Jesus Christ Superstar and Kris Kristofferson's Silver Haired Devil all day. He opted to have a vasectomy although we hadn’t had sex in a year. We moved into the house and John began his job. The truth was he wasn’t doing his job. Some days he would hang around the house playing his albums but he showed little interest in me or the boys. One night after dinner he told me he wanted a divorce. I couldn’t imagine it. I had loved and depended on him for nine years. I didn’t know this sad man who had replaced him.  He wanted to comfort me and he said perhaps it would be only a separation. I knew how long those agreements lasted.  He said he wanted to comfort me. I wasn’t comforted. I was scared. I didn’t cry over my marriage, not then. That would come later. I was terrified of bringing up three boys by myself.

John wanted to take one last trip as a family. By then I thought nothing would surprise me.  I was wrong.  John took us to the Playboy Club in Miami. It was garish; gold cupid bathroom faucets, a large round bed covered in black with red pseudo satin sheets and a large mirror overhead. With two cots and Brett the youngest sleeping with us, it was a crowded nightmare. John said he wanted to discuss the details of the divorce.  I spent more of the time crying and shaking in fear. I was trapped in that nightmare. There was no way I could fight my emotions. Why should I? 

During several trips on the elevator a boy of about 12 played elevator man asking us our the floor number, and pressing the appropriate button.  He was a good looking boy with a round face, an Afro, and a shy smile. But he seemed wistful. I thought he felt as out of place as I did.  I asked him why he was there. Was this another kid staying in a place that was not suited for kids?  He said he was there because he and his brothers were performing at the hotel. I asked him his name.  “Michael Jackson,” he said.  My family went down to the lobby to eat. When we returned to our room in the early evening Michael was still on elevator duty.

            The next day John wanted to go swimming. While we were in the elevator, Michael was there and I was fighting tears. Going swimming as though nothing was changing was another part of the nightmare. Michael could tell I was upset. “Would you like me to take the boys to the kiddie pool?” he asked. There was a kiddie pool at the Playboy Club? I took him up on the offer. John and I didn’t swim. We sat in our swimsuits at the edge of the adult pool and discussed the details of the divorce.  Mostly I listened. John had already planned it. I could have the house and sell it if I wanted.  I was shocked. How did he think I could pay a hefty mortgage?  Having lived there less than a year there was no equity. He would take the boys when they weren’t in school. We would stay in contact with all issues related to the boys. What this divorce meant to our marriage never came up. 

Michael Jackson was a great help at the kiddie pool. He splashed  and cavorted with the older two while patiently guiding Brett into the shallow end of the pool.  When John and I got up to leave he brought the boys to us. “Would you like to meet my brothers? They’re right over there.“  He pointed to the pool chairs. We walked to the other side of the pool where his brothers were drinking from glasses with umbrellas. There were several bikini clad young women who seemed to hang on them.  I commented what a great kid Michael was. They agreed.  Michael’s wide-eyed smile said he liked the compliment.  "Would you like our autographs?” Michael asked.  It was not anything either one of us cared about but we couldn’t say no. “Sure,” John said. Michael said, "I’ll be right back.”  He ran to the hotel office.  It was difficult making small talk with the other Jacksons. Michael ran back with a pen and a piece of Playboy stationery. He put it on one of the tables, wrote his name and then passed it to his brothers. We headed back to our room but not before I thanked Michael. He had made a difficult time for me a little easier.  "Can you come to the show tonight?” “We’ll see,” I said.  I thanked Michael again. “Bye, guys,”  he said. “Bye Brett.”  But Brett was already asleep on his father’s shoulder.  Later when he became famous I remembered that wistful twelve year old boy.  I hope he found some happiness in his life.

The only way I survived that trip with restless kids and a husband who was uncannily cheerful was by picturing my next husband. I had been brought up to know that my job in life was to be a wife and mother. My most treasured item had been a bride doll. When I was in high school all the girls in the senior class were invited by a downtown merchant to pick out our silver and china patterns. By the time I graduated my friends and I had shared all the details of our weddings.  I chose wedding attire for me and my bridesmaids  for each of the four seasons.

 Now my husband was leaving me. That meant I had to switch gears quickly. I envisioned the man who would become my next husband.   I imagined him in many situations: Sunday morning breakfasts with the boys, going out to dinner with friends, dancing, even meeting my parents.  I had a vivid mental picture of him down to his hair color, his height, his build, his personality. I knew the sound of his laughter. Ironically, several years later I met the man who fit that description exactly. We dated once. There was no chemistry but we did become friends.

Two weeks later John moved out. I knew there was no way I could maintain the house. I staged a garage sale selling some of the antiques my parents had given me, an early twentieth century iron bed, a large China doll that my mother had when she was a child, a set of china. I sold the house. There was only enough equity to pay moving and relocating costs.  I had to downsize possessions for a move to  a small  house or apartment . I was teaching part-time for a high school almost thirty miles away. That meant babysitters for the boys when I wasn’t teaching or looking for a place to live.

Finally a break. I was able to qualify for a federally funded home ownership plan for low income families..  I could pay a mortgage payment based on a sliding scale. One hundred and ten dollars was the amount for which I was qualified. I had made eight thousand dollars the previous year; The fund was for people either at, or below the poverty level.  Luckily, I had signed a full-time teaching contract .   I found a three bedroom one bathroom house just a block away from what was dubbed the black neighborhood. I stood in the middle of the living room with its gold wall to wall carpeting. Day by day I told myself. I had to stay upbeat for the boys. I didn’t want them to feel my fear. I could not even identify it. What was I afraid of? 

Now the boys and I had to make the adjustment to our new lives. Todd and Scott’s school was practically in the backyard.  I found a daycare facility to care for Brett to be while I was teaching. In the two months since John had announced he wanted a divorce, my emotions had been stoked by my plight as a single mother. I didn’t have time to grieve for my marriage. Then the loneliness set in. I spent sleepless nights remembering the good times. How could John just walk away from that?  John and I had been loving, outgoing partners with a shared sense of humor.  We made friends with other couples easily.   Several friends had  commented more than once that we seemed to be the ideal couple. “You two have such a good time with the boys. That is refreshing to see.”  Now I had to make all the decisions. Money matters were the worst. My lawyer had negotiated a payment of 150 dollars a month to cover all three boys. How had I agreed to such a low amount?  John had been head of the household. He had handled all the bills, everything in our budget. Now the bills for insurance, groceries, and utilities were barely covered. When would there be money for doctors, dentists, even gas for the car?   What if the car broke down?   How was I going to pay for any maintenance of it, clothes for boys who grew inches every month, not to mention my own needs?  John required surgery the month after he left.  He had not paid one cent of child support. We managed but only at the expense of a night’s sleep.

          After a day of teaching I was tired. The boys competed for my attention but they did that by knocking each other around and roughhousing. It drove me crazy. I was trying to exert control over my life. I wanted them to stop. I wanted order. That was not what they needed.  Each of the boys was struggling in his own way to understand this life.  ”Why did Daddy leave?”  “When is Daddy coming to live with us?”   Scott at 7 seemed to take the divorce the hardest. Often he seemed on the verge of tears. It would be years before I would realize that he had taken on the mantle of head of the household. A sensitive kid by nature he was trying “to man up.”  I found myself thinking of the boys collectively. I wasn’t giving time to each of them separately. I didn’t know that three boys need to rough house. It felt like an attack.

          Of course, this was all temporary. As soon as I met my second husband we would have a different  life.  I wasn’t sure how that was going to happen when I lived in Sanford and taught at Seminole High School. I certainly was not welcome there. I was one of only five women on the faculty there.  Three women were middle aged doctors’ wives. They wore half glasses and their hair in tight buns. The fourth was the young wife of another faculty member. I ate my bagged lunch in the faculty room. There were no other women there. The men seemed friendly. We bantered about politics. Only one of the men came close to sharing my views. It all seemed harmless. Then the anonymous note showed up. “We don’t need “sexy” here with your boots and your short skirts.”  I was stunned. My skirts were not that short and I loved my white vinyl boots.  I certainly wasn’t out to attract any male teachers. The teaching assistant I had been assigned commiserated with me.  I discovered later it was she who sent the note. A coach began calling me at home late at night. It was clear his intention was to meet, and not for talking. Several boys in my classes often drove their bikes by the house yelling “Carole.”  That was my life.  Nothing else. 

          I read a notice in the Orlando Sentinel that a chapter of Parents Without Partners was having a meeting. I called the number. The meeting was a party and it was to be held at a member’s home in Orlando on a Saturday night. I took down the directions. The person I talked to said refreshments would be furnished but it was BYOB - bring your own booze.  I drove to a liquor store in the adjoining county and bought a pint of whiskey. I didn’t want to be seen buying liquor in Sanford.  I hired a babysitter and drove to Orlando. Walking to the front door I clutched the bag with its pint of Jack Daniels.  I had never bought liquor before nor had I gone to a BYOB party by myself. I usually drank wine. Why had I thought I had to bring whiskey?  At 34 I was naive. 

          That was the night I met Bill, the man I still remember fondly as the person who helped me make the transition from married to single. Bill was a little taller than I with thinning light hair and a gangbuster smile. He came to the table when I was trying to figure out how to mix a drink. “How much booze and what kind of mix?  Ginger ale?”  I asked.  ”Let me do it,” he said. He made me a mixed drink. That was the beginning. For our first date he showed up at the house wearing a seersucker suit, a starched white shirt, a red tie, and white vinyl shoes and belt.  He was obviously smitten.  He made a point of talking to the boys while we waited for the babysitter.  Finally there was somebody who took a chunk out of the loneliness. We became a couple. Bill never moved in, but he spent many nights at the house.  He brought his two daughters for an overnight when he picked them up from their mother in Jacksonville. 

          Bill helped me move into the 1970s. We both bought bell bottom jeans. I bought a flowing gauze top I found at Goodwill, a leather amulet, and a thin leather necklace.  I began a lifetime of scouring thrift stores. We bought matching headbands at the craft fair we attended with the boys. Bill and I attended  parties given by Parents Without Partners. We joined a church and became involved with a singles group. We had parties and picnics with other single parents. The burdens I had been carrying seemed lighter with Bill.   We read Victory through Vegetables together and talked about growing our own garden.  Bill spoke of plans for the two of us that I didn’t share. I had hoped in the beginning that Bill might be “The One.”  He wasn’t.  In the meantime, I was enjoying what he brought to my life. He rented a cabin on the lake that spring. We went swimming with the kids and cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on the charcoal grill.  When Bill started talking about the future, maybe having a baby after we married, I knew that it was near the end.  It was hard to imagine life without him, but I knew I had to put the brakes on or I would be sliding into a marriage I didn’t want.  I still kept close to my heart the image of the man who would be my second husband. It wasn’t Bill. I called it quits and tried to do so gently. I knew Bill would take it hard. He did and decided quickly he couldn’t stay in Florida. He left on a muggy summer day heading for Massachusetts, where his sister and her family lived. He sent me loving cards and postcards in every town on the way, charting his journey with me. He was hopeful at every town, he wrote, that I would change my mind and call his sister who would tell him to come back.  I didn’t. Months later he sent me a card. Enclosed were two brightly  colored leaves. “These leaves fell as I once fell for you.” By then, Bill’s cards were tucked in my memory book.