When I was a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years of age, our family was acquainted with a family who lived across town. They occupied a fine old brick home not far from the river. To my eye this was an elegant place, and it was beautifully decorated within as well with intricately crocheted antimacassars on the sofas and chairs, and tapestries on the walls. Rich people, I thought.
One day their household was bereft of the presence of its matriarch. "She is away for a rest," it was explained to me. Word, though, soon enough got around as kids whispered amongst themselves that Mrs. C was in Pueblo. Now Pueblo in Southern Colorado was noted for two things: steel mills and the Colorado State Hospital, known as the Asylum for the Insane. To say someone was "in Pueblo" was to say they were crazy, in the understanding of the children in the community. "Is it true," I asked Mama, "that Mrs. C is crazy?" "No! Don't say that. It is true that she is in Pueblo. She had a nervous breakdown and she has gone there for treatment. We are praying for her that she will get well soon."
Photo of Pueblo Asylum courtesy Denver Public Library
Several months passed. One day the parents announced that Mrs. C was home, and not long thereafter our family was invited to dinner in the C's home. I remember, little boy that I was, wondering what it would be like to be in the house with a crazy lady. (See how kids think, or at least how this kid thought.)
Mrs. C was the gracious hostess. She served us the dinner she had prepared and Mama's compliments on the china and crystal prompted the hostess to explain that they were heirlooms that had belonged to her grandmother. After dinner, everyone sat in the drawing room and visited. I recall seventy years later how Mrs. C unabashedly and without reticence related her experiences during her absence. She recalled clearly the incidents leading up to the necessity for her visit to Pueblo as well as the treatment leading to recovery. The hair tingled along the back of my neck. Eerie. How could someone go crazy, remember every detail, and come back home, seemingly normal, to tell about it?
You have to understand this tale from the perspective of a nine-year old, very naive kid.
9 comments:
From a time when there was so much stigma attached to things like that, it is to Mrs. C's credit that she was so open and transparent about it. I hope she was able to thrive afterwards~
Shelly, from an adult perspective and with years of understanding by society as a whole, I realize that the lady's handling of her situation was correct. As to "afterwards," we moved from the community a short time later and she dropped off my radar. The parents may have stayed in contact, but you know how kids are: the here and now.
How wonderful that she was able to talk about it.
I would've been like you: I would've wondered a lot about how a crazy lady would behave...
Pearl
Kids do have their own perspective. Was the woman a member of your father's flock? That may explain the unusual openness that she exhibited.
Where I grew up they sent mentally ill folk "to Kalamazoo." However, the Asylum for the Criminally Insane was in Ionia, which is only a few miles from here. My Grandmother spent some time there--as an attendant, not an inmate.
Pearl, it was an unforgettable experience for this kid.
Chuck, actually, yes she was.
I remember Mrs. C. as well as many other people and events associated with this little town.
Vee, it is coming to pass: I remember stuff seven decades old better than I remember yesterday. Surely you haven't reached that point yet?
From living very near a state hospital when I was growing up, I totally get it, and am surprised that Mrs. C got to come home and tell her story.
Sharkey, I suspect her return home was not the norm for the time (40s). Perhaps the prayers were efficacious.
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