THE RIVERBOTTOM YEARS

GROWING UP IN THE GREAT DEPRESSION

Stories of hardship and triumph

as told by
JUDY LIVINGSTON SCOTT

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 JUDY LIVINGSTON SCOTT, AGE 29

“I SEE MY LIFE, AND IT’S BEAUTIFUL!”

Judy L. Scott

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JUDY’S STORIES OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

I. WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
LOSING MOTHER RUBY
GRAMS
DAD’S FAMILY
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
DAD, KINDERGARTEN
“MAKING DO”
LEAVING GRAMS

II. JUDY’S PERSONAL HISTORY

III. WICKENBURG, ARIZONA

“RIVERBOTTOM KIDS”
DIPTHERIA
“POOR WHITE TRASH”
LESSONS,
ARETTA,
WELFARE

IV. GLENDALE, ARIZONA

ICE CREAM
GOD

V. TEXAS
AUNT JULIA’S
ON THE MOVE AGAIN

VI. JUDY’S LAST WORDS

FAMILY GOODBYES
FAMILY INFORMATION

Pages compiled by Judy’s oldest daughter Sheri in 2010

Cover by Dreamscape

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FOR MY DESCENDANTS, January 4, 1998
I am beginning this biography at the request of my daughter Sheri. It is for
the purpose of letting my descendants, three or four generations down the line,
know me and know who I was.
I am the last of my neo-natal family. My father died at the ripe old age of 92.
Gene died of a genetic heart defect when in his late-forties. Roy died in 1995 of a
heart attack after just turning 70. My sister Barbara died from the result of
alcoholism at the age of 55. The four of us were followed by one half-brother and
five half-sisters, the youngest of which was only nine months older than my own
first child. J.L.S.

Sheri’s Notes: Friday, March 27, 1998

Mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness a little over a year ago. She began to
write her memoirs, but could barely manage to type out a page, only to have it
disappear into the computer somewhere, forcing her to start over – again -- and again.
The day after I arrived for Spring Break, she asked me to help her with this first
section about her early childhood in the Great Depression in Arizona. It came as a
complete surprise. As far as we children knew, she’d always lived in California.
Mom and I had just compiled the first section of the six around five PM. Mom lay
on the living room couch reading it through, delighted with how much progress we'd
made. In only three days, we’d managed to restore some of her lost material and begin
some new stories.
Her breathing was labored, but she soldiered on, hoping that she would have
enough time to finish all six sections of her memoirs.
Excited, but exhausted, she decided to take a nap.
In our innocence, we couldn't wait to start up again the next day....
[daughter] S.J.P.S.

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 RUBY ALICE PETERMAN LIVINGSTON, ARTHUR BENO LIVINGSTON

Ruby married Beno in 1923, and they had four children: Arthur (Gene), Roy,
Dorothy (Judy), and Barbara. They moved from Texas to California, and later to
Arizona, where Ruby died of pneumonia at age twenty-six.

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LOSING MOTHER RUBY
I first met Death when I was three years old. Of course, I was so loosely formed
myself at the time that I had no comprehension of His form. He arrived one day in a
white truck with helpers who took my twenty-six year-old mother away. Grams was
there, and so was Gramps. What I remember most was the silence, broken occasionally
by the helpers Death brought with Him. Grams stood in a corner of the living room, quiet
tears running down her face and dropping onto her starched housedress. Gramps had
his arm around her, helplessly patting her shoulder to comfort her. Only the soft sound
of his callused fingers caressing her dress told me they were there.
I stood before my grandparents, imploring them for reassurance. My mother's
eyes had looked strange, half-closed and far away. Her lungs were filled with mucus
from pneumonia, and these were the days before penicillin.
She died at midnight that same night, February 14, 1931. My father had taken us
four children, (Gene, Roy, me, and 11 month-old Barbara) to a friend's house for the
night while Dad and his parents maintained vigil at the hospital. I can still feel the
sodden emptiness of the gray morning light outlining the metal weathercock on our
neighbor's barn. It turned at every shift of the wind, and through the window, I could see
swirls of white fog rising and falling. I sensed I was in a dark fairyland where evil witches
came to do their damnable deeds.
I couldn't sleep. I opened my eyes, and my father stood in the doorway like a dark
shadow. He hesitated before coming toward the double bed where the four of us slept
tangled together. His shoulders were slumped and his head bowed, and it seemed like
a long time before he spoke.
When he finally did speak, it was softly and slowly as if his words were separate
from him, just words, without meaning: "I don't know how to say this except to say
it—your mother is dead."
Then, he picked me up and held me as if he'd never let me go, and I remember
thinking, "Good! Now, maybe we'll get a stepmother who’ll be good to me." (I don't know
why I thought that, but I must have been in some kind of "trouble" before my mother got
sick and they took her away.)
We children were not allowed to go to the funeral. Instead, we played hopscotch
in Grams’ side yard. I remember it was a hot Arizona day, even though it was not yet
Spring, and I remember my "throw piece" was a beautiful nugget of broken dark blue
glass that threw off sun’s rays like a diamond. I promised myself I would keep that stone
forever as a "remembering" of the day of my mother's funeral.
I've often wondered what happened to that piece of blue glass.
Because we stayed home, I didn't get to meet my mother's people. They had
come from California, but left right after the burial. Mother's father said he had to get
back to work. He owned a well drilling company and they were looking for a certain well
to "blow" anytime. But, really, they blamed my father for my mother's death because he
didn't take her to the hospital soon enough. There was no communication between the
two families for many years.
As the questions piled up in my mind, and the answers I got didn’t make any sense
to me, I stopped asking. What was the point? They’d only lie to me again or make up

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something else that didn’t make sense. It was obvious they weren’t going to tell me the
truth. Sometime later, I began to understand that they didn’t know the answers, either.

Where's Mommy?
In Heaven.
Where is that?
Way up in the sky.
Why can't I see it?
It's too far away.
When is she coming back?
We don't know.
Why didn't she take me with her?
She couldn't.
Why?
She couldn't take care of you there.
Then, why did she go?
She didn't want to.
If she didn't want to go and she couldn't take me with her, who made her go?
God.
Who's he?
A person that's stronger and more powerful than we are.
Then he can't be very nice, disappearing my mother and making
everyone scared and sad.
You mustn't say things like that bout God! He's good and kind and forgiving.
All the same, I don't like him and I'll never, ever forgive him.

It is impossible to convey my terror each night while gray dusk approached. As

the moon dropped lower in the sky, I knew that darkness would soon shroud the
landscape, just as I would be shrouded in my blanket.
I slept with the covers over my head, trying to hide from Death, hoping He would
find a victim that was easier to get to. I covered myself like this for even years later on
summer nights when the temperature was over a hundred degrees in Fresno.
I decided that when I grew up, I would become a doctor or a nurse. Doctors and
nurses didn't die that I knew of; therefore, I wouldn't have to die.

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JANUARY 10, 1998
I find it ironic that I am dying the same way my mother did. I am 70 years old,
and my lungs are losing their ability to function. I have to use auxiliary oxygen 24
hours a day, and each day that goes by, it gets harder to move around and to
breathe. To move from the living room to the bedroom leaves me gasping for breath
for a good five minutes.
Mine is a progressive disease, and they tell me there is nothing to be done
about it. I'm still getting enough oxygen, if I keep my mask on and don't move
around too much. But, there will come a time when the energy needed to produce
the oxygen level I need, will be greater than the energy I will get from it.
Respiratory failure will then occur and there's nothing further to try.
J.L.S.

JANUARY 20, 1998

I haven't been able to write the past few days. Sometimes fatigue overtakes
me and I can do naught but lie on the couch and read or watch TV. I'm having to get
those "big letter” books from the library now. It isn't that I can't see the smaller
print, but the big print is easier on my eyes. J. L. S.

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 CARRIE LIVINGSTON

Grams was born in Texas and married her husband there. They moved to
Williams, Arizona, where they established a farm and a successful business, and
became prominent citizens of their community. They had six children. Arthur Beno was
the second youngest.

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GRAMS’ HOUSE
We four children stayed at Grams’ place for several months after Mother died.
This was Dad’s parents’ house in Williams, Arizona. There was lots of love in Grams’
house before Mother died. Gram was fun, and so was Dad. If we children were "good"
we were allowed to roll cigarettes in a red box made of metal with a rubber tongue
inside. I'd pour tobacco into a deepened ridge at one end, then close the box and pull a
chromium handle up the side. When I opened the box again, there was a cigarette,
ready for someone to smoke.
Grams was young for her age and joined in with us for fun. In 1939, she even
traveled with her daughters and sons-in-law all piled into a car, from Yuma, Arizona, to
Phoenix, to see "Gone With the Wind." This was a rough trip through miles of empty
desert, only to stand outside with hundreds of others for hours while the movie was
projected against a large building.
One of our favorite games was “dress up.” Half of the front porch had been glass-
enclosed, and an old highboy stood there full of long sophisticated gloves; beads of
every size, shape, and color; hats too good to throw away but out of style; gauzy, filmy
evening dresses and matching high heeled shoes; and even cigarette holders, some
longer than others, decorated with different kinds of jewels.
There even was a half bottle of "Evening in Paris" perfume in its deep, rich royal
blue bottle, and several half-used "Tangerine" lipsticks. How I wish we could buy that
lipstick today! The color blended with your skin no matter what your skin tone was,
never too dark and never too light. There was also a beautiful full-size mirror on a stand
with a gilded frame. It could be pushed up and back, depending on how tall you were,
so you could see yourself in all your finery.
People said I was pretty when I began to develop around 11. But, as a child, I was
the typical ugly duckling: painfully thin, with crooked teeth, and straight, stringy, dull-
brown, wispy hair.
In contrast, my younger sister, Babs, was beautiful. She had short, thick, naturally
curly shining brown hair, huge laughing dark eyes, a round, dimpled face, straight teeth,
and an outgoing personality.
Because Babs was so cute, when she did anything naughty, everyone would
laugh, whereas I, the "serious one," would be given a "talking to." (It must also be noted
that I was also not in the least bit cute.) People always said that even though I wasn't a
genius like my brother Gene, I was still "precocious." Grams told the story that when I
was still three years old, I came out of the bathroom one day and said, "Gram, I just
wanna' know two things: what makes blood, and what makes that stuff when you go to
the bathroom?"
As most people did in the thirties, in the early evening, we sat on our front porches
or strolled the sidewalks, stopping occasionally to gossip a little, laugh a little, or have a
cool drink. One night, Babs and I were on our evening stroll, (I was responsible for Babs
no matter what we did, including evening strolls.) A woman in a rocking chair said to
someone seated beside her, "Isn't she a darling? Such beautiful hair and, and look at
those dimples! She'll be a beauty when she grows up!"
I slowed down, waiting to hear something about me. When it came, it was painful.

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The woman sighed and said, "And isn't it a shame about the other one?” As a “serious”
child, I understood what grownups meant, and I was wounded deeply. For years, it
made me ashamed of the way I looked.

Babs could say anything to anyone and get away with it. She also spoke
extremely well for "almost two." Grams’ house had a steamer trunk in the parlor, as did
most middle class homes of that era. Gramps used to punish Art and Roy by making
them sit on the steamer trunk for "time out."
One day, the boys were seated there, and Babs came in from outside. She looked
at the boys and said, "You boys get off that trunk."
Gramps said, "Now, Barbara, you leave those boys alone. They're being
punished."
And Roy said, "We only have five minutes to go."
Babs put her tiny hands on her tiny hips and glared up at Gramps. "They're my
boys, and I'll talk to them when I'm damn good and ready. Now, what was that you said,
Roy?"
No one could keep a straight face.

We four children stayed at Grams’ for several months after Mother died. Dad's
younger sister Audrey, the nurse, (we called her Trix), was home from school and I
guess she looked pretty good. At least, there were a lot of young men hanging around.
One of these was Sam, the postman in our small village. He delivered the mail from a
three-wheeled motorcycle with a wooden sidecar. Wanting to get in good with Trix, he
came by every morning, and I "helped" him deliver the mail.
I stood straight and dignified in the sidecar with the wind blowing in my hair. Sam
would pull up and stop at the next house, give me the mail for those people, and I'd run
up the sidewalk and hand the mail to the occupant. Then, I'd run back to the motorcycle,
and Sam would lift me onto the sidecar and off we'd go again. Of course, we'd only go
around one block, but I was exultant that I was grown-up enough to deliver mail. I was
only age four, after all.
Aunt Trixie flirted with Sam, scolding him, "You know what my brother Beno would
do to you if he knew his daughter was delivering mail for
you?" Sam was due for a disappointment, though. Trix ended up marrying an MD.

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 GRAMS LIVINGSTON, VERA holding grandson GENE, ROMA JANE

JANUARY 30, 1998

I think I’m feeling a little better than I did before. It’s difficult to tell. I’ll be in
bed for two days, then up and feeling better for a day. There doesn’t seem to be any
cause and effect attached. John is having to do almost everything now. We were
planning to take the summer and go RV-ing north where it would be cooler. I also
wanted to take some classes at a university if I could. But, it seems most of the
places we could afford to do have too high an altitude and I wouldn’t be able to
breathe there - even with oxygen. J.L.S.

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DAD’S FAMILY
Trix owed a lot of her good fortune to Dad, and because of her, Dad only received
a fourth grade education. There were six children in his family, three boys and three
girls, far apart in age. The oldest boys had married and divided up the old family farm.
Next in line, Aunt Vera, had married a restaurant owner and worked the restaurant with
him. This left my father with one older and one younger sister. The older girl, Helen,
had graduated from high school but could not find work. In the days following the Bank
Panic of 1907, there weren't jobs for men, let alone women. Helen wanted to be a
teacher, and the family knew she could get a job right there at home if she had the
necessary education. (The family had a lot of "pull" in that town.)
A family meeting was called, and it was decided that Dad would quit school and go
to work. He was only ten years old, but physically strong by this time. This money
would send Helen to college, then she would get a job and help Dad through school.
Only it didn't happen that way. The youngest sister, Trixie, graduated from high
school in a worsening depression, and no women could find work. Trixie wanted to be a
nurse, so it was decided to postpone Dad's education -- again.
At school, Helen met her future husband, Pete Campbell, whose family owned
some department stores. After that, she got a teaching job and helped some with
Trixie's expenses at nursing school. And Dad still waited!
Dad was forced to take on any job he could find. He dug ditches, fixed cars,
picked potatoes, turnips, and sugar beets, performed maintenance around buildings,
worked as a general manager of a cotton gin, and eventually, managed hotels.
My father ended up with only the fourth grade education. Although I never heard
him say anything about it, I can't help but wonder if this wasn't one of the big
disappointments of his life: one that made him bitter--angry.
He couldn't help but he angry about it. Everyone else in the family got their
educations and they were well off by the end of the thirties. He couldn't go back to
school then. By then, he had a family to support. Although they might have wanted to
repay Dad, none of his bothers or sisters actually offered to help him out. I never heard
him say anything about it, but he never did get back to school, and somehow it was
forgotten.
It was a bitter disappointment.

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DAD
As I look back on it now, I must have been a handful for Grams, and Dad’s
indulgence didn’t help. Once, we were going someplace, and Grams had put this hat on
me. It was one of those close-fitting straw things they wore in the thirties. I didn't want
to wear it. I lay on my back in the yard, kicked my feet and had a tantrum until Daddy
said I didn't have to wear the hat.
We went to Episcopal Church every Sunday. This took a lot of doing with four
children for Grams to feed and dress by herself. Gramps was rarely there. He worked
in the oilfields someplace. And my father, a gifted mechanic, was out on the road, trying
to get any kind of work he could. By now, the Great Depression was in full swing, and
people were standing in bread lines. Very little work was available. Even PhD’s were
digging ditches. We were just lucky the older boys had the farms so they could help out
with food if money was short.
No matter how poor we were, however, we always had a car of some kind: a
bashed-in Model-T, or a burnt out Morgan, or a roadster someone had left out in the
rain, then hauled to the junkyard. That was where my father got his cars, at the
junkyard. He'd bargain for parts from other cars, work until he was ready to drop, and
voila! We had a car that not only looked half-way decent, but ran like a top. That would
be after Dad got to the engine with his bailing wire. He kept a roll of bailing wire under
the front seat. Any problem on the road, and the bailing wire came out. Usually, within
half an hour, we were back on the road again.
My Dad wouldn't talk about anything serious until after his first cup of coffee, his
five-mile walk, and at least a half hour of “thinking” in his rocking chair each day. He
was vitally interested in world events. Every morning, rain or shine, the radio went on,
as loud as it would go, with the six-o’clock news. It didn't count if we'd gone to sleep late
the night before, it was time to get up and find out what was going on in the world. And
he made certain we did know what went on in the world. Even now, if I miss the news, I
feel like I’ve lost a part of my day.
Some people considered Dad eccentric, but, despite only a fourth grade educa-
tion, his handwriting and spelling were better than mine, and he spent a lot of time
disagreeing with politicians through the mail. They wrote him back and argued with him,
too. He had a letter from Lyndon Johnson talking about the time when they were
together in elementary school.
Dad’s many "Letters to the Editor” in various newspapers were almost always
published. And, every time another letter to the Editor was published, my stomach
clenched. I knew I had to face the kids at school again. Their teasing was relentless.
Sometimes they'd taunt me and say my mother was dead. I'd kick and scream and yell,
"Don't say that! My mother is not dead. She's coming back. Take that back”--that she'd
just gone away because I'd been bad. It was like trying to believe in Santa Claus. I
wanted to believe, but I knew it wasn't so.
If she were coming back, it would have to be on Valentine's Day because that was
the day she left. So, every Valentine's Day, I watched for her with baited breath until
midnight.
But of course, there was never a sign of her.

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KINDERGARTEN
Our kindergarten was a small school across the highway from a gas station.
When I was five, my father worked in that gas station, and I was so proud! Naturally, all
us girls wanted to grow bigger and taller. I think the boys were afraid to admit they also
wanted to grow. Well, we girls traipsed across the street every day at recess, and I was
first. I'd put my head against my father's side and put my hand on top of my head to see
if I'd grown any since the day before. Then each of my six friends got a turn.
Gravely, they'd step up and measure themselves against my father. I came only
to his waist, but one of the girls came about an inch above and bragged about it until I
caught her with rocks under her heels that lifted her about an inch.

My biggest disappointment in kindergarten was my inability to get books to read

from the library. With the help of my older brothers, I had already taught myself to read.
And, when we were in kindergarten, we could check out any book we wanted, but they
had to come back in the same condition they went out in. Otherwise, we would not be
able to check out any more books until we were in first grade!
I remember going into the library that first day, and the musty, chemical smell in
the air. To me, it was ambrosia. That smell meant all the secrets of the world if and
when I could finish reading all of it! Then, I'd have the answers I was searching for in
terms of my mother!
I checked out a “Little Black Sambo" book with a picture on the front of it of a tiger
running in circles and turning into butter. I could hardly wait to get home and start
reading. I sat on the front porch and stroked the book and reminded myself I had to very
careful, or I wouldn't be able to get another book for a year. Slowly, I opened the cover,
but there was nothing there except some black printing saying when the book was
published. I turned to the next page, forgetting to be careful.
I think I heard the tear before I saw it. It started at the center of the page and
spread outward toward the edge. When I clumsily tried to smooth it down, it tore the
other way, down toward the bottom of the book. My heart thumped hard, and I trembled
all over. Then, tears clouded my eyes as I realized I’d have to wait a whole year, a
lifetime, for another chance to use the library.
Perhaps this is one reason I have loved and prized books all my life.

Kindergarten was also a big disappointment for me in terms of learning to write

numbers. I could read without strain, but numbers seemed to defeat me. We had a
contest one day, boys against girls. The first person in the two rows, a boy and a girl,
would run to the blackboard and put a "1" there. Then,
the second two boys and girls would run up and put a "2" under the “1.” I was number
“5,” and for the life of me, I couldn't remember how to draw a “5.” I lost the whole
competition for my team. I was a failure, sick to my stomach and embarrassed and
disgusted with myself.
And, my classmates were not nice about it either. Children can be very cruel. But,
one thing was accomplished. I sweated over numbers until I had them down perfect! I
never wanted to have that same sick feeling of shame again.

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 My transgression was soon forgotten, and I began to make friends at school. I
picked them because I fell in love with their names. I thought Elaine was the most
beautiful name in the world, and next was Janet, then Jocelyn. I hated my name:
Dorothy. Ugh! So, I changed my name. Everybody loved Judy Garland, and I decided I
was “Judy” and wouldn't answer to anything else.

COUNTRY GAS STATION

FEBRUARY 22,1998
We actually went to dinner theater this week. The Players are part of the set-
up here in Sun City. Really enjoyed it. Also, have tickets for April for dinner
theater. We'll be leaving for Mexico RV trip on the 30th of March. Sheri will be
coming for week on March 22. Then, Sandy wants to come in April. Chris wants to
come for three months after that, but she has to sell her coffee cart and sublet her
apartment first. J. L. S.

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BOYS WILL BE BOYS
We lived in a tiny village of 1500 people where everybody knew everybody’s
business, and no one could get away with anything, so when Aunt Vera got a telephone,
it was the talk of our town! Everyone wanted to see it and try it out. Soon, the
excitement died down, and since no one else in town had a private phone, Vera decided
it wasn't worth it, and had the phone taken out. When the workmen came to take it out,
they only took the black face-cover off it, and said they'd be back to get the rest--not to
touch it because it was "hot."
Vera was going to a meeting that night, and I don't remember where her husband
was, but Dad was outside in the garage tinkering with one of his numerous projects.
That was all we children needed. Gene went first. He touched where the mouthpiece
would have been, and brought his hand back sharply. He kind of grinned and said,
"They must have turned if off. There's nothing there now."
Next it was Roy's turn, and he put his palm against the mouthpiece, held it there
with a grimace, then winked at Gene and said, “You're right. They must have turned it
off. Go ahead, Judy. It won't hurt you."
“You sure?” I was a 'fraidy cat and my brothers were always pulling something on
me.
“Now, would I hurt my little sister? Besides, you'll always wonder if you don't try it
out." Reluctantly, I put the tip of my first finger on the mouthpiece, and got a shock that
ran up my arm and into my chest.
I didn't seem to be able to move my finger away. The boys doubled over,
laughing. Daddy rushed in. He knocked my finger from the phone plate and picked me
up to make certain I was all right.
He was furious! “You could have killed her!” he shouted. “Not only that, you could
have killed yourselves!” Up ‘till that time, it was the closest I'd come to seeing the boys
get a spanking.
Instead, Dad sent them to bed without supper.

FEBRUARY 14 1998
The Doctor is trying to get me off prednisone, and I am taking 15 mg. a day.
This makes me very weak. I am in bed most of the time. John is still getting the RV
ready, still hoping we’ll be able to go someplace this summer. I am so lucky! He is
so good to me. I don't know of anyone who would do as much for their sick wife. We
have borrowed a wheelchair from a charity place here. It helps a lot. At least I can
go some places. I thought I would hate a wheel-chair, it would make me less of a
person or something. But I'm getting used to it, and it's not so bad.
J.L.S.

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“MAKING DO"
While we were at Grams’, we didn’t lack for anything, because my father’s two
older brothers managed the family farm, and there was plenty of food. There were no
“terrors” to be afraid of, and we were secure. All the family members loved all the
children, and we were given much attention.
My uncle Max came home from the fields one day and brought me a beautiful
china doll that cost $8.00, in those days a phenomenal sum. (A loaf of bread cost five
cents.) Grams, who had taught us all about “making do,” had a fit. She said the china
doll would last maybe an hour, so she made him take it back and buy me a rag doll.
Of course, Grams was right, but l had a tantrum, anyway.

Grams had a talent for “making do.” Even when the cupboards were bare, Grams
could always find enough food to make a meal. She used to say to me, “If you don’t
have it, you find another way to do it." It's true, we always found a way to “make do” and
have what we needed.
I tried to apply that kind reasoning one day. I went to the refrigerator and I couldn’t
find any milk. “The milk’s all gone,” I complained. Grams replied that Roy had drunk it.
“Couldn’t we get it back?” I asked.
“How do you propose to do that?” she said.
“Well, there’s this ice pick here....”

Grams got out of bed every morning at six o’clock to make fresh yeast bread for
her family. She also made cottage cheese on Saturday. At first, she bought the milk,
but later, she got her own cow, which she milked every day. She’d set a fully covered
bowl out in the heat on Thursday. By Saturday, it would be what they called “clabber” a
solid curd. Grams would pour off the leftover liquid whey, wrap the round bundle in a
clean piece of linen; then, gathering the four corners, tie it to the branch of a tree. She
would let it dry overnight. Afterwards, she’d carefully unwrap the ball, stir until it was
broken into pieces, and add salt and cream. If you wanted your own seasoning, Grams
would put it in for you.
My father’s sister, Aunt Vera, who’d married a restaurant owner, had two children,
Gene and Roma Jane. They lived in a house back-to-back with Grams’ in the middle of
the block. At the age of five, Roma Jane had a shining tussle of blonde Shirley Temple
curls, which were her mother’s pride and joy, while my own hair was hopeless. It was
cut in a sort of “Dutch Boy,” except for my bangs, which were always falling into my
eyes.
Once, Babs and Roma Jane and I were in Grams’ yard, setting up to play “barber.”
We had found a tall empty barrel in Gramp’s garage where we placed a glass of water, a
comb and a pair of shears. We fixed a board on top for the “customer” to sit on, and
brought out a towel from the bathroom to put on the “customer’s" shoulders. Roma Jane
got to play barber first (she got to be everything first,) and we weren’t supposed to
actually cut hair we were supposed to “pretend.”

17
 BARBARA (BABS) LIVINGSTON and
first HUSBAND RICHARD HINDMAN

My younger sister Barbara was married twice and had two beautiful daughters
from her first marriage and a son from her second. Her first husband was in the Navy
and died after their divorce. She and her second husband Bill Peacock had an
extremely difficult and traumatic marriage. Bill owned a “dive” in the then run-down
“Tenderloin District” of San Francisco, and Babs was an occasional nightclub singer.

18
 Roma Jane took the shears and with one swoop, cut all the hair off one side of my
head. "What did you do?” I yelled. “You weren’t supposed to do that! We were playing
‘pretend barber!’”
“Oh, your hair is so ugly anyway, it wouldn’t make any difference,” she said,
snickering behind her palm. “What are you going to do? Run and tattle-tale to Grams?
You can’t run to your mother, because you don’t have one.” Tears blinded me, and I
started to retort in kind, then clamped my teeth together. There was more than one way
to play this game.
I hung my head and dug a little hole in the dirt with my bare toe. “Guess you’re
right.” I said humbly. “My hair isn’t pretty like yours. I drew a deep breath and smiled.
“OK, it's my turn to be a barber and your turn to be the customer.” Roma Jane, still
giggling, put the towel around her shoulders and sat in the barber’s chair. Before she
suspected anything, I grabbed a handful of her beautiful curls by the by the top of her
head, and the sound of the shears as I whacked them off with one giant "shrrip" was
music played in heaven.
Knowing I was going to “get it," I ran, and ran, and ran, as far as I could. I hid for
hours in a large, rusty metal drainpipe under the highway. It was just tall enough for me,
and it had a trickle of some old and very dirty water mixed with dried leaves and junk at
the bottom. It smelled something like Grams’ outhouse, only worse.
I sat a little up one side on a curved edge, using my feet as a brace against the
opposite side, and thought about the injustices aimed particularly at me--and I couldn’t
figure out why. Because I was ugly? Was that it? Babs and Roma Jane were beautiful,
and they were treated better.
Maybe, I was innately bad, and that was why my mother had abandoned me. It
couldn’t be because I was dumb. My grades at school were okay. But, of course, not
like Gene’s. My brother Gene was a real genius and he was treated the best of all.
Maybe, it was because I had a temper and did things like cutting Roma Jane’s curls off.
But, she had cut mine off first! Of course, since I didn’t have any curls, my hair wasn’t
pretty, and no one seemed to care.
Except, Dad. And, truth be told, Dad would probably laugh when he heard how I
got even with Roma Jane. He'd even called her a “spoiled brat” before, not knowing that
I was listening.
Eventually they found me. By this time it was dark, and the whole town was out
looking for me. I could hear them calling to each other, their worried voices carrying
their concern, “Any luck?" Any luck?” and crying out to me again and again: “Judy?”
”Dorothy!” “Judy, it’s okay.” “Answer, please answer.”
I came out of the drainpipe, and people started yelling and whooping and hollering,
“She’s Ok!” "We found her.” “Over here!”
My punishment was mild compared to what I’d expected: I was sent to the room
that I shared with Babs. I missed my dinner and had to remain there alone the whole
next day.

19
JUDY LIVINGSTON, circa 1958

20
 LEAVING GRAMS
I became aware while we were still at Grams’ that Dad had begun dating. At the
time, my father was a very handsome man. He was about 5'11" with an athletic build.
He had large, expressive brown eyes, a wide smile, and thick brown hair. When he got
older, his hair turned white, but he still had a shock of hair when he died at 92. Dad was
famous for “talking up” the ladies and was teased about this by the family.
I didn't really understand what dating was all about except he'd occasionally bring
pretty young women home to dinner and then maybe they'd go out someplace. There
was one in particular I liked. Her name was Lucille. She was very lovely, with dark,
naturally curly hair and friendly brown eyes, and she always wanted to include the
children when she and Dad went someplace--to the movies, roller skating or ice skating,
or picnicking and swimming. Grams liked her a lot also, because she was the daughter
of one of Grams’ closest friends. I think my life would have been very different if Dad
had married Lucille.
Dad was around thirty-two by now, and the family whispered that, of course, he'd
remarry sometime. Someone would have to help raise the four children, and Grams
was getting too old. But, Dad didn't seem to be in any hurry, and said he was lonely on
the road when looking for work. He wanted us children with him. He and Grams had a
few loud arguments on this subject, and before long, we were in an old sedan heading
for Wickenburg, Arizona, where Dad had heard there was work to be had.

Dad took us to live for a while with Mother’s parents. Grama Peterman came from
German parentage. To her, everything was either black or white. She did spring
housecleaning every Saturday, rain or shine. Feather beds were turned, ancient
wooden floors were oiled, and even the doorknobs were polished. Grama had one
corner of the house devoted to quilting where the “bees" would take place. Two long
dowels, the length of a bed, were permanently set up. One side of the quilt was basted.
Then, an edge would be attached to a dowel, and the other edge to the opposite dowel.
The whole apparatus could be collapsed by rolling one dowel toward the other. In this
way, when the women were not quilting, the table would fit into a corner of the living
room. The entire trestle would not take up the space of a typical bed. Once a month,
the women would rotate from house to house, drink their coffee, do their quilting, and
share their gossip.

Grama was as big a gossip as the rest in the small town, and one day when the
lady next door called to her, she went to the fence where I heard, “Did you know
about...?” Then, their voices lowered so I couldn't hear the rest.
All of a sudden, Babs started screaming--but, where?
It was washday, and in the yard, Grama had three large galvanized tubs full of
boiling water standing over three fire-pits. Grama made her own soap, and a box of lye
and other ingredients were set out along a bench next to the tubs. Babs kept pointing to
the can of lye and to her mouth, which was filled with vile-looking white stuff. Grama
finally got the idea. Babs had tried to eat a spoonful of lye, not knowing what it was.
Grama gave Babs a home remedy and washed out her mouth until the Doctor came.

21
 Babs was okay, but to the end of her life, her tongue had deep groves in it where
the lye had burned through the flesh.
Grama never forgave herself for leaving the lye out like that. But, even her guilt
didn't hamper the gossip trail. The next morning, she was over by the fence and she
and the neighbor were talking as fast as their lips could move as if nothing had ever
happened.

NATIONAL ARCHIVES, families moving with all their possessions

MARCH 17, 1998
I have forced myself to working hours on this the last two days. I keep hitting
glitches. Today, I was ready to print out and both printers started printing
gobbledygook. So, I won’t be able to get this out today. But, I’m the kind of person
that can only concentrate on one thing at a time, and I’m really far behind in my
other work. I have to resolve this problem so I can move on.
J.L.S.

22
A BRIEF HISTORY IN HER OWN WORDS March 17, 1998
I had always been a pretty healthy person except for “large” illnesses. I didn’t
get things like measles, mumps or chicken pox. I did get a cold every five to seven
years and when I did it was a doozy, with a loud raucous cough that went on and on
and on. I sometimes felt that my insides were coming up with the sputum.
In those days, people didn’t go to the doctor with a cold. My father would rub
my chest with Vapo-Rub and put some under my nose to clear my breathing. But,
that was all anyone knew to do. These colds lasted into my 60s, about every seven
years, and when antibiotics didn’t work, the doctors knew little more what to do. I
just had to wait the colds out.
I had polio when I was 11, but luckily the disease centered in my upper back
and the muscles between my shoulder blades are simply weak. [Her polio was
discovered when neighbors rushed her to the doctor after a beating from her father that
left her bleeding. He was punishing her for not working in the fields and taking care of
the babies after school.]
I gave birth to three girls, and had three miscarriages, the last a "mole"
pregnancy where they were forced to take my uterus. I also had my appendix out and
a growth taken off an ovary. Then, they had to strip a vein from my right leg. All
this before I was thirty!
I didn't go back to school until I was 42. (I had only gone through the 9th
grade and was married at 16.) I earned my BA in 24 months, my MA in 11 months
and my Doctorate in three more years with a GPA of 3.92. I even took 28 semester
units between two schools one semester. Because one school wouldn't let me take that
many units, I just went to another college, gave them a fake address and took my half
units there. Didn't get caught either.
I was married to my first husband for only fifteen years, so I was divorced by
this time, and had no one else to fall back on. The children were grown and out of
the house, and I did nothing but study and go to school. I only had so much money
and if I was going to get the degrees I wanted, there was no other way. I did work
part-time also, and borrowed money from the school that I paid back later.
ln my forties, I was in Hawaii, and they saw an irregularity in a lung. I was
working on my Master's Degree at the time and had just gotten two classes to teach at
the local community college, along with a stipend from my Department. I was
sailing! But, because there is so much tuberculosis in Hawaii, they couldn't take a
chance, and I had to go the hospital for three months. Naturally, my opportunities
for funding and teaching were lost.
I still have the irregularity on my lung and it hasn't changed a bit in the last 30
years, so I guess I didn't have tuberculosis, but I paid the price for it.
My new husband John and I moved back to California. I passed my California
State Licensing exam and then, after serving a three-year internship, established two
different private counseling practices in the next 25 years. Both practices were
extremely successful. I still have former patients who call me and pay long distance

23
rates plus my fees to be able to talk to me. They say they'd rather do that than have a
different psychotherapist.
I was in good shape for several years until I woke up one morning in my 60's
with a terrible pain in my right leg. They had to do a femoral bypass. My artery was
clogged from my belly-button to my pelvis, and blood was not getting through to my
leg. It was a long time coming out of that one, but I forced myself through the pain,
walking up and down hills daily until I was in good shape again. This was not so
easy, since I'd lost half of big toe from the blockage. Air wasn't what it should be,
and l wasn't certain if my legs or my air would go first on a treadmill. I visited my
daughter Sandy in Denver, the mile-high city, and I couldn't breathe there. It was
almost as bad there as I am now. But, as soon as I got home to Southern California I
was fine again.
When I did go the doctor, he said I had asthma. I had no idea that asthma was
deadly, so I shrugged my shoulders and thought there was nothing to be done. But,
then it got as bad as in Denver. I went to a respiratory doctor, and in April 1996, at
the age of 67, I was diagnosed with COPD. This is sort of a catch-all for emphysema,
lung cancer, asthma, bronchitis, and fibrosis.
At first, I was being treated for bronco-asthma. But, that changed later. Most
of the problem was attributed to a condition called "pulmonary fibrosis" which
hardens the lungs. It may have resulted from breathing in chemicals during the
years my family and I were migrant farm workers. [They gave her three to five years
more, IF she stopped working and got away from the pollution in Los Angeles. But, she
felt a responsibility to her clients and was supporting the family after John's heart attack.]
I continued to work for another year or so, but after that, it became impossible.
I never knew what I'd feel like the next day or if I'd be capable of working. So, John,
my husband of 27 years, and I moved to a retirement community in Sun City
Arizona, where the air was cleaner.
That was in February, 1997. By April, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and
they were going to do a radical mastectomy at Norris Cancer Hospital at USC in
California. However, after a week of consultations with doctors, they decided there
was nothing to be done but give me a pill, morning and night. I would only have a
60 percent chance of surviving the surgery because of my lungs. The same was true
for chemotherapy or any other standard practice. They sent me home and said to
come back in three months. I did. The cancer had disappeared! Then they sent me
home and said to come back in six months, which will be on February 3.
J.L.S.

(NO DATE)
I've just had a reprieve. I won't be going for testing until March 3. We're
changing hospitals. I'm just not strong enough for the long drive to Norris,
California, and back. J.L.S.

24
(LATER, BUT NO DATE)
I finally couldn't wait any longer. I went to the hospital here and had the
mammogram done. The cancer is still in remission! There is no sign of it!
J.L.S.

JUDY at 16 with first husband MERLIN (PETE) PETERSEN, 1943

Judy left home at age 14 and moved to Long Beach, California, where she met
Merlin Petersen, a Merchant Marine. When she was 15 and he was 20 years old, they
married. Later, they returned to the San Francisco bay area where Merlin had been
born. Together, they built a very successful construction company, and raised their
three daughters.
Sherrill was born when Judy had just reached age 17. The family lived in the City
at that time. By the time the second daughter Sandra arrived four years later, they were
busy building a home in Menlo Park, where they lived for two years. When daughter
Linda arrived, they were in Belmont. A succession of homes and commercial buildings
followed them south from San Carlos to the Flood Estate in Atherton, where they built
the home they lived in for seven years.
The combination of Merlin’s ingenuity and Judy’s business acumen came to an
end in 1959 when the couple divorced. The three girls remained with Judy who raised
them as a single parent. A succession of relationships followed until, in her 40s, she
married John Scott, and remained with him for the rest of her life.

25
MARCH 25, 1998
It has been a rough two days. I had three "attacks" day before & yesterday. I
was out shopping with John, calling my one patient, and went to Border’s and
bought books. Sheri came in from Hawaii that night. Yesterday, I stayed in bed
most of day, or on the couch. But we did go and buy scooter so I can get around.
Also bought thing for car to put it on. $4700! It's killing me! Had tightness in chest
last night and went to Maureen (doctor) this morning. Gave me nitro patches to
wear. Feel terrible today, but am hoping tomorrow will be better. John is outside,
building ramps for the scooter for in and out.
Got word today half-sister Carol, the youngest, has cancer of liver, stomach
and a few other things. Thank God my cancer is in remission! Went to Prescott in
R.V for two nights to see how I could take the altitude. Same as Idaho. I don't know
if I should chance it for the summer.
Is it that higher altitude that's caused me to feel so bad the last few days? I
must adjust to the fact that I can't do the things I used to. I think now I should
concentrate on learning to do as much for myself as I can.
J.L.S.

E-MAIL: Friday, March 27, 1998

Mom awoke from her nap tonight and said, “John, I need to go to the hospital.” I
was shaken, because I knew she would never want to go unless she was desperate.
Mom had an intense fear and hatred of hospitals. From the earliest time I can
remember, she swore she’d never go to a hospital again because “...that’s where people
go to die.”
She was admitted close to midnight, and by the time we got to see her, she was
“critical,” and unconscious. They put her in the Cardiac ICU. I returned home, but Papa
John stayed at the hospital. They wouldn't let him in the room with her until visiting
hours the next morning. He sat in the visiting room the entire night, waiting for someone
to tell him if there was any news. They determined by her blood enzymes that she'd had
a small heart attack the night before. We had literally come within minutes of losing her,
right then. S.J.P.S.

26
 ROY EARL LIVINGSTON
April 1925 – May1995
Second-born Roy was married twice and had four children. He had a degree in
Electrical Engineering and worked or 25 years for Thomas Edison Utilities. Like Dad, his
unusual viewpoints were published in dozens of “Letters to the Editor.” In his later
years, he compiled a detailed family history, including all the locations of our family
homes lived in after moving to the Central Valley of California – overnight moves that
were prompted by a landlord or sheriff trying to collect unpaid rent. We all earned
money as seasonal labor, but the rent was often not covered, and we moved every few
weeks, dotting Fresno and Selma maps with our previous addresses.

27
“RIVERBOTTOM KIDS”
The next move turned out to be a real adventure. There was no house to live in.
Instead, we settled in a square brown tent on a wide river bottom, the Hasseyampa
River, which ran alongside the town of Wickenburg. It was late summer and
communities of tents were grouped together in circles. The river bottom was more or
less level and as wide as the length of a football field. There were sunken places where
water gathered and this was where the "riverbottom people” grew the vegetables they
needed. There was no clean water to drink. You used what came out of the tap at the
service station.
The camps were set put up in groups with about ten tents to a group circled
around a long campfire, which was stoked at night. I wouldn't even try to guess how
many camps there were, but at night the whole river bottom, as far as the eye could see
twinkled like fairy lights. Everyone shared with everyone else. What little each of us had
belonged to anyone who really needed it.
The men and boys went far and wide to scavenge for the fires; and the girls, when
old enough, would help to keep the campsites clean, bring water, pare vegetables, and
do dishes.
Across each campfire was a pipe for hanging pots, and this was attached to other
pipes pounded into the ground with the legs crossed like a sawhorse. This kept the
contraption steady. Coffee perked constantly, and each man took his turn at "watch"
over the span of a week. Dad also had his turn, always accompanied by his long rifle,
which had been his ninth-year birthday present. Most of the men had guns, and when
meat was scarce, they'd form parties and go out and hunt for what might be available,
mostly wild rabbit and quail.

A share-pot always hung from the trestle. Anyone hungry could take from it.
When a family had run out on money for food, they used the share-pot. When they were
better off, they put meat or what was needed back into the share-pot. Occasionally, the
share-pot went dry, and we went to bed hungry. Roy, being Roy, would always have
something stashed someplace, something he could have eaten when he got it. But,
he'd saved it and shared a little bit with each of us. Roy had no conscience when it
came to getting food. He would either steal money to buy food or the food itself. He
didn't have a shred of guilt over it. Dad never questioned Roy very much about where
he got the food. I guess Dad chose to think it was God's will.
Once in a while, when the share-pot would be empty, and the men were unlucky at
hunting, there was little choice. The children were sent out to beg from the townspeople.
We usually had a tin bucket or a metal pan of some kind. We'd knock on a door and ask
for food.
Oh how I hated to beg! I think it would have even easier if they'd sent us out in
twos or threes rather than one at a time. Some people were very nice about it and gave
us food, but some were not so nice. I remember one white-haired man, slightly bent at
the waist, opening his door, and seeing me standing there with my bucket, he yelled to
his wife, "It's one of those ‘riverbottom people’ begging for food again. If they'd only get
out and work, they wouldn't have to beg.”

28
 That's how the townspeople acted toward us “riverbottom folk.” They didn't
understand that we were all looking for work. And, I was only four years old! What kind
of job could I get?

NATIONAL ARCHIVES PHOTO

29
DIPHTHERIA
At night, we children were allowed to ramble from one tent city to another and play
with children from these enclosures until we were tired and ready for rest. Then we'd
come back to our own "coven" where people sat around the campfire and talked. As
talk died down, one person would go into a tent and come out with a guitar and strum it
lightly. The person might even sing or hum some of the popular songs of the day, like
"Santa Lucia," "Old Folks at Home," "Home Sweet Home," or "Red River Valley." Pretty
soon all of tent city was joining in. People would sing along in bass, tenor, soprano, and
alto. It didn't matter if one sang well. We were just a bunch of contented people singing
together before bedtime. Then, others would wander to their tents and bring out an
instrument: a sax, a trumpet, a violin, accordion or harmonica. One even had bagpipes,
and that player got a lot of teasing.
Then, everybody sitting on the ground around the fire would hold out their arms to
us and we'd snuggle in, feeling safe, secure, and protected. The young men and
women would sneak off in pairs away from the firelight, and we children would slowly fall
asleep, listening to the music, huddled in the arms of whoever held us that night.
Eventually, they'd put us to bed in our own tents where we'd wake the next day and
wonder how we got there. So, all the children had many mothers and fathers, and we
became accustomed to going to any one of them with our troubles. It was nice to be-
lieve they'd always be there for us.
Most of the tents were rounded like Indian teepee pictures we see now. Our family
lived in a square tent. One wall of our tent was set aside for kitchen and such. Babs
and I slept on a pallet by another wall, and Roy and Gene by yet another wall. Dad slept
on a pallet in front of the door flap, his faithful gun alongside him.
One night a dreadful odor awoke me. It wasn't like anything I'd ever smelled
before. Then, there was a loud snarl. My heart raced. When Death came to take my
mother, was there a snarl? I couldn't remember. Terrified, I put the covers over my
head and thought maybe He'd finally found me!
I guess Dad knew what the noise meant. Without making a sound, he raised
himself, gun in hand, and slipped out through the flap, just as the creature let out
another growl. I couldn't wait. I shuffled as fast as I could to the flap and peeked out.
The creature looked like a big gray cat, and the skin of its face hung in rotted strips. Its
throat flesh dangled in ragged strings, oozing puss. It glared at my Dad from the other
side of the stoked campfire. Tensing its front legs, it looked like it was ready to spring at
Dad.
Slowly, Dad raised his rifle, and I held my breath. He shot. The cat gave a low
moan, scratched its front paws in the dirt and slumped to the ground. Other people
started coming out of their tents, but Dad motioned them to stay back.
“In case you don't know about or haven't seen diphtheria in its first stages, here it
is. We used to see this on the farms. It's extremely, con-tagious, so stay away as far as
you can.”
Then, he got the mothers to take their children back to bed, and he picked certain
men to help spreading coals over the whole campground while some older boys went

30
searching for more wood. I assume the cat was picked up in a shovel and put on the
fire, but I was too sleepy to stay up and watch the proceedings.

“LITTLE RED SCHOOLHOUSE” WICKENBURG, ARIZONA

E-MAIL: Saturday, MARCH 28, 1998
When I arrived at the hospital at 11:30 this morning, she was in restraints.
Apparently, she had awakened that morning, and having no recollection of where she
was or how she got there, she flailed about, trying to remove her tubes and escape.
They sedated her every time she awoke (about every 5 to 10 minutes) and there
would be two things she'd ask me: one was a request for water. (She had a tube down
her throat, and in spite of the fluids through the IV, her mouth was dry.) I must have
explained to her thirty times that she could not have water or ice because it would get
into her lungs, and they were trying to remove fluid from her longs, not add to it.
Then, she'd ask me was why the tube was in her mouth. She did not recall at all
what happened the night we took her in, including being in distress at home earlier in the
evening. All our communication was only by her scribbling (mostly unintelligibly) on a
note pad, or through her expressions, with the use of an alphabet chart, or mouthing
words. With a lot of guessing by me, she would "talk" a little.
Every time she dozed off and reawakened, we'd go through the same ritual. She'd
ask me for water, and I'd repeat about the water and the tale of how she ended up in the
hospital. It was heartbreaking. S.J.P.S.

31
 “POOR WHITE TRASH”
We children ran free as wild animals up and down the riverbed, wherever our
heart's desire took us. We had wonderful times in the summer. We climbed cotton trees
along the riverbank; whittled figures with pieces cut from manzanita; gathered
arrowheads; protected birds nests and watched birds being hatched; poured water on
the riverbanks, and slid down the mud. Sometimes, we cooled our bare toes in the
squishy silt at the low points in the river, played “Hide and Seek” with children from other
camps or played "Save the Flag" and "Cowboys and Indians."
In those days, cigar boxes were highly prized. We decorated them to the best of
our ability and took them with us wherever we went. We kept our personal treasures
inside, like slingshots, frogs, and unspent bullets, pieces of colored thread, rubber
bands, pencils and paper dolls.
We had few clothes, and no sheets or pillows or bedspreads, or extra shoes,
socks, underwear or any toys. But, neither did anyone else. The boys proudly make
slingshots and built wagons out of "found" pieces. We played games, making up our
own rules. We used the better part of worn clothes to "make do," fashioning dolls and
their clothes as well. We cut out paper dolls from old newspapers, and we bartered for
things we couldn't make.
And we explored, so we never felt deprived--we were too busy having fun to think
about what we didn't have. One morning, Roy got me up early, hushing me so I wouldn't
wake Babs. Outside the tent, he whispered he wanted to show me something, but it
was a secret. We walked and walked along the riverbank. Then, we walked some
more. Finally, we came to an outcropping of granite colored rocks covered with bramble
bushes. Carefully, Roy pulled the bramble bushes away, and there, in a nest, was a
small bird with a wooden splint attached to its wing. Roy reached in his pocket and gave
the bird some worms he'd brought along. Then, he re-covered the rocks with the
brambles.
“I wasn't going to tell anyone,” he said. “But then I got to thinking if something
happened to me, no one would know the bird was here, and it would starve before it was
well enough to go out on its own. Now remember, it's a secret.” And it was. Later one
day, when we went to visit, the bird was gone and the splint miraculously lay in the nest
by itself.

We were out in the hot sun so much, our skin turned brown, and people often
mistook us for Mexican. (Our ethnic heritage was half-German, Scottish-English, and a
tiny bit of French.) Our only way of getting washed
was in the hollow patches of water on the river bottom, but we didn't take too much
advantage of this opportunity. The other way to bathe was when parents got around to
hauling and heating water in galvanized tubs and the children who they could catch got
a bath. This didn't happen often, either. Maybe, three or four times a year.
I don't remember how Babs and I met this girl our age who lived way down the
river bottom in a clean trailer. She wanted us to come home and see her dolls. When
we got there, her mother took one look at us and asked if we'd like to take a bath.

32
 NATIONAL ARCHIVES PHOTO OF “TENT CITY” FAMILY

E-MAIL CONTINUED: Saturday, March 28, 1998

Though I only spent three hours with Mom today, they were a grueling three hours,
and I was exhausted. Either Papa John or I were at her side at all possible times. For
the last two nights, I have slept on the couch in my clothes, just in case. I went to see
Mom about 10:00 this morning and stayed until 3:00, but it was a lot easier than the
three-hour vigil had been the day before because I had rested, and she was lucid at last,
so we didn't have to go through the awful questions and answers of the day before.
S.J.P.S.

33
 Sounded like a good idea to me. I hadn't had a bath since I left Gram's house.
But, I was embarrassed and ashamed also. The woman washed our clothes and hung
them out in the hot, dry Arizona sun while we, (Babs, me, and the girl) played in the tub--
with three different changes of water! We were fresh and clean when we left there. For
the first time, I began to actually understand some of the differences between us
“riverbottom kids” and the “town kids.”
We played with the girl's dolls until the late afternoon. When we put on fresh
clothes and ran home, my sister and I were so excited, we laughed all the way. But,
when we got near our tent, my brothers came out, their faces streaked with dirt and
sweat from their labors, and I saw what they looked like in their oversized clothes. They
were shabby and dirty.
I burst into tears and ran sobbing into the darkness of our ridiculous tent. I thought
of my proud father who had worked so hard all his life and never complained about
anything. He'd walked tall and stared any man square in the eye.
But in that terrible moment, I knew. We were not just poor anymore. When people
looked us, all they saw was "poor white trash.”

NATIONAL ARCHIVES PHOTO

34
LESSONS
I attended some of the first grade in Wickenburg, and the "Little Red School
house" is still there, refurbished and functioning today as a bank. The side door and the
school bells are still there. A plaque near the front bears this story:
Known as Garcia School built in 1905, it has been entered in the National Registry of
Historical Places by the US Department of Interior. Little remains of the old one-room
schoolhouses built of logs, adobe, frame and brick that proliferated across Arizona in the late
1800's. This fine brick example replaced the wooden school moved across town from the Vulture
Gold Mine in 1895 and placed on the land donated by Don Ignatius Garcia, a trustee of School
District 9 and a benefactor to the town. This building was restored in 1984 by the Community
Bank.

I remember the rough wooden floors and a pot-bellied stove in the center of the
room. Sometimes in the morning’s chilling cold, we would group around the stove as
close as we dared. We also had to take naps. Each of us brought our own blanket, and
we were supposed to go to sleep, but, I don't think I ever went to sleep. I was too
excited. Right after naptime, I knew my Daddy would come to get me, and I would ride
home in the splendor of our current junkyard car.
One day, we met an older girl who owned a gray mule. She would lead the mule
along with a thick, heavy rope and she'd let us kids ride him bareback. There was only
one thing we had to look out for: never, ever get behind his back legs. He would kick.
This mule and I became great friends. I'd bring him something to eat and hug him,
and when he got my scent, he'd start to bray in welcome. I figured he might kick the
other kids, but not me. I wanted to prove this, so, one day, when the girl was talking to
someone else, I slipped behind the mule and just stood there. I was about to call to the
girl and say, “Look! He's not kicking me,” when I found myself on the ground three
somersaults away and unable to breathe. He'd gotten me right in the solar plexus.
I was all right after a while, but I decided it might be well to listen when the
possibility of danger was pointed out to me.
I also decided never to trust a mule.

35
ARETTA
My oldest brother Gene was our baby-sitter when Dad went to work. Poor Gene
was just turning eight. We were more than he could handle. We fought constantly, and
it was worse when Dad worked nights. The people in our group would put us to bed, but
we'd wake up. It was scary without Dad there sleeping across the tent flap with his
trusty gun. So, we'd soon be up, fighting and arguing. That is, until the night Roy threw
a butcher knife at me and caught me in the butt. The knife didn't go in deep, but it was
enough to convince Dad to hire a sitter. He announced we'd just have to find another
way to cut down on expenses.
The babysitter's name was Arietta. But, Dad called her “Aretta,” so, we did, too.
She was seventeen, with a great figure, freckles, and beautiful, long red hair. She was
pretty except that she'd been raised in Colorado and her teeth were stained with some-
thing from the water there. She also spoke Spanish fluently. Her stepfather had been
Mexican.
Aretta was an excellent cook, and like Grama, she could make a meal even when
the pantry seemed empty. We liked her. She was eminently patient and kind, and she
didn't change things much. Since I was the oldest girl, I still had to do the dishes, and
Roy had to do the pots and pans. But, the only thing Aretta knew how to do was cook.
If something dropped on the floor, it never occurred to her to pick it up. Soon, everything
we touched was dirty, except for Dad's shaving pan, which he cleaned himself.
Aretta didn't teach us children how to clean, and we didn't know how to teach
ourselves. It was so discouraging anyway. We didn't have anything pretty to take care
of. It must have been hardest on Dad. His mother's house had a spring-cleaning every
Saturday, and there were many pretty nick-knacks and dishes, linen and furniture and
lovely clothes that Grama had made. Before long, Aretta started sleeping alongside Dad
at the door flap, and after a short time, a kind of secret buzz started around the
campground, which then became louder and louder. The secret was that Dad and
Aretta were going to get married! I didn't believe it. They had said nothing to us kids
about it, and Aretta wasn't wearing a ring. Besides, Dad was too old for her. She was
seventeen, and he was thirty-two.
Later, I found out he'd lied to her and told her he was twenty-seven. One day,
there was a lot of whispering around camp and people bustling to and fro. Aretta got
dressed in a beautiful new royal-blue silk dress, donned a white hat with a veil,
stockings, and white shoes, and gloves, while Dad put on his suit that he looked for work
in. Then, they "stepped out" dressed to the nines.
Late that afternoon, they came back, and our whole camp drank champagne and
cheered. There was music all around, dancing and singing, and congratulations. Then,
a special meal with just about anything you can think of: ham, roast beef, chicken, quail,
rabbit, ten side dishes, (I counted them), fresh baked bread, BBQ corn and ribs, and
seven different desserts.
Dad stood in front of all of us with his arm around Aretta's waist and announced
her as his new wife and our new mother, and we were all to be good to her. He kissed
her for a long time, and someone started to play “Here Comes the Bride,” on the
accordion while other musicians ran to get their instruments. We children stayed in a

36
 ARIETTA AND ARTHUR BENO LIVINGSTON
AT THEIR 50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, 1984

Beno and Aretta produced five daughters: Arzelia, Mary, Helen, Louise, and
Carol, and one son, Arthur Jr., and raised their grandson by Carol as their own seventh
child.
Aretta was very active in her church, becoming a minister. Most of their lives, they
lived in the Central Valley of California. Many of their children and grandchildren went to
college and later entered the arts, education, medicine, and engineering.

37
neighbor's tent that night and we didn't truly understand why. Dad had explained to us
about “playing naughty,” something about not letting a boy see me naked and vice
versa, (but, when we were gown up it would be all right.) I wondered if that was the
reason we stayed at the neighbor's that night.

There was one single large wedding gift, so heavy it could hardly be held in one
hand. The tent people had taken up a collection and bought the largest cast iron frying
pan they could find, figuring it would hold enough for one meal for the six of us. Prior to
the marriage, Roy had used twigs to clean the old frying pan if it had been used. This
was in the days before Brillo pads, or in any case, if they were invented, we didn't have
any.
Aretta used the new frying pan almost every night for one-dish meals, and she
cooked mostly Mexican food that we loved, but it stuck to the bottom of the pan and was
almost impossible to get off.
Oh, how Roy hated that pan! He began to hide it so it couldn't be used. At least
two or three times a week, we children would be called in long before dinner and the
search for the frying pan would go on.
Of course, Aretta would be crying. How could we hate her so much that we'd hide
her favorite pan from her and she couldn't cook our favorite foods for us?

NATIONAL ARCHIVES PHOTO OF “TENT CITY”

38
WELFARE
Dad stayed off Welfare as long as he could, and worked for the WPA when they
had work. When the work stopped, we had no choice. We'd go to a glass-fronted store
that had long been closed for business, and inside the grimy window, people gathered
around to get food from Welfare. One hundred pound sacks were laid out in rows on the
floor: pinto beans, rice, and flour, and so forth. On the opposite side of the store were
the "goodies" upon shelves: cold cereal, milk, cookies, cake and potato chips. My
parents would always go over to the goodies and use up half their allowance on these
non-filling items.
All of us kids loved store-bought bread, but Aretta wouldn't buy it. She made
biscuits instead, and explained that they were cheaper than buying bread at the store.
(At school we could tell which kids were rich and which weren't by looking at their
sandwiches. If the sandwiches were made with biscuits, they were poor like us.) I was
just a young girl, and I'd stand there shaking my head: no wonder we are out of food,
when they're buying cinnamon buns instead of bread! I knew that it was Aretta who
loved potato chips, and that's where the snacks went.

In those days, flour came in bags with prints on the outside. When the flour was
gone, you had material to make a dress or shirt from. Instead of finding just a regular
sack of flour, you'd buy a sack that had a print you liked. That is also where we got our
dishtowels, pillowslips, and washcloths.
And of course, we also wore hand-me-downs. There's a picture of Gene in the
sixth grade wearing Dad's pants rolled up about a foot, belted at the waist with the extra
belt tongue hanging down.
At Easter time, there would always be a package from Grams with a complete
outfit for each of the four of us. Grams was a tailor, and people came from hundreds of
miles around to have her make their suits. She made beautiful outfits for us. But, she
had no concept of what our life on the river bottom was like. I wonder what she would
have thought of us running barefoot on the dry riverbed and wearing those beautiful
clothes fit for an Episcopalian Easter!
And, because Aretta did not know how to iron, once the dresses got dirty, they
might get washed, but wrinkled was how we wore them after that.
Good thing Grams never saw us, she'd have died!

E-MAIL: Saturday, MARCH 28, 1998

This whole trip, I've either been at the house, the grocery store, or the hospital.
Yesterday, one of the first notes she scribbled out was “Almost lost me,” and next,
“Some vacation for you.” Just like her to think of someone else when she's lying there
fighting for her life! I can't wait to get home and distance myself from all this reality.
I'm glad I was here, though. Papa John probably could not have gotten her to the
hospital in time by himself. Now that the adrenaline rush is over, I'm beginning to feel
the full gamut of emotions. I 'm agitated, teary-eyed, sleepy, and shaking, all at the
same time. It's all crashing in on me. S.J.P.S.

39
 NATIONAL ARCHIVES PHOTO of men at work with WPA,
(WORKS PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION)

E-MAIL: 1:16 AM Saturday, March 28

Message interrupted by a phone call to go to hospital on the spot. They say she is
stable for the night. They allowed that I could go home to sleep since the house is only
10 minutes from the hospital, and Papa John is there with her. She has not awakened
since she stopped breathing last night. My sisters are flying in. Right now, I must go.
I’m numb, mostly, but it helps to know someone who cares. S.J.P.S.

40
GLENDALE, ARIZONA
It was not long before work ran out in Wickenburg, so Dad went to the junkyard
and found yet another car. This time, we headed for Glendale, Arizona, where Dad had
been hired as a manager of a cheap motel. His salary included little cash payment, but
we would have a nice two-bedroom apartment, a pump over the sink in the kitchen so
we wouldn't have to haul water, and a real bathroom with a bathtub, toilet, and
washbasin. And, when we could afford it, hot water. Dad would drop a quarter into a
slot in the water heater, light a match, and after a while, the water was warm and Dad
would sparingly let each of us have some for a bath. Dad set up two double beds in one
bedroom for us. The two boys slept in one bed and the two of us girls slept in the other.
The other room was for Dad and his new wife.
There were a lot of new "rules" when we got to Glendale. We were to call the new
wife "Mom." We could never mention our biological mother or her family, and we were
not allowed to ask questions about them. We were never, ever, under any
circumstances, to hurt our new “mom’s” feelings. This was only the beginning, and the
new rules were puzzling. How were we to know what would hurt Aretta's feelings? We
would find out soon enough.
Dad had a thick leather belt about two inches wide with a three-inch brass buckle.
To my memory, he'd never used it before for punishment. He'd simply start to unbuckle
it when the boys misbehaved, and the threat was enough. But now, he began to use it
on us. When he came home from work, "Mom" would total up our sins against her and
cry.
At first, we fought back. Especially, Roy. When we got the belt across our bare
backs, Roy would yell at her, "What are you doing here? We were happy until you
came. You're not our mother! Why do you try to act like you are?" This only resulted in
Roy getting hit harder and longer while we stood by, helplessly, watching.
I, on the other hand, wouldn't cry. So, I'd get the worst of it when it came time for
punishment. The more I wouldn't cry, the angrier my father became, and the more
whacks I'd get from him.
Babs would start yelling and screaming before she ever got hit. Her punishments
were always light. She asked me one time, "Why are you so stubborn? If you pretend
you're hurt, he'll stop."
"I'll never let anyone get the best of me by beating me," I said.
Roy would hide Dad's belt while Dad was asleep, but Dad always found it. And
that would be another reason for a beating. Roy also continued to hide the frying pan
under the beds, but it was too easy to find.
He tried the outhouse, but that hiding place was soon discovered also. Then one
day, we couldn't find either the frying pan or the belt. Dad started after Roy with one
hand holding his pants up, and Roy ran and ducked under his bed where Dad couldn't
get to him. Dad finally got hold of Roy’s ankles and dragged him out.
By that time, we were all laughing so hard, Dad started to laugh, too. It was the
first time I’d seen the “old” Dad since he got married. I'd wondered what had happened
to him. I'd really missed him, and it seemed like the distance between us became
greater every day.

41
 A few days later, Roy showed us where he had hid the frying pan: it was under
the house, next to the foundation.

Soon enough, Aretta's stomach started to get bigger, and she was putting on
weight. She also got very sick and had to throw up in the morning. We children
wondered, and since no one told us for sure, we decided were imagining things. But, as
her stomach got bigger and bigger, we could no longer fool ourselves. I didn't have the
courage to ask Aretta, so I finally went to her friend, our next-door neighbor and asked
her.
"You mean they haven't told you?" she laughed. "I'd think at your age you'd know
anyway. You can tell her I said so. If you don't want to, I'll tell her myself. The baby's
due in December, and we're hoping for Christmas Day or at least Christmas Eve."
I felt strange having to go to a neighbor to find out there would be an addition to
the family. But, that was the way it was. We children weren't told what was going on
between Dad and Aretta, like they were a separate family or something. I also resented
them for creating another mouth to feed. We didn't have enough food and money as it
was. We didn't have things like Christmas presents or birthday presents, or parties, no
new clothes or any of the things other kids had--and I was beginning to notice the
difference.

They named the baby, a girl, after Mom's friend, Arzelia. But she was called
"Sister," in the early days, then later "Micki."
I was right about there being less for us older children. I guess I'm still bitter. As
soon as Micki arrived, our rations were cut back. We weren't allowed to have milk to
drink, (it had to be saved for the baby.) No more dry cereal, (couldn't afford it with the
baby.) No more warm baths, (needed the quarters for extras for the baby.)
We were not allowed to protest. It would hurt Aretta's feelings, and how could we
“hurt someone who was so good to us, cooking and cleaning and taking care of us, as
kind and patient a person as ever lived?”

42
 JUDY’S HALF-SISTERS MARY AND MICKI (ARZELIA)

HALF-BROTHER ARTHUR, JR. (SONNY) LIVINGSTON

43
 ICE CREAM
Growing up poor during the Great Depression was rough, but it wasn't all bad.
There were many things to learn and experience that wouldn't have been available
otherwise. I think it made us stronger, more responsible and more motivated to achieve,
because if we wanted something, we had to earn the money to pay for it, (and that
included college.)
Our first help from the government, besides the WPA, came when someone got
sick. First, we would try home remedies, but if that didn't work, we went to Welfare. I
needed a tooth pulled, and they took care of that, but the tools they used were bigger
than my mouth. They weren't made for little girls.
Soon, it was Gene’s turn. He got a sore throat that wouldn't go away. In those
days, poor people didn't go to the doctor unless there was something seriously wrong.
But, it became obvious that Gene had to go. His throat was swollen, and he couldn't
swallow. Dad took him, and when Gene came home, all us children were amazed to
see they'd cut out the swollen parts, and now he could not only swallow, but he could
have all the ice cream he wanted!
Since the Doctor said it would be best to remove all the children's tonsils and
adenoids so we wouldn't have to worry about them again, that was enough to convince
Roy. He wanted his tonsils out too, (as long as he got the ice cream afterwards.)
Babs and I declined. Ice cream was enticing, but not that enticing. Babs and I sat
on our bed and watched Roy make marvelous faces of privilege while he let the ice
cream slide down his throat--and Babs couldn't stand it! She offered herself up for the
sacrifice. Within a few days all the others were well, and I'd become an outsider as they
talked about "How It Was For Them."
Although I still didn't want to have my tonsils out, I did want to be part of the in-
group, so I finally gave in. Dad took me to the doctor's office. The room was painted
green with a long green table in the center and big bright lights shining down. It smelled
very strong with something that seemed to pinch my nose.
Why hadn't I thought of it? Here's where Death would find me. And, I was the one
that made the decision to go where He could find me. Dad held me as I tried to get
away. All I ever wanted in the world was to make it to the door and get out of there. I
screamed and I cried and I fought until Dad finally let me go. I ran to the door, but I
couldn't get it open. Then, I begged and pleaded, and Dad got on his knees in front of
me and held me to reassure me, but nothing diminished my terror. It was impossible to
tell Dad what I was really afraid of. He wouldn't or couldn't under stand at this late date.
The doctor stood in the other side of the room, “It's only prolonging her fear. Why
not get it over with?” Dad agreed. They picked me up, and the
Doctor helped Dad hold me on the table while they dropped ether, I think, on some
gauze above my mouth.
When I woke up in a little room off the big green room, my throat was sore, but not
that bad. Dad fussed over me all the way home and I got to choose my favorite ice
cream: rocky road. It was kind of fun being the last one. I got to gloat while the other
kids had to sit and watch, and try to remember how their ice cream had tasted.

44
 JUDY’S HALF-SISTERS LOUISE, HELEN, BABY CAROL

E-MAIL: Sunday, March 29,1998

Mom doesn't resemble herself. She's bloated, her teeth are gone, her eyes are
glassy and pale, and her skin is bruised and blistered from the IVs. I want to go to the
nurses and say to them all, "Do you have any idea how beautiful she was?" If I'd been
walking by her room and didn't know she was in there, I'd pass by, not even recognizing
my own mother! But Judy's in there yet, hidden away inside that grotesque body. Her
spunk and intelligence still shine through. She's even funny. She told Papa John he
should go on their planned RV trip to Mexico on Monday, without her.
Remarkable, isn't it?
What time is it anyway? I sure could use a hug. S.J.P.S.

45
GOD
I think one of the saddest days of my life was when I found out my father was not a
God--that he didn't know all things, see all things, hear all things, and control all things.
It was while we lived in the house where my Dad was a hotel manager. At this time,
cash was a scarcity. Aretta handled our money and was very protective of it.
When I came home from school one Friday, Aretta was next door, visiting with a
neighbor. There were back stairs that led into a fairly large kitchen. Her black change
purse was lying on the kitchen table. Trembling, I opened the purse and there, among
the other coins, was a quarter! I reached for it, then withdrew my hand. My family
needed that money for food. A quarter could buy five loaves of bread. But, I'd never
had a quarter in my whole life and I was almost seven years old.
I took the quarter in my hand again. So shiny! I closed my hand on it, then put it
back, desperately wishing I'd hear Aretta coming up the back stairs so I wouldn't have to
make a decision. The quarter would go back to its place, and all would be well. But,
Aretta didn't come home, and somehow, the quarter ended up in my fist. I rushed to the
bedroom shaking all over, and put the shiny thing in the toe of my shoe, dreaming of the
goodies, especially the candy, that I could buy with it.
Would she miss it? Of course, she would. A quarter was a lot of money! My
parents didn't drink alcohol or soda, they didn't smoke, they didn't go out except for an
occasional picnic at the park where the whole family was involved. They didn't even see
movies. There wasn't enough money. So, there was no hope Aretta wouldn't miss the
quarter. I decided to sleep on it and make a decision whether to put it back or not the
next day; that is, if I had a chance to put it back.
I had nightmares all night. My family was starving, and it was all because of me.
I'd stolen all their food and I had no way of getting more food, so they wouldn't starve.
But, by morning, things seemed a little clearer, and I decided that one quarter wasn't
going to make the difference between whether or not my family starved. I rationalized
that with all the housework I'd done over the years, besides being responsible for Babs,
a quarter wasn't a very big paycheck.

It was Saturday, and there was a little independent grocery on the next corner. As
soon as my chores were done, I headed in that direction, wondering what I'd start with.
Chocolate? Hardball candy? A sucker? A sucker would last a long time. Cheap, too.
Not like chocolate. But then, I also liked red licorice and butterscotch candies, and there
were so many beautiful ones I'd never tasted!
I spent a good half-hour looking around the store and finally settled on a sucker -
for now. There was so much on display, and I couldn't make up my mind on the rest.
Maybe, I should seep on it. I bent to take the quarter out of my shoe and pay for the
sucker. There was no quarter in my shoe! Had I dreamed this while thing? No. Couldn't
have. The quarter must have fallen out. The massage to me was loud and clear: I
wasn't supposed to take it and I wasn't supposed to spend it.
When I got home, the whole family was sitting in the kitchen and Aretta's change
purse was empty, its contents dumped on the center of the table. Dad motioned me to a
chair.

46
JUDY LIVINGSTON’S 7TH GRADE CLASS
SHE IS AT RIGHT CENTER
(This is the earliest known photograph of her.)

47
 “It seems,” he said, “that someone has stolen a quarter from your mother's purse.
I don't like the shotgun approach, where everyone gets blamed for what one person did.
So, I'm going to try to use the honor approach. I want whoever did this to 'fess up and
take his punishment. Then, I never want anything like this to happen in our household
again. You know that stealing is a sin, but stealing the bread from the mouths of your
family is, to me, a mortal sin.
Then, in turn, he asked each of us the same question: "Gene, did you take that
quarter?"
Solemnly, Gene said, “No.”
Then Roy. “Roy, did you take that quarter?”
Solemnly, Roy said, “No.”
Babs was next, and of course, her answer was, “No.”
My head was whirling. Should I lie to my father? I'd never lied to him before. He'd
know if I lied. He always knew when I tried to lie. Should I tell him the truth? I decided
to brazen it out. He might know I was lying, but he couldn't prove it. I shook my head in
answer to his question. "No," I said. He looked around the table, staring at each of us
as if he could see through us and know what we were thinking. Then, he looked back at
Aretta. “Are you certain you did the arithmetic right? Could you have lost the quarter or
gotten the wrong change?”
Aretta caught her lower lip with her upper teeth and bit down. She had tears in her
eyes.
“I guess anything is possible,” she said. “But it's never happened before.”
Dad patted her arm. “And that's great,” he replied. “Shows what a good manager
you are, the fact that it's never happened before. Personally, I looked each of these kids
square in the face and I believe they're all telling the truth.” He put out his hands. “Let's
all join hands now. And, Aretta, would you like to pray that the person who finds this lost
quarter will make better use of it than we could, because I believe that God meant it to
happen this way.”
I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Laugh, because I hadn't gotten
caught, and there'd be no punishment. Cry, because I finally knew for sure that my
father was a mere mortal, just a man, suffering from all the weaknesses of any man.
How sad it was to discover that he didn't know everything! And how sad that I could now
lie to him and he'd believe me!
How could I forgive him for that?
I felt guilty for fifty years. (I think my punishment was too harsh.) I guess that's
why I've never been very good at stealing, or at lying either. My father was only a man,
and I had worshipped him like a God. Now, I had no God at all. I had no relationship to
the other God, the one the religions talked about. I wasn't sure I had forgiven that other
God for taking my mother away from me. What was I going to do now?
Who was I going to trust?

48
 JUDY AT AGE 14

Mom was afraid of death. More than that, she was terrified of death.
On Tuesday, March 31, Papa John called for the third time and said I’d need to
be there on Wednesday to meet with the doctors about “pulling the plug.” They
had tried to take her off the respirator, and she had gone into cardiac arrest and
died. They had successfully resuscitated her, but she would never again be free to
breathe on her own.
Sheri had been visiting Mom when the crisis struck. I drove in, and Chris
frantically made air connections from Hawaii. Chris and I arrived at the same time:
3:00 AM, April 1. Sheri met us in Mom’s kitchen. She said Papa John was at the
hospital with Mom and hadn’t left her side all day. She also told us that around
noon that day, while Chris and I were traveling, Mom had another cardiac arrest,
and was now in a coma. PJ had spent the day at Mom’s side. Part of what he had
said to her was, “Judy, please, I don’t want to keep you alive against your wishes,
but they want me to “pull the plug.” I just can’t do that to you, please don’t make
me do that to you.” S.M.P.

49
AUNT JULIA’S
The owner of the motel building came by one day while Dad was working and
none of us kids were home. I came from school and saw him and Aretta together.
Aretta's freckled skin was bright red, and there were tears in her eyes. She had backed
herself away as far as she could get, forced against a wall. When I came in the door,
she let out a loud sigh of relief and her body slumped over. She ran to me, grabbed me
and held me in front of her. The building owner's alcoholic breath could be smelled from
clear across the room.
He laughed, and his big belly shook. “Well,” he said, “Maybe not this time, darlin',
but it'll happen sooner or later. You'll see. Your husband needs that job.” With that, he
strode out the door and slammed it behind him.
Aretta cried the rest of the day, and none of us could get a word out of her. When
Dad got home, she and Dad went into their bedroom, and I guess she told him
something terrible, because he came out in a rage, holding his rifle. She tried to get the
rifle away from him. “That's why I didn't want to tell you,” she said. “I was afraid of this.”
He finally let go of the rifle and said he was going for a walk. I had never seen
such fury as his face revealed that day. He came home with his nose broken and two
front teeth knocked out. But, he said he felt better. The owner was in worse shape that
he was!
Then, he said, “We're going to Texas to visit my Aunt Julia. She's been wanting us
to come. We can start packing tonight or in the morning. But, this is the last night we'll
spend in this place." So, by the next evening, we were on the road again. I didn't have
the foggiest idea where we were going, but I knew it was in Texas, and I'd seen Texas
on the map because that was where Dad and Gene and Dad's parents had been born.
Aunt Julia's South Texas home turned out to be a huge yellow house with white
shutters set on five thousand acre spread. Her husband was a Judge in the town, and
they'd never had any children. They welcomed us with open arms, and I couldn't believe
how clean everything was!
We could also have all the milk or anything else we wanted to eat or drink. And
one of the first things Aunt Julia did, after baths and hair washings, was to take us to
town and buy several new outfits for each of us.
Dad worked on the ranch, and they were grateful he was there. They said it was
very hard to get good help. For the first time since I'd lived at Grama's, I noticed that
other people didn't live like we did. They seemed to live by different rules, ate different
things, talked and dressed different, and had time for each other and for children.

Nevertheless, I was lonely. Roy and Gene had something going on in the barn,
and girls weren't allowed in. Babs was constantly off someplace with Aunt Julia, who
loved to shop for dainty dresses for her. Aretta stayed in her room when Dad wasn't
there. He and Judge worked long hours, and the housemaid was always busy. Dad
had not enrolled us in school. He hadn't made up his mind whether to stay. He'd heard
some pretty nice things about California.

50
 ARTHUR EUGENE (GENE) LIVINGSTON
1923 - 1971
Oldest brother Gene was the true genius of the family. Gene skipped two grades
in grammar school and went on to win the California State Science Award in high
school. He joined the Marine Corps in 1942 and was “shipped over” to fight in all the
great South Pacific battles of WWII. This photo comes from his tour of duty. Then, he
came home to go to college at the government’s expense, including doing Post-Doctoral
studies at Princeton, and became a professor of mathematics in the northwest and
Canada. He was married twice and had four children by his first marriage.
Did I mention that he got to meet Einstein and Oppenheimer?

51
 During this time, Dad and Judge closeted themselves several times in Judge's
office, and every once in a while a voice would be raised, but not loud enough to hear
what was being said. Aunt Julia moped around with a white handkerchief under her belt.
She'd pull it out and wipe her red nose with it, shake her head and give one of us a hug.
Aretta was getting fatter again. This time I didn't bother to ask anyone why.
I knew.
Also, I suspicioned that Dad was getting restless again, and we'd soon be leaving
this wonderful place where Aunt Julia and Judge took such good care of us.

One evening as we sat round the dinner table together, Judge turned to Gene and
Roy. “I noticed you boys spending a lot of time out there in the barn. When are you
going to let the rest of us in on your big secret?” Gene and Roy looked at each other
furtively. There was a long silence. I saw that Gene's fair skin was flushed. When he
finally mustered the courage to speak, he wouldn't sound like Gene. He sounded
strange. “Well, Judge,” he said, “Do you think that man will ever fly by himself?”
Judge hesitated. “Well, I don't know that I know enough about that to answer it
and answer it well. Why? Are you trying to learn to fly out there?”
Gene answered finally, “It's a surprise.”
So, now we were getting to the bottom of the boy's mysterious behavior! I piped
up. “Why aren't girls allowed?”
Roy shrugged. “Because it's a man thing.”
Judge looked at both boys in turn and said, “I know we're pretty lenient around
here because we believe that's the way you learn. And I'll let this go on for a while, but I
want to know you're not doing something where you'll eventually get hurt. So, I give you
boys two weeks.”

Several days later, I sat alone on the back steps of Aunt Julia's house, my elbows
on my knees, waiting for the afternoon to go by. Then, a loud creaking noise broke in on
me. The third story barn doors swung out. Gene and Roy were pushing them, and
when they were fully open,
Roy helped Gene put on this monstrous feathered, fan-like thing. His arms were
strapped straight out along the middle ridge of it. Roy stood behind Gene, and before I
even knew what was going on, Gene said, “Now!” and Roy pushed him out.
Out almost three stories to the ground!
Gene floated just a second, then came plummeting straight down. When he hit the
ground, he began to howl, and I ran for the telephone to ask Judge what to do. It could
have been a lot worse. It took a long time to get Gene unsnarled from his costume, but
when all was said and done he had a broken arm, and that was it.
Shortly thereafter, Dad heard more stories about California, and although Aunt
Julia and Judge begged us to stay, or leave a couple of the children with them for a
while, Dad was adamant. Had to keep the family together.
I was really bitter then. Which family did he mean? There were two: him, and
Aretta, and babies. And, the four of us left alone to bring ourselves up.

52
 I remember looking out the back window of the old Nash four-door on the day we
left. Judge and Aunt Julia stood in the center of the road, Aunt Julia in a yellow dress
that matched the house, with a wide white belt. Her handkerchief in her hand, she
raised her arm above her head and waved until we were out of sight. And, I know her
heart was breaking just as mine was.

SANDY’S NOTE continued:

When we three walked into the hospital room, Mom came out of her coma.
She couldn’t talk, but she squeezed our hand: one for yes, two for no. We took up
positions on each side of her. We talked. We laughed. We cried. We reminisced.
We stroked her, told her of our love, we told her we wound be “fine” without her, so
“don’t give it another thought Mom, go be with the Angels, go be with God.” She
thrashed, wanted to speak, wanted to add the “comeback” to our jokes.
She did not want to leave. We all encouraged her to leave because as much as
we knew she feared death, she hated hospitals and the violation of the machines
more. S.M.P.

CHILDREN OF ARIETTA AND ARTHUR BENO LIVINGSTON

FRONT: Carol, Helen, Art (Sonny,) Louise
BACK: Arzelia (Micki,) Mary

53
ON THE MOVE AGAIN
With all of us piled into the car, we headed out for California. In those days,
bungalows sprang up everywhere scattering the land with the American Dream: a
home, two children, and a job. Dad and Aretta made fun of the bungalows as we drove
past them, and my heart ached. I would give anything to live in a neighborhood where
there were other children, new friends that I would not have to say “Good-bye” to.
But, it didn't look like my father was the kind of man who was going to allow that. It
was my dream, but it wasn't his dream. His dream was to move around. There was
always someplace else to go, always greener pastures to find. My fantasy was the
security of a place like Grama's where I could stay forever. It would be many years
before I found such a place.

For now, I just had to do what we all did: “make do.”

JUDY AT AGE 15, AFTER LEAVING HOME:

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SANDY’S NOTE continued:
When my sister Chris said, “Go Mom, go be with Babs, Gene and Roy,” I don’t
know what possessed me. I do know exactly where I was looking when I whispered
into Mom’s ear, “Go Mom, go be with your mother and grandmother. They’re here
for you now, can you see them? They’re here to take you with them. We all love
you and we want you to go to where you’ll be happy and at peace. Go, Mom, we
love you.”
At that exact moment, the thrashing stopped, the fear left. And we all
watched as the machines recorded the leaving of her spirit.I always felt I wanted
death to be quick and sure.
My mother ended up teaching me--how to die.
SANDRA MARIE

NOTICE:PUBLIC NOTICE
We the family of Judy Livingston Scott are mourning her
passing on April 1, 1998, in Sun City, Arizona, surrounded by her
loved ones. She died quietly, of cardio-pulmonary disease, her
mind still alert, her humor intact, her grace still evident. She was
blessed with the know-ledge that she was truly cherished by all
whose lives she touched.
All her life, Judy was inspired by the notion that the world
should be a better place for her having been a part of it. It goes
without question that her mission was fulfilled.
L.C.P.

55
JUDY’S LAST WORDS:

Tuesday, March 31, 1998

I sat beside her hospital bed reading our pages to her. The “mission board” on
the opposite wall had been changed from: “take off respirator,” to: “keep comfortable.”
We had given up on the alphabet board as a way to communicate, and she couldn’t
manage to scribble any more, but when she became aware of my presence, she seemed
to want to say something.
I bent toward her, “Mom, you’re not going to survive. Sandy and Chris are on
their way. Your only job now, is to rest until they get here.” She closed her eyes and fell
asleep.
When she awoke again, she pointed to her eye. At first, I thought that eye was
bothering her. I finally realized she was acting out a kind of “charades,” a game I’d seen
her play masterfully many, many times.
“Find, watch, look?” I guessed. When I finally said, “eye,” she nodded and curved
her free hand into a “C.”
“Can, could, come?” And, finally, “See - I see?” Another nod. Then, she walked
her fingers down her arm and motioned a kind of awe. She had to repeat this several
times, as I was slow to put together the meaning. Eventually, she seemed satisfied. I
must have got it right.
I later wondered if I hadn’t got it right, after all. Could her walking fingers have
meant her “life,” instead of her “future?” But then, I decided that either way, it was the
same: Mom, being Mom, used her last “words” to reassure us that she knew she would
leave us soon, but it was going to be okay.
She was comforting us!
S.J.P.S.

“I SEE MY FUTURE, AND IT’S BEAUTIFUL!”

- Judy L. Scott

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FAMILY GOODBYES
NOTICE: FAMILY NOTICE
It is with lugubrious apprehension that we cogitate on the
thesis that Judy Livingston Scott has left the incarnate world as we
know it. It is empirically evident that if she did indeed, ascend, this
departure from her normal state was achieved in Sun City, Arizona
on April 1, 1998, and was supported by accolades from the
recipients of her three genealogical experiments as well as her
legal benefactor.
While there are those who will feel that this unprece-dented
event was precipitated by her lengthy involvement with cardio-
pulmonary disease, there are others who would argue that the
decision to matriculate elsewhere was made entirely by high-level
management.
Nonetheless, regardless of the source of the trans-formation,
there is evidence that leads us to believe that she has ceased her
habitual need for H2O, and amid rumors that she will be entirely
cauterized from head to foot, we are forced to suspect that she will
not be optically available for some time. L.C.P.

DESERT WILLOW, February 2000

Her arms, like graceful branches

bent low to shelter me
with delicate fingered leaves
that danced in nearing storms.

And when the time was right,

she raised me above the clouds
so I could count the stars
and follow their distant urging.

Scattered over desert bluffs

the willow’s ashes lie,
in memories clothed by the wind
with laughter and wildflowers.
Sherrill Jean

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58
Dear Mom, November 29, 2010
It is often said that with time comes perspective. What can one say about
the loss of one’s mother? If I could distill your impact on my life, it would come
down to this, Mom. Your advice.
Whenever I was confused, you were there. You treated me like I was the
most important person in the world. You never pushed. I never felt judged. And,
at the end of our talk, I could head back into life with a sense of resolve. You
didn’t really dispense advice so much as nudging me toward what I already knew.
And no matter my age, I was never too old for three little words: “Mommy,
Mommy, Mommy!”
Decisions are stressful without you. I literally ask myself “What would
Mom say?” or “What would Mom do?” But, it’s no use. You had that way about
you.
Reserve a couch in heaven for me, please. I’ve got a lot to talk about.
Missing you,
LINDA CHRISTINE

Linda Christine (Chris) Sherrill Jean (Sheri) Sandra Marie (Sandy)

age 5 age 11 age 7
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REUNION 1997 Judy’s last Christmas
L. to R:
Row 1: Sandy’s son Petersen Brody holding his son Kristian Gutierrez,
Sheri’s daughter Lisa Sturm, Judy Scott.
Row 2: Sandy’s daughter Liz (Ashley) Thompson, Lisa’s son Alexis (Lex)
Quintero, daughter Sandy Petersen, Judy’s husband John Scott.
Row 3: Sandy’s friend, Sheri’s son Brian Sturm, Sheri Sturm
Row 4: Chris Petersen, Judy’s first husband Merlin Petersen

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 JUDY LIVINGSTON SCOTT, MAY 1997

Judy was born in Calexico, California in July, 1927. She left her family
home at age fourteen and moved to Long Beach, California, where she met and
married her first husband at age sixteen. She raised her children in the San
Francisco Bay Area and in Northern California.
After her children were grown, she entered university where she earned a
Bachelor’s Degree and Master’s Degree in three years. She later received a
Ph.D. and became a psychologist with a practice in Southern California. She
was married to John Scott 27 years until her death on April 1, 1998.
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