Pop TV Sitcom "Leave it to Beaver"
The death of Barbara Billingsley - who tenderly (and expertly) breathed life into a role that personified middle America’s romantic image of the ideal mother - triggered a flood of emotions over the weekend that were difficult to quell.
If you were raised in the fifties - and resided in a suburb in the Unites States or Canada - like moi! - you probably flopped down in the family room after school to catch the hilarious antics of “Beaver” (played by child star Jerry Mathers).
And, in a pivotal moment in any one of the weekly storyline on "Leave it to Beaver", viewers may have been touched by the worldly-wise motherly advice Mrs. Cleaver may have offered up on the heels of rescuing the lovable lug from the jaws of tragedy for one reason or another.
The “Cleavers” - and the make-believe world they inhabited - best represented the American dream (which consisted of a two-child family unit, a cozy bungalow replete with picket fence, and late-model car in the garage) and the country’s longing to attain it.
For me - the notion was a surreal and precarious one - that often caused me to cry myself to sleep at night.
In retrospect, when I look back and reflect on my childhood, it’s easy to understand why.
Every day, I walked an emotional tightrope between reality and illusion, as I struggled to perpetuate a charade that the Children’s Aid Society foisted on me.
On the surface, it appeared to all-the-world - school friends, teachers, and other residents in the suburbs of Toronto that I crossed paths with - that I was just a normal kid born into the privileged middle class.
Unfortunately, nothing could be farther from the truth.
In fact, I was a ward of the State, taking shelter in foster homes from the first day I was snatched away from my mother’s care (age 7) ‘til I became a legal adult on my own (age 18).
When my father (an Irish fiddler who played with the “Jolly Rogers” in Hogs Hollow) passed away to spirit unexpectedly, my mother was left in a lurch, and unable to take care of the seven children (I was born last) left behind.
Unfortunately, I was too old for adoption, so I ended up in a handful of foster homes until I became a teenager able to survive on my own.
Although the agency took a lot of care in placing me, occasionally a parental situation would turn out to be a nightmare, and I would summarily be relocated into a new family situation.
Part of the problem?
The individuals who signed up for the task of parenting were opening their doors - not because they were kind-hearted people inclined to offer up a home to a needy child - but because of the financial perks involved.
In one scenario, my foster father was out-of-work due to a serious illness, and I was a simply a meal ticket.
Over time, Mr. Collett built up a resentment towards me which finally exploded in a ball of fury one day.
As I sat on the couch one afternoon, the former carpenter (who once worked for Disney), suddenly jumped up and started to punch me on the head.
“Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” he angrily shouted at the top of his lungs, as his wife dashed in from the kitchen screaming.
“Willard, stop! Stop it,” she begged.
For starters, I wasn’t aware that I was allegedly ignoring the man.
If anything, I was probably hanging my head to hide the fact I was shedding a tear or two.
Believe it or not, that was the only occasion in my entire life, that a father “figure” ever mistreated me.
Needless to say, when my social worker became aware of the incident, I was on the move once again.
Thankfully, I ended up in the home of Ruth Fowler and her husband Harry, in one of the best family settings of my entire youth.
As I explained to Mrs. Fowler years later, she was the best mother I ever had.
Why?
Because she allowed me to be myself, and explore my creative side, among other things.
Also, for the first time in my life, I was also allowed to invite friends over to the house at 7 West Hill Drive (West Hill) to celebrate a birthday one year with cake, soft drinks, and party games!
Instead of being forced to wear hand-me-downs that Mrs. Collett rustled up from friends with boys my age, Mrs. Fowler took me shopping for new clothes at the start of school in September.
I vividly recall nervously asking Mrs. Fowler if I could have a trendy jacket that caught my eye - expecting a resounding “no” - to follow the meek request.
Surprise!
The fiery redhead responded in her own thoughtful way as usual.
“Of course. You’re the one that’s wearing it, dear, not me.”
You can image the rush of relief - and joy - that rippled through my being that day.
At long last, I was being treated like a person,and not an intrusion on someone’s life.
I am overcome with emotion now as the memories rise up - and overwhelm me as I look back - in anger?
Not quite.
Somewhere along the line, I managed to develop an optimistic side.
Only God knows how!
Instead of lamenting about the downside of my plight - being an unwanted foster child hungering for love and tenderness - I’ve tried to be philosophical about the troubled experiences that often float up unexpectedly out-of-the-blue and continue to haunt me to this day.
For example, I joke to friends who were unhappy with their parents, that I was lucky being a foster child.
“If a home didn’t work out - and I didn’t get along with my foster parents - the social workers would try to place me in a better family situation,” I uttered up with a shrug.
Then, I would underscore the obvious.
If an individual was unhappy with their home (or didn’t savor their relationship with their parents) tough ti**y.
Of course, over the years, I have often wondered what I would be like today, if I had of been left in the charge of my mother.
I probably wouldn’t have been scarred emotionally, or become alienated, always feeling like an outsider in life.
In the final analysis, I’ve learned, there is no substitute for a mother’s love.
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