Chapter One A: Interview

“So that night when my husband got home from the restaurant I asked him sweetly if he wouldn’t bake a cake from scratch. I wanted to watch him.” Norma Parsons paused in her story to stare at the microphone as if expecting it to ask her a question. “Is that on?” she asked plaintively.

“Yes, Mrs. Parsons,” responded Aaron Case, the interviewer. “We’re getting everything loud and clear.” He surreptitiously lowered the volume on the tape recorder slightly to keep the woman’s shrill voice from pegging the meter all the way in the red. She took a breath and addressed the microphone as if it were an auditorium full of enrapt listeners.

“He got out eggs, flour, sugar, milk, vanilla, and then he said, ‘What kind of cake, dear?’ I answered, ‘Oh, any kind, as long as it’s from scratch,’ I answered. So he started measuring and mixing and putting it in the bowl and not once did he use any scratch in it. He put it in the oven and I washed up the dishes. I have to say, I was a little disappointed by the whole demonstration. But the cake came out of the oven and he served me a piece while it was still piping hot. And oh! Was it delicious! I just loved his lemon cake. That’s the flavor he settled on when I told him just to make it from scratch. As I ate it with a cup of milky coffee he pecked me on the cheek and asked me what I thought. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think maybe we should raise some chickens.’”

For the first time since beginning her story she looked up from the microphone with a smug, self-satisfied look on her face as if daring Aaron to challenge the truth and verity of her story. Aaron smiled to himself. In ten years of compiling oral histories of northern Indiana and family genealogies, he’d heard the story of the newlywed wife who couldn’t cook and thought cakes made from scratch were made from chicken feed at least three times. Even if this was one of the more convincing tellings of the story, he would listen to the recording several times to pick out details that he could actually use. She had lived in Chicago where the story was said to have taken place, of that much he was sure. But what else might be true in her telling of the old-time urban legend was a mystery at the moment. What was certain was that 80-year-old Norma Parsons was a practiced story-teller and could charm the gold from a gypsy.

“Then there was the time we decided to travel for a vacation and go to Toledo,” began the old woman again.

“I’m nearly out of tape,” interrupted Aaron before she could get rolling. “Perhaps I should come back to hear more of that story another time.” Aaron loved his work as a historical researcher and had compiled numerous oral histories on different topics.  And he treated his subjects with care and respect. That was why whether he was at the Peabody Home, or the Warren Memorial Home, or any one of a dozen other nursing and retirement homes in Northern Indiana, he was welcomed by the residents and staff alike.

“Have you been to see Mad Aunt Hattie, yet?” Mrs. Parsons demanded of him.

“Uh, no, not yet. I thought I’d see her next week,” Aaron responded.

“Well, she knows more about life in the depression than anyone else here. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time with us youngsters,” she said primly. “Hattie was at least sixteen when I was born. She knew what it was all about. Of course you can’t believe anything she says.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You mean she lies?” This from a woman who had just told him an urban legend as if it had happened directly to her.

“I didn’t say she lies,” Mrs. Parsons snapped back.

“Well, then why can’t I believe what she says?” Aaron asked good humoredly.

“Well, she’s mad isn’t she?”

“Oh, I see.” Aaron finished packing his tape recorder in the briefcase and stood to leave. “Shall we talk again next Tuesday, Mrs. Parsons? I’d like to know more about the birth of your first child. You said it was hard.”

“Hard! I should say so. We nearly both died. Miles from nowhere in labor for eighteen hours.”

“Well, let’s get the whole story down on Tuesday. Now I don’t want you getting upset over it. We’ll take it nice and easy.”

“Nothing about that pregnancy was nice and easy.”

“Well, then let’s talk about it at two o’clock Tuesday.”

“Okay.” Aaron turned to leave. “You don’t always have to have a recorder to come and visit me, young man,” Mrs. Parsons called after him. “I like having company.”

“Why don’t I come and play a little Gin Rummy on Sunday afternoon, then,” Aaron said light-heartedly. “No tape recorder.”

“It’s a date. Don’t be late.” She chimed. “And go visit Mad Aunt Hattie,” she added as he was almost out of earshot.

Aaron chuckled to himself as he walked down the hall. He checked his notebook. It was really no problem for him to come to the home on Sunday afternoon. He was often at one home or another. And he kept excellent records of the conversations he had even when they were not on tape. He could recite an entire interview after the fact if he needed to. And the older folks he talked to and played cards with often gave him more valuable information than he could get in a formal interview.

Mad Aunt Hattie. He wondered who’s aunt she was and how he could ask for her at the registration desk. Well, a nurse was headed his direction with evening medications for the residents. He’d just ask her.

“Excuse me,” he started as she approached.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“I’m Aaron Case,” he began. “I’m compiling an oral history of the depression era in rural northern Indiana and…”

“Oh, yes. The historian. You are a very popular man around here. I know at least three old widows who are preparing proposals for you,” she laughed. Aaron breathed a sigh of relief. You never knew if a staff person would consider you a harmless entertainment or a dangerous distraction to their clients.

“Thank you for the warning,” he smiled. “Actually, I was thinking of putting another notch in my belt, but I don’t actually know the woman. Perhaps you could arrange an introduction?”

“Who is it you are hunting for?”

“Well, I only know her as Hattie. Some of the residents call her Aunt Hattie.”

“Mad Aunt Hattie, you mean,” she laughed. “Wondered when you’d get around to interviewing her, though I can’t imagine it will do you any good. You’re looking for Mattilda Strongman, just up the hall. Come on, I’ll show you.”

As he followed along with the nurse, Aaron couldn’t help noticing that even the young people in the nursing home smelled a little old. He viewed that with a little hope for himself. Perhaps it wasn’t the old people, but the home itself that imposed its bleach and antiseptic smell on all those who were resident. As he got older himself, he couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to be old and alone in a home like this. At least he could comfort himself in thinking the smell was the home, not himself. The nurse paused in front of an open door and knocked.

“Hattie? You have a visitor dear. Are you up to it? A very old and withered woman in a wheelchair turned and waved toward them. As Aaron entered the room he glanced at the nameplate on the door. Mattilda “Aunt Hattie” Strongman. An editorial caret was inserted before the Aunt and someone had penned in “Mad” with a Sharpie.

“Aunt Hattie, this is Aaron Case. He’s a historian and would like to visit with you.”

“Actually, I’d just like to set a time to visit. I don’t want to impose on you right now,” said Aaron. “I just wanted a chance to be introduced to you.”

“Historian?” spoke the old woman. For all her withered looks, her voice took Aaron completely by surprise. It was smooth and sounded years younger than she looked. “Do I look like a library? There are no historical records here.”

“Mrs. Strongman…” Aaron began.

“It’s Miss Strongman if you must be formal, young man. You’d be better off to call me Aunt Hattie like everyone else. Now how can I help you?”

Aaron took a deep breath. From what he had heard, Mattilda Strongman was at least 95 years old, maybe more. But she had the forceful presence of a woman half that age. He adjusted his tone and direction immediately. Whatever “madness” she might have, this was no senile nonegenerian. When he finished explaining the project he was working on she was silent for a moment and looked up at the nurse steadily. Suddenly uncomfortable, the nurse quietly excused herself and left the two alone.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Hattie asked gently.

“Tell me?”

“That I’m mad,” she stated nonchalantly. “That’s how I got my name. Mad Aunt Hattie. Mad as a Hatter.”

“Are you?”

“I’ve never been committed to an asylum. Too smart for that. I know when to shut up.”

“Well, if you don’t mind us just talking, I think you might be able to enlighten me quite a bit on what it was like during the depression in rural Indiana.”

“You can’t believe anything I say.”

“Why not?”

“I’m Cassandra, young man. If you are a historian, you should know that. I can only tell you the truth, and you can only disbelieve me. But if you’d like to talk, I don’t mind the company. Surely I’m not that much longer for this world. Maybe you are the one who will understand and believe.”

“What would be a good time for you then,” Aaron asked, thinking that she would say morning or afternoon.

“I have a busy social calendar, but I could arrange tea for next Friday afternoon if you would care to call at that time.” It was quite as if she were scheduling a gentleman caller as a suitor. Aaron chuckled at that thought and mentally said “make that four”. But the truth was that if he just closed his eyes, Mad Aunt Hattie’s voice could belong to a woman his own age or younger.

“I can arrange that,” he said opening his cellphone and punching a couple keys. “Shall we say 3:00?”

“I don’t have tea before 4,” Hattie said concealing a grin, “but if you care to sit for a bit before tea, 3:00 will work well.” Somehow Aaron felt that he’d just been granted an audience with the queen. He nearly knelt.
“Thank you very much, Miss Strongman.”

“Aunt Hattie, if you please,” she corrected him. “One rather gets used to it.”

“Till Friday, Aunt Hattie,” he said backing out the door. If he expected further response from her, he was disappointed. She turned back toward her window and didn’t acknowledge him further. If she watched his reflection in the window as he stopped and looked once again at the nameplate, he was not aware of it.

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