Allison Campbell Jensen

This image of my older sister and I was painted by a friend of Dad’s, Traut was his last name (perhaps? Annie, can you confirm?). The painter had a photo of Anne and me (Martha, at the time) from which to paint, and his style on the Kansas skyscape strikes me as pretty cool.

I like the roses, too; nice symbolism and mirroring, with Annie’s red shirt and my white blouse. “Il n’ya pas des roses sans epines,” as the French say. There are no roses without thorns.

In my relationship with Anne, I’ve experienced both roses and thorns. We have a younger brother, Bobby, and an older brother, Richard, but he was forced to grow up very early. Our parents, Bob and Virginia, split when I was 5, Anne 7, and Rich, 10. Richard had to be, or chose to be, the Man of the House. More about the pressures of that role, from my point of view, another time.

Roses are beautiful gifts, yet beware the thorns; blackberries, the same. Anne and I stumbled into an emotional blackberry bush, full of prickles, after our Mom died. Blackberries thrive on Whidbey Island, where Mom, Rich, Annie, and I moved from Kansas a few years after the split. Oh, yeah, and this guy Dave was along, too; driving the van most of the time. Our new stepdad. If we kids were invited to Dave and Virginia’s wedding ceremony, I surely don’t recall it.

So it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut used to write. Or, as one of my best therapists used to say, “Well, that’s fine but Starting From Today, what are you going to do about it?” The “it” could be a bad memory, hateful feeling, emotional hurts, any of the baggage dropped from a freight train racing out of the past.

In that vein, starting from today, yet looking back I offer this brief excursion into the past to Anne and all our sisterlies: Tracy (Trey-trey), Stephanie (Taffy), Trish (legally, Mary), and Lori (legally, Ellen). Rich and Bobert, I’ll come back to you. (“Oh, no . . . no rush, Allie!”)

Yes, I chose to change my name when I was 18. In Washington State, one simply had to fill out an affidavit at the time, put everything in the new name, and be consistent about using the new name (and never using the former name) for seven years. I was enrolled in Western Washington University at the time, so I went to see the appropriate University official. He told me this change was too drastic; it was a big mistake and I would regret it. And besides, he asked, how did my parents feel about me going from Martha Nancy Goedecke to Allison Artemis Campbell?

Fine, I said. Campbell is a family name on my mother’s side, so she likes it. And I’ll go by my nickname Allie most of the time, which is a reference to “Catcher in the Rye,” so a literary allusion, you see . . . And my Dad will adjust.

Well, Dad’s response just about knocked me down. I will look in my old papers and see if I can find the original letter. This is how I remember it beginning:

Martha,

Allison

You daughters do amazing things when you turn 18. Annie produced a 8-pound boy and I expect you will produce an 8-pound book.

I never like the name Goedecke. Too long and no one can pronounce it correctly. . . .

Well, hell. I couldn’t even shock the old guy, even though he walked out of my high school graduation speech while I was giving it. Something offended him. Maybe it was the idea that I cribbed from a lady’s letter to Dear Abby — well, I cited the person! Probably, it was the idea I was promoting: That this elderly person had looked back at her life and said, if I had it to do over again, I’d eat more ice cream . . . I’d smell more roses.

Now, at 63 years of age (how did I get here?), I can see how that might be offensive to a man driven by ambition and bedeviled by mental illness. I was deeply hurt at the time, ashamed and embarassed by my crazy Dad. There were only 70 of us in our high school class — dear friends, why did you all have to choose me as the Class Choice Speaker?

I still abhor public speaking.

Annie, Tracy, Steph, Trish, Lori, sisterlies, let’s get together again soon. Let’s go out for ice cream. Let’s find a rose garden and wander, smelling, admiring their beauty — and keeping our fingers away from the thorns.