I met Polly Bondi, only twice, she was very elderly but still lived by herself in a tiny house in Maywood, California located in South East Los Angeles County.
It was full of a life time of things she had made herself, most of these beautiful, or funny or intricate. It was cluttered, but she clearly cared for everything there, it was spotlessly clean and tidy.
All around her small home you saw the beautiful china she had learned to paint, one of the ways she made a living and fed her children. But she was skilled in a multitude of crafts. She sewed her own clothes, she knitted, tatted, made lace, embroidered and more.
Polly had lived a hard, hard, life. When she could no longer stand being battered, she left, and took her children with her. There was no support from their father, his money went into alcohol and other indulgences.
Soon after the second visit, Ron told me his parents had moved her into a 'home' and we needed to go down and clean up her house for sale.
Shocked, I asked what the health issue was. She had been hale and hearty when I saw her just a short time before. Ron did not say, but I soon learned. Polly was still hail and hardy, amazing for a woman her age. But her son, Albert, Ron's father, had been eyeing the steadily rising value of her house and possessions. They had just moved into Leisure World and with the expenses there, well, it was really better if Polly went someplace suitable for a woman her age.
When we arrived I learned she had been told they were taking her out for Mother's Day. She had dressed up in her special dress she had made for such occasions.
Albert told me this as he and Irene were busy going through Polly's possessions. She had not known she was going into a 'home' and had vigorously objected when she realized what was happening. They had her locked into her new room and were now selling her home and possessions.
Stunned, I did not know what to say. I could not imagine treating your mother this way. Polly soon died, I was told. Before, when I saw her she was busy, with days full of activities. But with nothing to do, nothing to paint or sew, no friends to visit on her street, she had nothing to Iive for.
Later, I learned that Irene was also, routinely, battered by Albert. This occured to me over and over again as Ron began routinely battering me.
I should have left Ron sooner, and will always regret not having done so.
Ron frightened me. He talked too much sometimes and then, suddenly stopped speaking, glancing at me. I learned not to look surprised, but began putting together the pieces of his life he tried not to mention.
There is hate, expressed privately which can disgust us but causes no harm except to our feelings. The rage and hate bottled up in Ron, leaking out all around him as he tried to seem normal was unsettling.
Violence is horrible, but there are worse abuses. Every time I look at the dishes I rescued to remember Polly and pass on to her great-grandchildren I remember that callous disregard and ugliness has many faces.