Mixed Metaphors

In late March, my younger sister Cindy was admitted to the hospital. After a series of tests she was diagnosed with terminal lung and liver cancer. Like many of us, she has worked hard her whole life, currently lives alone, and until now has survived paycheck-to-paycheck. She will no longer be able to work, so those paychecks will stop, and a safety net is not yet in place. In the meantime, she will incur costly medical expenses, prescriptions for her treatment to prolong her life, and will require help to be keep a roof over her head, a modest apartment in our hometown of Racine, Wisconsin. My sister, Tami created this YouCaring fundraiser. For those who’d like to get to know my sister Cindy a little better, I offer this reminiscence, Legend of the China Doll.  

Update: Cindy passed away peacefully in her sleep at 12:30 am on Sunday, January 13, 2019 at the home of her sister Tami Reschke whose family was caring for her in Madison during her final days with the help and support of Agrace Hospice Care and Cindy’s sister Kelly Zickus.

Cynthia “Cindy” Lynn Castro

Here’s an excerpt from my memoir, Perfectly Flawed (a work in progress), including these stories about my sister Cindy’s childhood exploits, a legend in her own right. She’s the family rebel in tie-dyed t-shirts with a snarky attitude who lives with her critters and houseplants. She brings color, drama, and delight to the lives of her family and friends.

Full Disclosure: Some details of my recollection have been disputed by family members who have offered slightly different versions. This is the nature of legends and myths.  

Dick and Ethel Lenzke of Racine, Wisconsin conceived and raised six children the Catholic way; they had rhythm.  As was the practice, they did not employ birth control but allowed nature, desire, intention and a few alcohol-fueled trysts, determine the size and pattern of their family. Of their six offspring, three were oops babies — unplanned children — yet welcomed with love, open arms, and support from extended family. The alternate babies, numbers two, four and six were intentionally conceived as playmates and friends for the oops children.

Once the pattern was established, my parents had three sets of children in pairs, each pair separated by one or two years, each set by about seven. 18 years separated the eldest child, me, from the youngest, my sister Tami.  In order of birth, the Lenzke children are: Linda, Rosalyn (Roz), Cynthia (Cindy), Richard Jr. (Rick), Kelly and Tami. Our growing up years began in 1950 and continued throughout the early 1980s when the youngest siblings finally left home.

This is the story of my sister Cindy, the third-born and middle child, as seen through my eyes and drawn from our shared experience. As is often the case with memories, time and the ritualized retelling of stories both embellishes and omits important details. This makes a memoir part fact, part fiction, both legend and myth.

Cindy was an oops child. I remember the day my mother came home from the doctor to announce she was pregnant. Mom was 24 years old, married to our father, working full-time at her new factory job assembling small motors, and raising two kids, 5 and 6 and-a-half years old, with Dad. My parents had just purchased then furnished their first home. Their household expenses required two working parents earning full-time salaries. Mom was crying when she shared the news with us after her closed, bedroom door meeting with Dad. Both Mom and Dad were happy about the new child on its way, but unsure of how they were going to make it all work financially.

Dad was happy. He was hoping that the third time would be a charm and he would get his first son. Whenever we rode the bus with Dad, he would meet and greet someone that he knew. My father remembered the names and faces of people he may have met only once, extend his hand and engage in conversation. Inevitably they commented on his young family and ask, “Do you have any boys yet?” My father would smile broadly, squeezing one of our hands and say, “Not yet, but I do have two lovely daughters.” He would add a new baby was on the way, and he’d be reassured by the acquaintance that the third time would be a charm.

Cynthia Lynn Lenzke was born on February 17^th, three days before my mother’s 24^th birthday. She was my parent’s biggest baby and born breach, certainly an omen of things to come; Cindy never did anything like others, or as expected, she always did it her way.

My father quickly accepted and embraced his new daughter yet the first few days after my parents brought Cindy home they thought maybe they had the wrong baby. Perhaps there was a mix-up in the nursery. Our family heritage was Northern European: German, Irish and Dutch. This baby had a very ruddy complexion, not fair and light like the rest of the family. She had tufts, no handfuls, of pitch black hair. Mom and Dad didn’t seem to mind, they accepted her as their own. My father proceeded to spoil Cindy, laying her on his legs as he sat and rocked them back and forth until she fell asleep.

On March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, one month after her birth, Cindy was baptized in our church, St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. She wore a traditional white christening gown, but in recognition of the day, a green ribbon adorned her hair and decorated her gown. My paternal Grandmother also christened Cindy with a new nickname, her China Doll. Now a month after her birth, Cindy’s complexion changed from red to porcelain white, like the figurines and ceramic dolls both Grandma Lenzke and my mother collected.

From the beginning, Cindy changed the family dynamics and for my parents, their sleeping arrangements. When she was placed in her bassinet, she would wail and wail until picked up. She wasn’t a colicky baby she simply did not like the tub-like depths of the bassinet. Due to co-sleeping fears my parents would place her in the middle of their double bed with pillows surrounding her so she wouldn’t roll over or fall off the bed. My father slept in a chair and my mother on the couch until they were able to buy a crib for her.

Cindy grew from baby to toddler and her true essence emerged. Cindy was smart, impish, and if not watched closely, she quickly found trouble. She’d grin, squint her eyes and look at you in such a way that you knew she was aware of her mischievous behavior and relished the attention she received. On the other hand, when my mother outfitted her in dresses and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes with lace-trimmed white socks, curled and combed Cindy’s dark brown tresses, she was transformed into the China Doll.

The misadventures of China Doll began shortly after the birth of my brother, Richard Frank Lenzke, Jr., 16 months after Cindy’s birth. Mom quickly potty-trained Cindy. She didn’t want two children in diapers. Cindy was a quick study. She was walking at eight months and once she was ambulatory she found or made trouble around every corner in every room of the house.

With the help of my mother’s sister, Betty, my folks stripped, sanded and resealed their hardwood floors. It was summer and the weather very humid. The oil-based polyurethane finish was taking forever to fully set. My parents were anxious to setup Rick’s crib and Cindy’s toddler bed for their shared nursery. They decided that if everyone wore socks in the nursery, they could hurry the process.

One afternoon while Rick was sleeping and Cindy was put down for an afternoon nap, my mother decided to do some laundry. When she was confident that both Cindy and Rick were asleep, she descended the stairs to the basement to put some clothes in the washer and fold laundry from the dryer.  She closed and locked the basement door so that if Cindy escaped her room, she wouldn’t tumble down the basement stairs. Unfortunately, this shielded my mother’s ears from the giggles emanating from the nursery. When my brother woke up and cried loudly, my mother ran up the stairs to check on her babies.  When she opened the bedroom door, she was shocked to see a winter wonderland, baby powder covering my brother like powdered sugar, and sprinkled all over the hardwood floors. Cindy too was covered in powder, looking like a white face clown, grinning and displaying her open palms proudly.

The lock on the basement door figured into another misadventure of Cindy’s. My mother was doing laundry again, a never-ending job with young children and cloth diapers. She was down in the basement and had three-and-half year old Cindy and her friend with her playing close by. My brother Rick who was taking a nap upstairs woke up and wanted out of his crib. Mom went to retrieve him, momentarily leaving Cindy unattended. Cindy immediately climbed up the carpeted stairs, reached up on her tiptoes and latched the hook on the inside of the basement door, locking my mother upstairs. As if she had been premeditating this moment, she rejoined her friend and began tossing my father’s vintage collection of big band music on 78 rpm records like Frisbees.

For those not familiar with 78’s, earlier versions were brittle, 10-inch diameter records comprised of 25% shellac, with a filler similar to manila paper, powdered slate, and a small amount of a wax lubricant. When they’re thrown and make contact with hard surfaces they shatter into pieces. The cement block walls and concrete floors of the basement were unforgiving.

My mother heard what was happening, and after a moment’s disbelief or denial she rushed to the door finding it locked. First, she yelled at Cindy, then changed her tactic and begged her to put down the records and unlock the door. When the sound of giggling girls and breaking records continued without pause, my mother pushed the door till the hook and eye lock was stressed to the point the eye pulled out of its wooden anchor.  My mother reverently and tearfully collected the shards of broken records, putting them into a cardboard box for my father’s return home. She knew he would be devastated. This was the music he jitterbugged to, his sole, proud talent.

Dad forgave his China Doll. The tales of her exploits would delight extended family members when we gathered for baptisms and first communions, Christmas and Easter Holidays, family weddings and funerals. Cindy turned four and like most children her age loved candy. Being a resourceful child, she knew where to find candy when she craved it. Cindy could count on my mother having gum or mints and if lucky a candy bar squirreled away in her purse for a treat for herself or one of us kids. This proved to be Cindy’s undoing. Though four and self-sufficient, she couldn’t read and when she and my brother Rick ate an entire package of chocolate Ex-Lax, a candy-flavored laxative, they spent the next few days 30 seconds or within 10 feet of the bathroom. Because we were unaware of the cause (until afterwards when she confessed to the deed) we thought they both had a bout of diarrhea. When it finally ran its course, Cindy remarked, “That really tore me up!”

Shortly after the Ex-Lax episode, Cindy exacted revenge on the toilet, bathroom plumbing and a realistic, silicone rubber turd. My father, who was born on April Fool’s Day, had one of the largest collections of fake and joke gifts. Moon Fun Shop was one of our favorite childhood shopping destinations. We put rubber pencils in his pockets on his birthday when he went to work, mom packed his lunch with fake Swiss cheese and wrapped cardboard around his birthday cake before frosting it.  Dad was a custodian in the Racine schools making him a fastidious and competent maintenance man. We’d strategically place fake poop and puke on the carpet in the house, blaming it on the dog, waiting to see the look of disgust on his face as he retrieved his cleaning supplies, then break out in laughter. One day, Cindy kidnapped the turd and flushed it down the toilet. She said, “I’m tired of looking at poop and I want it gone.” After an expensive visit by the plumber, the fake poop was never seen again or allowed to return.

Soon mom was back at work full-time and my sister Roz and I were old enough to babysit Cindy and Rick during the day in the summer when our parents worked. We still tried to put Cindy and Rick down for a nap but were not always successful. One nap time, Roz and I were surprised that when every car passed our house they honked their horn. We lived on a corner one side of the house faced a busy street. Once Roz and I stepped outside and walked around the corner, we discovered the cause of all the attention. Cindy had opened the window screen, pulled down her pants and was mooning every car that drove by, much to the delight of the occupants.

One Saturday, Roz and I went to a movie matinee together. When we returned home shortly before dinner, on entering the house we noticed it was extremely smoky. We ran into the kitchen. Mom had not noticed the smoke, probably because it was filling the house slowly while she was in it but coming in from the fresh air outside it was a huge contrast.

We asked what was burning, she said nothing I’m just preheating the oven.  She opened the oven door to check and a billowing cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of burning rubber escaped. There inside with his rubber face and hands melting into stringy, chewing gum-like strands and his baseball uniform in flames was Zippy the Monkey.  Mom quickly grabbed Zippy with potholders protecting her hands and rushed him outside, putting out the fire with water from the garden hose. When Cindy was asked what happened, she said Zippy wouldn’t eat his dinner, so she threw him in the oven to teach him a lesson. Oh my!

Cindy grew older and entered her school-age years. Her adventures continued. One day my parents received a phone call from the A & P Grocery Store. She and a friend filled a grocery cart with food, feminine napkins, cleaning supplies, and all the staples of a household as she played a sophisticated game of pretend requiring my mother and one of us older kids to return everything to its proper shelves.

Years later as a young teenager, my father, desperate to punish her effectively for her misdeeds and transgressions “grounded” her for what amounted to a final tally of about three years, until she was quite unmanageable and he gave up. She had clearly evolved and embraced the dual roles of family rebel and scapegoat. Immediately after high school she left home. Even today she holds the dual roles as my father’s China Doll, the young girl he spoiled and who he still loves deeply and the “in your face family rebel”, able to push buttons and challenge authority.

In her tie-dyed t-shirts and sandals, with the “devil in her eyes” looks and mischievous smile, Cindy is her own unique person, a strong-willed, hard-headed survivor and still the main character in many of our family’s favorite legends.