In Memory of Georgia Manguso

June 25th, 2007

At thirteen, I was the babysitter for several families. The Adams family with their two affable boys, huge record collection, and never-ending snack supply were my favorites. Chuck Adams, the father, was something of a reformed hippie, mellow and easygoing, the kind of man I wished I had for a dad.  In the spring of 1975, when Chuck told me he recommended me to be the full-time summer babysitter of his friend Georgia’s six children, I was filled with dread.  The largest family I ever babysat for had three children, and six seemed like an impossible number.  I didn’t want to disappoint Chuck and told him I’d think about it, but I was only buying time while looking for a gracious way to say no.  Then Chuck took me to meet Georgia, and my objections evaporated.

Georgia was not a typically beautiful woman but I found the contrast between her hardened voice and fragile spirit fascinating.  From the start, Georgia stirred me in ways I could not fully comprehend.  I felt an overwhelming desire to help her, protect her, and smooth her path.

Georgia’s small three-bedroom house was just short of a disaster.  Rooms were overrun with clothes, dishes and toys.  The kitchen floor was sticky from half-washed spills and the countertops were invisible under piles of pots and plates.  The bathroom was coated with soap scum and dried toothpaste.  The patchy lawn was littered with bikes, Big Wheels, and hundreds of plastic soldiers. 

The Manguso home was in disarray, but love was evident in the chaos.  Children’s crayon drawings covered the refrigerator and spread out to the kitchen walls.  Framed school and family photos filled the living room and Georgia’s bedroom.

Georgia’s sweet-tempered baby girl and five rambunctious boys were the light of her life. Her drawn-out divorce from the children’s father was, she told me, the end of years of physical and emotional abuse, and the start of a better life for her and the children, but also the start of a war.  Her ex-husband, she said, was a wealthy contractor, remarried and living in Utah, and he threw his money into making Georgia’s post-marriage life miserable. He paid child support late or not at all, and he swore to continue fighting in the courts until he stripped Georgia of the thing she most valued – her motherhood. Perhaps it was this fight, or maybe all that preceded it, that lent Georgia her hard edges and vulnerable spirit.

Georgia was struggling, and working full-time, but she showered her children with affection. She seemed to be an easygoing, patient, and humorous mom. She was dating a man named Jerry, a kind man from all appearances, but she was not interested in remarrying any time in the near future. She wanted time to heal, to become her own woman, and to experience life on her own terms.

Georgia spoke to me as if I was an adult and a friend.  Her voice was low and hoarse, and her laughter contagious.  I was always apprehensive, especially around adults, but I swallowed my nervousness with Georgia.  Our long car rides from my house to hers varied between solemnly tearful and joyfully riotous.  When a particularly painful subject arose, Georgia would bite her lower lip and clench the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened.  Her eyes brimmed with tears, but they rarely overflowed.  Eventually, Georgia would let out a long breath through pursed lips and then shake her head as if to cast off whatever sad thing we had discussed.

When the talk was happy, Georgia drove with one hand while the other gestured effusively, with or without a cigarette. Georgia was the first person I knew who could really make me bust open with laughter.  Sometimes, unable to stop and howling in my seat long past the punchline, I worried that Georgia might think me simple-minded, but she would only smile and call me a goofball as she playfully pushed my shoulder or punched my arm.

I quickly fell in love with Georgia and her children.  In my house, cleaning was the highest expression of care. A well-vacuumed or mopped floor could sway my mother into a smile on occasion, and cleaning was the one way I knew how to show my love for Georgia.  It was a tangible expression, made all the better because Georgia’s time was stretched, her house was in desperate need, and I knew she’d appreciate the help.

I let the boys, ages three to eleven, in on my mission and made it a game for them to find the stray dishes and gather the jumbled toys.  I bought candy treats and other small rewards, and invented contests in which there were no losers.  The quickest, the most thorough, the ones who tried, and the ones who entertained the baby while the rest of us cleaned all got treats.  Soon, the boys were coming up with exciting contest ideas of their own, and room by room Georgia’s house was became neater and more orderly. In between contests and meals, I read stories, played with the baby, and helped the boys build backyard forts.

Georgia was amazed at the transformation, and I loved to watch her expressions as she walked from room to room admiring the effort me and the boys put forth. She tried to give me extra money a few times, which made me uncomfortable because I had to argue against it, and I did not have the words or the confidence to fully say what was on my mind. I knew her cupboards were spare, her gas tank near empty, and her bills overdue. Georgia’s continued affection and happiness with my performance was far more important to me than an extra two or three dollars.

Near the end of July and my end as full-time babysitter, Georgia asked me if I thought I could babysit for a whole weekend. Jerry had invited her to someplace out of town, but she hesitated to be away from the children.  She was afraid her ex-husband would find out and use the trip as ammunition against her. At the same time she was sorely in need of a break and a good time.

I urged Georgia to go, have fun, and not to worry about the kids or me.  I assured her that we’d be fine. If her ex called, I would say she was shopping or working, and then I’d call her hotel so she could call him back. He would not find out from the children or me where she was.  I would not tell anybody.

Georgia left on a Friday night, slowly, and only after much reassurance.  And that weekend, the boys and I went on an all-out mission.  We cleaned the windows, and hosed the outside of the house. I mowed the lawn and the boys raked.  I washed all the bed sheets and blankets and dusted all the picture frames.  When Georgia called to check on us, we told her we were just hanging out watching television, not doing anything special. On Sunday morning, we walked to the store and bought Calgon bath oil and a big Hershey candy bar. The boys wrapped the presents with comic strips and made signs welcoming their mother home.

When Georgia returned late Sunday afternoon to welcome signs, seven excited kids, presents, and a sparkling clean house, she was overcome to the point of tears.  Oh my God, she kept saying, Oh my God, I can’t believe you kids did all of this.  My spirit soared, and the boys were full of happy pride as they clamored to share their individual accomplishments.

After the presents were opened, Georgia went to her bedroom closet and retrieved a black and white checkered bag.  She asked me if I enjoyed bowling.  I said I’d never been, but thought it looked like fun.  Georgia handed me the bag and laughed as my arm fell with the weight.  “It’s my bowling ball,” she said. “I was a pretty good bowler in my day. I want you to have it so you’ll always have something to remember me by. I want you to go bowling one day real soon and have a good time.” 

I was puzzled and pleased. A bowling ball seemed like such a strange gift, and Georgia’s comment about remembering her seemed out of place. Did she really not know, after a whole summer, that I would never forget her?  Didn’t she know that I loved her, and the kids, and wanted to be part of their lives for a long time to come?  I wondered in awkward silence, but at the same time I was thrilled.  Georgia had given me a part of herself – an object engraved with her name – and one that had brought her happiness in the past.

I babysat for Georgia a few more times and then she quit calling.  I asked Chuck if he had heard from Georgia lately, or if she said anything to him about my babysitting.  I worried that she didn’t like me anymore.  Maybe she really wasn’t happy that I’d cleaned, maybe she found it offensive.  Maybe she thought I didn’t do a good job, maybe she found somebody better.  Chuck didn’t have any information and I was too afraid to call Georgia on my own and take the risk of rejection.

In late August, I opened the morning newspaper and learned of Georgia’s suicide. Consumed with grief and depression, Georgia drove into the woods and shot herself.  Her husband had recently won permanent custody of the children.

Georgia was judged on many levels, both in life and in death.  Many people called her selfish, or blamed her for not trying hard enough, or fighting hard enough.  Many people also said ”if only I knew.”  But most of them did know that Georgia was struggling.  She was very open about her feelings and her pain.  And it may be that no one could have helped Georgia, but we will never know.  In polite society, we simply do not pry into the affairs of others – we wait, instead, for them to come to us asking for a specific kind of help.  Yet we know, really, that the most truly depressed or challenged people will not cry out, much less impose upon strangers and acquaintances with their problems. 

Humans are imperfect, not always strong enough to handle life’s tragedies, and there are probably few among us who do not have their own “final straw” story.  

We all know someone who is facing tremendous difficulty.  Someone whose human mistakes or health or history has cost them dearly.  Maybe it’s our neighbor, or one of our children’s friends, or the friend of a friend, or someone who sits at the desk next to ours.  Maybe she’s may be the quiet type, hesitant to share the details of her home life, but whose eyes light up when she talks about her children. Maybe he’s the single young man without a family to lean on, who is struggling to find his place in the world.

Today, close to the anniversary of Georgia’s death, I want to encourage people to think about others in their life who may benefit from their  help.  Maybe an encouraging word is all you have to give, but please think about giving one.  Lend an ear, be a friend, share some coffee and care.  There are literally thousands of ways to give and all of them have meaning.

I bowled a 110 at Bryant Lanes tonight for you, Georgia.  And that ball is still heavy. 

14 Responses to “In Memory of Georgia Manguso”

  • Good for you Jane. I’m sure that Georgia was watching with a smile on her face.

  • Jane , reading your story, i can just see Georgia, and feel her . What a wonderful woman she was, , and it showed ,by the way her children wanted to please her, and see her smile. I wish she would have rembered in her absolute grief, that soon those children would grow, and want to come home to her. Because nothing her ex could do would stop them from wanting her.We know by the story she was not a selfish woman, The pain inside of her must have blinded her to want was still to come. I feel so so sorry for her children that they will never ever get to feel her hugs and kisses again. That is the saddest part for me. But i know one thing , and that is if you would have been older, you would not have let that happen, you would have known how to help her. ,through the pain. God bLESS YOU jANE, FOR ALL YOU DO

  • Jane… you made me cry!! I have been so depressed lately and if I start to cry I get mad at myself for feeling sorry for myself. So I try to chear up because I know God has a plan for me.

  • Jane, this is dedicated to you and your long lost friend from Vivian.

  • Dear Jane,
    My husband plays piano, and loved Ray Charles. I immediately thought of that song when I read this story. By the way, I’ve read it twice so far, since 5:30 this morning, and each time, I gain something more. Like how six children, became seven.

    Have you ever heard anything from, or about, any of those children? How about that so-called man that took them from their mother, what have you learned about him? What kind of a person was he?

    Freida, I was the seventh. I was only 13. The last time I tried to find the children I was about nineteen and did not have much luck, although a relative assured me they were doing okay. Oddly, I don’t remember the names of the boys anymore–there were just too many. The little girl’s name was Christa. I remember that because she was the first person I ever knew with that name.- Jane

  • Cindy, It’s ok to cry and it’s not feeling sorry for yourself. It doesn’t feel good when you are crying, but I really believe it’s better for you in the long run. Better out than in.

    I had tears in my eyes and fought hard to keep from downright crying because I was going to go and get groceries lol, otherwise, I would probably have let myself go ahead.

    Jane, that is incredibly sad, that she lost all her kids and then took her own life.What you did for her and the kids while you were babysitting was really great though. I know I would have done the same thing about cleaning the house lol. I wouldn’t have been able NOT to clean it lol. Wow, six kids. That was quite an undertaking on your part Jane, being young yourself and it sounds like you did a very good job of it and included the kids also in the clean up and let them know that they were doing a good thing in helping. It sounds like you have always been wise beyond your years.

  • Crying is good for the soul.
    I always feel so much better after I do.
    Sometimes, it’s just hard to get started…then, sometimes the tears just pour.

  • Jane , do you think the kids would remember you if you could find them.? What a story you could write, and find out how each of them faired, after their father took them. And what a eulogy to Georgia. after all these years.

    Hi Vivian, I’ve seriously thought about it, but decided no. . .the children would probably not remember me all that well, and that summer ended up being very traumatic for them. It’s enough for me to remember Georgia as she would want to be remembered, for the part of her spirit that touched my own. - Jane

  • I bet they think of you and wonder what ever happened to you too.

  • It is a very difficult thing to do, trying to help someone that is suicidal. These people are the greatist actors of all. There is nothing you could have done, even if you had known, you were only 13. I think the way you handled the children, gave them a summer to remember in a good way. they will always remember how happy their mother was,when she came home and saw what they had done for her. THe fact that she gave you her bowling ball says it all about how she felt about you. They were realy to young to understand suicide, hopfully their father had enough compassion to handle things corectly. REmember the mind has a way of protecting children from bad things.

    Sometimes a good cry is what you need to release the tension. Don’t ever be ashamed, I would rater cry than not have enougth feelings to do so.

  • QV:

    Ray Charles is one of the best.

  • Brandy was a vivacious girl. She was bubbly and lit up a room. She was a “drama queen” and she did not hold back, letting her pleasure or displeasure show. I recall once at a birthday party at a wax museum she was scared and screaming and everyone in the whole place knew it. She was fun-loving and funny and oh so very, very cute. Her infectious giggle would quickly spread to others. Brandy was 10 years old and she passed away last night of kidney complications from Lupus. You are a real angel now, Brandy.

    (Brandy was our best friend’s niece. We saw her often at their home for holiday parties and functions. She was a highly spirited individual, like Georgia, so I thought it was fitting to place her story here. We have another dear friend, in her twenties, who also has Lupus. We are very involved in fund raisers and with the Lupus chapter in our area. Brandy was diagnosed only six weeks ago.)

  • AP,

    I just now read your last post here. That’s so sad. I had a cousin that had lupus. She died at the age of 53, but of lung cancer. She smoked. It’s so terribly sad though when a child dies.

    I see things on TV where they show little kids in the hospital who have lost all their hair from having chemo and I have to fight tears each time. It’s so unfair that little kids get so sick.

    I had a friend whose less than one year old baby died. He was on a liver transplant list, but never made it, nor did he get to see his first birthday.

  • Joni,
    Thanks for your reply. Brandy was excited because she was going to be a school crossing guard this next school year. School commences here on Monday. My best friend, who is her aunt, got a crossing guard vest and had all her former teachers sign it and it will be placed in her coffin.

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