Martha

Martha. Marty. Aunt Marty. She was my dad’s oldest sister. First born of five children. She loved that status and was very unhappy when dad was born next– a boy! – which she felt undermined her first-born birthright. She tried to kill him. Several times. Really. He had the scars.

She hated her father. She was one strong woman and all of her life she really tried to control the lives of every person around her. The control was done in a very negative, nasty, bullyish, hurtful and blunt manner. She could destroy you. Really.

It was not until after her death that some of the family realized that she probably had some kind of mental illness. As a child, I never liked her and was a bit afraid of her. Always trust a child’s instincts. She, on the other hand, felt that I was the only one who had “potential.” Oh my.

Lee and I were often invited to spend weekends in their big mansion with their maid and their new Cadillac convertibles to go endless shopping. It never felt right or comfortable and we were so happy to return to our very little house and our happy parents. Chip was never invited on these weekends. He was a boy. Marty had difficulties having children then finally had two daughters. She was angry that my dad had a son – the only male in the entire line – and she couldn’t have one. She couldn’t buy one. It was out of her control.

Mom never wanted to be with her. I think she was very jealous of my mom for her background and education and made her life really miserable. She would put her down and belittle her in front of people every chance she could. Mom always returned from a visit with a massive headache.

What hid Marty’s illness is that she was very beautiful, knew whom to befriend, learned and became well known in Chicago society. Her plan of working for an airline because only wealthy people flew in those days, paid off. She met Bill. He was a second generation to a rubber company fortune. Serious money. His mother took Marty under her wing, taught her about the social graces and all about society. Marty found her niche.

Marty and Bill were members of the Chicago Yacht Club and he raced with the America’s Cup. They ran with the high society. They threw parties three times a week in their huge home on the right road in the right town where they sent their two daughters to the right school. They later were sent away to the right eastern high schools to get into the right colleges. You get the picture.

I do remember her Christmas Eve parties, which always had the rich and famous in attendance. The father of television news and the man for whom the ballpark was named were two of many famous people who attended those parties.

My parents escaped her clutches when they moved across the country. She lost her self-perceived control over them. She berated them for leaving “the family.” Marty always felt that the family you were born into was to come before your own family that you have made. My dad never bought into that.

I think what bothers me the most about Marty is that just before dad died, he looked up into the corner of the hospital room and said, “Oh God, its Martha!” His voice was filled of dread.

How she died, how her husband died and what has happened to the daughters who inherited great wealth from their grandparents as well as their parents is a cautionary tale. It is coming up next.