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LUKE WAS FIFTEEN WHEN he asked Mother if he could have a birth certificate. He wanted to enroll in Driverās Ed because Tony, our oldest brother, was making good money driving rigs hauling gravel, which he could do because he had a license. Shawn and Tyler, the next oldest after Tony, had birth certificates; it was only the youngest fourāLuke, Audrey, Richard and meāwho didnāt.
Mother began to file the paperwork. I donāt know if she talked it over with Dad first. If she did, I canāt explain what changed his mindāwhy suddenly a ten-year policy of not registering with the Government ended without a struggleābut I think maybe it was that telephone. It was almost as if my father had come to accept that if he were really going to do battle with the Government, he would have to take certain risks. Motherās being a midwife would subvert the Medical Establishment, but in order to be a midwife she needed a phone. Perhaps the same logic was extended to Luke: Luke would need income to support a family, to buy supplies and prepare for the End of Days, so he needed a birth certificate. The other possibility is that Mother didnāt ask Dad. Perhaps she just decided, on her own, and he accepted her decision. Perhaps even heācharismatic gale of a man that he wasāwas temporarily swept aside by the force of her.
Once she had begun the paperwork for Luke, Mother decided she might as well get birth certificates for all of us. It was harder than she expected. She tore the house apart looking for documents to prove we were her children. She found nothing. In my case, no one was sure when Iād been born. Mother remembered one date, Dad another, and Grandma-down-the-hill, who went to town and swore an affidavit that I was her granddaughter, gave a third date.
Mother called the church headquarters in Salt Lake City. A clerk there found a certificate from my christening, when I was a baby, and another from my baptism, which, as with all Mormon children, had occurred when I was eight. Mother requested copies. They arrived in the mail a few days later. āFor Peteās sake!ā Mother said when she opened the envelope. Each document gave a different birth date, and neither matched the one Grandma had put on the affidavit.
That week Mother was on the phone for hours every day. With the receiver wedged against her shoulder, the cord stretched across the kitchen, she cooked, cleaned, and strained tinctures of goldenseal and blessed thistle, while having the same conversation over and over.
āObviously I should have registered her when she was born, but I didnāt. So here we are.ā
Voices murmured on the other end of the line.
āIāve already told youāand your subordinate, and your subordinateās subordinate, and fifty other people this weekāshe doesnāt have school or medical records. She doesnāt have them! They werenāt lost. I canāt ask for copies. They donāt exist!ā
āHer birthday? Letās say the twenty-seventh.ā
āNo, Iām not sure.ā
āNo, I donāt have documentation.ā
āYes, Iāll hold.ā
The voices always put Mother on hold when she admitted that she didnāt know my birthday, passing her up the line to their superiors, as if not knowing what day I was born delegitimized the entire notion of my having an identity. You canāt be a person without a birthday, they seemed to say. I didnāt understand why not. Until Mother decided to get my birth certificate, not knowing my birthday had never seemed strange. I knew Iād been born near the end of September, and each year I picked a day, one that didnāt fall on a Sunday because itās no fun spending your birthday in church. Sometimes I wished Mother would give me the phone so I could explain. āI have a birthday, same as you,ā I wanted to tell the voices. āIt just changes. Donāt you wish you could change your birthday?ā
Eventually, Mother persuaded Grandma-down-the-hill to swear a new affidavit claiming Iād been born on the twenty-seventh, even though Grandma still believed it was the twenty-ninth, and the state of Idaho issued a Delayed Certificate of Birth. I remember the day it came in the mail. It felt oddly dispossessing, being handed this first legal proof of my personhood: until that moment, it had never occurred to me that proof was required.
In the end, I got my birth certificate long before Luke got his. When Mother had told the voices on the phone that she thought Iād been born sometime in the last week of September, theyād been silent. But when she told them she wasnāt exactly sure whether Luke had been born in May or June, that set the voices positively buzzing.
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THAT FALL, WHEN I was nine, I went with Mother on a birth. Iād been asking to go for months, reminding her that Maria had seen a dozen births by the time she was my age. āIām not a nursing mother,ā she said. āI have no reason to take you. Besides, you wouldnāt like it.ā
Eventually, Mother was hired by a woman who had several small children. It was arranged; I would tend them during the birth.
The call came in the middle of the night. The mechanical ring drilled its way down the hall, and I held my breath, hoping it wasnāt a wrong number. A minute later Mother was at my bedside. āItās time,ā she said, and together we ran to the car.
For ten miles Mother rehearsed with me what I was to say if the worst happened and the Feds came. Under no circumstances was I to tell them that my mother was a midwife. If they asked why we were there, I was to say nothing. Mother called it āthe art of shutting up.ā āYou just keep saying you were asleep and you didnāt see anything and you donāt know anything and you canāt remember why weāre here,ā she said. āDonāt give them any more rope to hang me with than they already have.ā
Mother fell into silence. I studied her as she drove. Her face was illuminated by the lights in the dashboard, and it appeared ghostly white set against the utter blackness of country roads. Fear was etched into her features, in the bunching of her forehead and the tightening of her lips. Alone with just me, she put aside the persona she displayed for others. She was her old self again, fragile, breathy.
I heard soft whispers and realized they were coming from her. She was chanting what-ifs to herself. What if something went wrong? What if there was a medical history they hadnāt told her about, some complication? Or what if it was something ordinary, a common crisis, and she panicked, froze, failed to stop the hemorrhage in time? In a few minutes we would be there, and she would have two lives in her small, trembling hands. Until that moment, Iād never understood the risk she was taking. āPeople die in hospitals,ā she whispered, her fingers clenching the wheel, wraithlike. āSometimes God calls them home, and thereās nothing anyone can do. But if it happens to a midwifeāā She turned, speaking directly to me. āAll it takes is one mistake, and youāll be visiting me in prison.ā
We arrived and Mother transformed. She issued a string of commands, to the father, to the mother, and to me. I almost forgot to do what she asked, I couldnāt take my eyes off her. I realize now that that night I was seeing her for the first time, the secret strength of her.
She barked orders and we moved wordlessly to follow them. The baby was born without complications. It was mythic and romantic, being an intimate witness to this turn in lifeās cycle, but Mother had been right, I didnāt like it. It was long and exhausting, and smelled of groin sweat.
I didnāt ask to go on the next birth. Mother returned home pale and shaking. Her voice quivered as she told me and my sister the story: how the unborn babyās heart rate had dropped dangerously low, to a mere tremor; how sheād called an ambulance, then decided they couldnāt wait and taken the mother in her own car. Sheād driven at such speed that by the time she made it to the hospital, sheād acquired a police escort. In the ER, sheād tried to give the doctors the information they needed without seeming too knowledgeable, without making them suspect that she was an unlicensed midwife.
An emergency cesarean was performed. The mother and baby remained in the hospital for several days, and by the time they were released Mother had stopped trembling. In fact, she seemed exhilarated and had begun to tell the story differently, relishing the moment sheād been pulled over by the policeman, who was surprised to find a moaning woman, obviously in labor, in the backseat. āI slipped into the scatterbrained-woman routine,ā she told me and Audrey, her voice growing louder, catching hold. āMen like to think theyāre saving some brain-dead woman whoās got herself into a scrape. All I had to do was step aside and let him play the hero!ā
The most dangerous moment for Mother had come minutes later, in the hospital, after the woman had been wheeled away. A doctor stopped Mother and asked why sheād been at the birth in the first place. She smiled at the memory. āI asked him the dumbest questions I could think of.ā She put on a high, coquettish voice very unlike her own. āOh! Was that the babyās head? Arenāt babies supposed to come out feet-first?ā The doctor was persuaded that she couldnāt possibly be a midwife.
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THERE WERE NO HERBALISTS in Wyoming as good as Mother, so a few months after the incident at the hospital, Judy came to Buckās Peak to restock. The two women chatted in the kitchen, Judy perched on a barstool, Mother leaning across the counter, her head resting lazily in her hand. I took the list of herbs to the storeroom. Maria, lugging a different baby, followed. I pulled dried leaves and clouded liquids from the shelves, all the while gushing about Motherās exploits, finishing with the confrontation in the hospital. Maria had her own stories about dodging Feds, but when she began to tell one I interrupted her.
āJudy is a fine midwife,ā I said, my chest rising. āBut when it comes to doctors and cops, nobody plays stupid like my mother.ā
* While everyone agrees that there were many years in which my parents did not have a phone, there is considerable disagreement in the family about which years they were. Iāve asked my brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins, but I have not been able to definitively establish a timeline, and have therefore relied on my own memories.
My mother, Faye, was a mailmanās daughter. She grew up in town, in a yellow house with a white picket fence lined with purple irises. Her mother was a seamstress, the best in the valley some said, so as a young woman Faye wore beautiful clothes, all perfectly tailored, from velvet jackets and polyester trousers to woolen pantsuits and gabardine dresses. She attended church and participated in school and community activities. Her life had an air of intense order, normalcy, and unassailable respectability.
That air of respectability was carefully concocted by her mother. My grandmother, LaRue, had come of age in the 1950s, in the decade of idealistic fever that burned after World War II. LaRueās father was an alcoholic in a time before the language of addiction and empathy had been invented, when alcoholics werenāt called alcoholics, they were called drunks. She was from the āwrong kindā of family but embedded in a pious Mormon community that, like many communities, visited the crimes of the parents on the children. She was deemed unmarriageable by the respectable men in town. When she met and married my grandfatherāa good-natured young man just out of the navyāshe dedicated herself to constructing the perfect family, or at least the appearance of it. This would, she believed, shield her daughters from the social contempt that had so wounded her.
One result of this was the white picket fence and the closet of handmade clothes. Another was that her eldest daughter married a severe young man with jet-black hair and an appetite for unconventionality.
That is to say, my mother responded willfully to the respectability heaped upon her. Grandma wanted to give her daughter the gift she herself had never had, the gift of coming from a good family. But Faye didnāt want it. My mother was not a social revolutionaryāeven at the peak of her rebellion she preserved her Mormon faith, with its devotion to marriage and motherhoodābut the social upheavals of the 1970s did seem to have at least one effect on her: she didnāt want the white picket fence and gabardine dresses.
My mother told me dozens of stories of her childhood, of Grandma fretting about her oldest daughterās social standing, about whether her piquĆ© dress was the proper cut, or her velvet slacks the correct shade of blue. These stories nearly always ended with my father swooping in and trading out the velvet for blue jeans. One telling in particular has stayed with me. I am seven or eight and am in my room dressing for church. I have taken a damp rag to my face, hands and feet, scrubbing only the skin that will be visible. Mother watches me pass a cotton dress over my head, which I have chosen for its long sleeves so I wonāt have to wash my arms, and a jealousy lights her eyes.
āIf you were Grandmaās daughter,ā she says, āweād have been up at the crack of dawn preening your hair. Then the rest of the morning would be spent agonizing over which shoes, the white or the cream, would give the right impression.ā
Motherās face twists into an ugly smile. Sheās grasping for humor but the memory is jaundiced. āEven after we finally chose the cream, weād be late, because at the last minute Grandma would panic and drive to Cousin Donnaās to borrow her cream shoes, which had a lower heel.ā
Mother stares out the window. She has retreated into herself.
āWhite or cream?ā I say. āArenāt they the same color?ā I owned only one pair of church shoes. They were black, or at least theyād been black when they belonged to my sister.
With the dress on, I turn to the mirror and sand away the crusty dirt around my neckline, thinking how lucky Mother is to have escaped a world in which there was an important difference between white and cream, and where such questions might consume a perfectly good morning, a morning that might otherwise be spent plundering Dadās junkyard with Lukeās goat.
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MY FATHER, GENE, WAS one of those young men who somehow manage to seem both solemn and mischievous. His physical appearance was strikingāebony hair, a strict, angular face, nose like an arrow pointing toward fierce, deep-set eyes. His lips were often pressed together in a jocular grin, as if all the world were his to laugh at.
Although I passed my childhood on the same mountain that my father had passed his, slopping pigs in the same iron trough, I know very little about his boyhood. He never talked about it, so all I have to go on are hints from my mother, who told me that, in his younger years, Grandpa-down-the-hill had been violent, with a hair-trigger temper. Motherās use of the words āhad beenā always struck me as funny. We all knew better than to cross Grandpa. He had a short fuse, that was just fact and anybody in the valley could have told you as much. He was weatherworn inside and out, as taut and rugged as the horses he ran wild on the mountain.
Dadās mother worked for the Farm Bureau in town. As an adult, Dad would develop fierce opinions about women working, radical even for our rural Mormon community. āA womanās place is in the home,ā he would say every time he saw a married woman working in town. Now Iām older, I sometimes wonder if Dadās fervor had more to do with his own mother than with doctrine. I wonder if he just wished that she had been home, so he wouldnāt have been left for all those long hours with Grandpaās temper.
Running the farm consumed Dadās childhood. I doubt he expected to go to college. Still, the way Mother tells it, back then Dad was bursting with energy, laughter and panache. He drove a baby-blue Volkswagen Beetle, wore outlandish suits cut from colorful fabrics, and showcased a thick, fashionable mustache.
They met in town. Faye was waitressing at the bowling alley one Friday night when Gene wandered in with a pack of his friends. Sheād never seen him before, so she knew immediately that he wasnāt from town and must have come from the mountains surrounding the valley. Farm life had made Gene different from other young men: he was serious for his age, more physically impressive and independent-minded.
Thereās a sense of sovereignty that comes from life on a mountain, a perception of privacy and isolation, even of dominion. In that vast space you can sail unaccompanied for hours, afloat on pine and brush and rock. Itās a tranquillity born of sheer immensity; it calms with its very magnitude, which renders the merely human of no consequence. Gene was formed by this alpine hypnosis, this hushing of human drama.