In 1927, Helen Leatherbee married Stephen Frederick Martin, better known as Fred, and they moved into a small apartment in Newton Center, Massachusetts. Bruce, a handsome young collie, was the first addition to their family.
As a new bride, my mother knew little about shopping for food, whereas Fred had been brought up on a small farm and understood produce. Mom told us that the first time they went shopping together, the grocer asked, “Do you want old potatoes or new?” ”Why new, of course!” Helen replied indignantly. Fred quickly changed the order to the less expensive old potatoes, and laughingly explained the difference and that the grocer hadn’t been trying to cheat them.
In 1929, Helen was delighted to be expecting her first child, and feeling just fine. Fred watched his young wife thoroughly enjoying a hearty breakfast, and quickly excused himself from the table. Dad was the one with morning sickness!
In October 1929, just two months before Marilyn was born, the stock market crashed, and their little world changed forever. Dad lost his job and their savings, making it necessary to give up their small apartment and move in with Helen’s family. As it turned out, they would remain at 54 Oxford Road, for many years and not own a home of their own until 1960, after my grandmother Alice Leatherbee passed on.
During those years, Helen contracted pneumonia, leaving her with asthma severe enough to send her to the hospital on several occasions; patriarch Frederic Leatherbee died of cancer in 1933, and I was born in 1935 into a household of four generations which included Helen’s grandmother Julia, her mother Alice, Helen and Fred, and daughter Marilyn. Live-in maid Jane Thomas completed the household. Helen was grateful for Jane’s competent help caring for the large house, and they got along well together unless my mother wanted to bake. Jane considered the kitchen her province and her feelings were hurt whenever Helen insisted on baking for her family.
Helen was petite, just under five feet tall. Like many small women, however, Mom could make her feelings known. She was a mix of strict as well as lenient. In the 1930’s and 1940’s, parents weren’t afraid to discipline their children, and it was most often my mother who laid down the law, sometimes with a hairbrush to our backsides. On the other end of the scale, on rainy days, it was she who would let us put on our roller skates and circle the kitchen table, then fly through the pantry and back until boredom set in. She probably knew in advance that it would take only ten minutes until we found some other activity to pass the time.
Mom was both sensitive and emotional. Marilyn and I grew to dread Mother’s Day because any gift we presented her with was greeted by tears. Even though we understood that they were tears of joy, we found it embarassing. One of those “Oh, Mother” moments.
There was a second meaning to the word “sensitive” where Helen was concerned. In the early 1950’s, after my sister Marilyn was married and in her own home, and she realized it wouldn’t be long before I too would be leaving, my mother began to think of herself for a change. Helen had always been the perfect housewife. Her home was neat and clean. The meals she made were always well thought out and tasty. She never failed to welcome Dad home from his work with a smile and a kiss. She was a loving, caring wife and mother, but soon Helen would be faced with an empty nest, something she dreaded. She chose to fill the void in her life by going back to her roots.
Helen’s parents and grandmother were Spiritualists and had been very active in the First Spiritualist Temple of Boston when Spiritualism was in its heyday. The family were close friends of the Ayers, and it was Marcellus Seth Ayer who founded that church, which also housed the Exeter Street Theatre in Boston. As a respected friend, Frederic was chosen as Trustee, to serve along with Mr. and Mrs. Ayer; a post he held until his death.
In the late 1940’s, Helen joined a group of like-minded women who met each week elsewhere in Boston. At first they were led by a medium, but when she left, the small group felt confident enough to continue with one of their members as teacher. Whenever possible, Helen also devoted an hour each morning to meditation. She called it her “quiet time.” In 1953, she began write down messages received from Kai, her Spirit guide, which she shared with the group. Helen would continue to receive and record these uplifting and inspirational messages until mid-1963.
At some point, my mother told me of their existence, but never chose to share them with me or my sister. After her death, I asked to keep them and they were given to me. To say that I cherish them is an understatement. On the following pages are messages dating from early 1957 through mid-1959.
