Reckoning with a family secret
A feature article in the morning paper recently compared the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918 with that of our current COVID 19 struggle. In my family, the Spanish Flu pandemic was the cause of a sorrowful mystery and my initiation into a family secret. I was 5 years old when I was told, “You must not tell anyone.”
Great aunt Stella was 26 years old when the Spanish Flu hit
San Francisco. Stella was the most beautiful of three sisters (and four brothers) born to Mike and Lena Sargent. The sisters were, indeed “flappers,” working all day, partying all night.
Everyone in the family came down with the flu, and for a time lost track of one another. When it was over, everyone had survived, but Stella was gone. It was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Gradually, the family accepted her loss.
The sweet, pudgy lady who lovingly patted my cheeks, whose eyes vacantly questioned me, was my great aunt Stella, and I was being initiated into our family secret: “You must never tell anyone about great aunt Stella.”
The “insane asylum,” as it was commonly referred, to was established in 1875 as an overflow facility for the Stockton Asylum, which housed the criminally insane. It was partially self-sustaining, set in the fertile lands of Napa Valley amid it own vegetable gardens and fruit orchards.
By the mid-1940s, the institution, now referred to as the Napa State Hospital, cared for not only the criminally insane, but other lost souls as well. Among the denizens there were those who could not care for themselves, who had no family, no place else to go.
In the late 1930s Ms. White — a newly hired nurse at Napa State Hospital — was introduced to one of her charges, “Minnie,” a pudgy, middle-aged woman. Minnie’s brown eyes were beautiful, and vacant. Minnie was a victim of amnesia. On this day, though, a memory stirred. “My sister’s name is Marie White.”
After 20 years, great aunt Stella was found.
My 5-year- old heart was delighted. It was 1941. We were having a very special picnic — sweet lemonade, egg salad sandwiches, oatmeal cookies. We sat on a used chenille bedspread decorated with pink and purple flowers, on a great expanse of green lawn in front of a sprawl
ing, ancient red brick building, Napa State Hospital for the criminally insane.
The sweet, pudgy lady who lovingly patted my cheeks, whose eyes vacantly questioned me, was my great aunt Stella, and I was being initiated into our family secret: “You must never tell anyone about great aunt Stella.”
Amnesia was considered another form of being insane, or “crazy.” If there was one “crazy” person in the family, there could very well be more. It was a situation not to be admitted or talked about, even among close relatives, to be kept a secret if at all possible.
I was about 8 years old when I was asked by my other grandmother, “Wasn’t there another sister in Nana’s family?”
I breezily answered, “I don’t think so.”
I am now 84 years old. I have been educated to understand things such as the dynamics of family secrets, the waves of social attitudes and consequences. No matter — I lied to my dear grandmother. It is heavy on my heart. Valerie Jelenfy Stilson is a San Rafael resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 500 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.