By Sharon Gardner
August 2008It was one of those days all mothers can identify with. The kids were quarreling, shirking their chores, whining about being bored and being purposefully irritating. I had all I could take. It wasn't that I didn't love my 4-year-old son and the eight teenage girls the court had placed in foster care, but at this moment I didn't feel very loving.
I retreated to my closet before I exploded. I spotted my husband's old green Army cap and shirt and impulsively put them on. I wheeled back to the kitchen with the sternest, most commanding presence I could muster, defiantly wearing the insignia of his former unit — Hell on Wheels. It got their attention. They fell quiet as they finally realized they had hit the wall and the wall wasn't budging.
I did marvel that I was even hired for the job as housemother at Abilene Girls Home. I always wanted a large family, but my spinal cord injury at age 13 made that goal more challenging. I got married at age 20 in 1966 to my wonderful Charles and 14 months later was thrilled to give birth to a precious baby boy, Chuck. My dreams and prayers had been answered.
Still, reports of children needing foster parents tugged at me. Charles and I interviewed with Child Welfare, as it was called then, and within the week we had 11-year-old Ruthie. Her legs and feet were a mass of scars where her mother had poured boiling water on her. She never smiled, wouldn't interact and glared at us. This was going to be harder than I thought. Before we could break through her armor, the social worker moved her. I ached for children who were not only abused by their families but were now continually uprooted by the system. No wonder this child had developed a self-protective hardness.
A few days later we got Debbie, a 14-year-old who'd been abused by a series of stepfathers, as well as previous foster parents. After she got past her initial suspicion, she interacted — laughing and hugging a lot. But there was much pain beneath the surface, expressed by smoking, drugs, and other behavior. But we had already bonded with her and would hang in there with her for the long haul. Within a few months she settled in and we were a family — mom, dad, 3-year-old Chuck and 14-year-old Debbie.
That's when Debbie's social worker suggested Charles and I apply to be house parents at Abilene Girls Home, a residential facility for eight girls at a time. We were the youngest and most inexperienced of five couples interviewing for the position that night. I was the only one with a disability. The board seemed incredulous that we thought we could handle the job physically. Finally, I said, "Look, if you think I sit around with a blanket over my legs, I've got news for you."
"But how will you cook for this many girls?"
"Ma'am, it will not be a problem. I'll just quadruple my recipes. It's not that hard."
"But this is a two-story house. You can't get upstairs."
"Ma'am, there is only one bedroom upstairs. Girls who prove trustworthy will get to stay upstairs on the honor system as their reward."
I also made a point to say, "I can relate to the girls. I had my accident at age 13. I know how it feels being different, not having a normal social life. But I learned principles of surviving and excelling despite the struggle. I can teach them those principles."
We got the job. Charles, Chuck, Debbie and I moved into the Girls Home. I was just 26; Charles was 30. We'd received no training or preparation when we became idealistic parents to eight wounded, angry, rebellious teenage girls. Each girl had her own unique story and resultant behavior. We naively thought that we could love them so much they'd just forget their painful pasts and become happy obedient teenagers. We had no concept how deeply abuse penetrates into the psyche.
I remember many joyful times laughing at silly antics, playing practical jokes, experimenting with hairstyles and make-up, giggling over boys, making chocolate chip cookies and me popping wheelies as they gasped. There were endless hours teaching basic personal hygiene, social skills, how to do laundry, make beds, and clean bathrooms. There were poignant moments listening to their heart cries, hugging and praying with them. But there were also many frustrating, tension-filled days when their inner pain collided with teenage hormones and erupted like a volcano all over me. Those were the Hell on Wheels days.
Charles drove the girls to school every morning on his way to work. I stayed home to work through to-do lists, start dinner and try to have quality time with Chuck. In the evening Charles would care for Chuck while I concentrated on the girls. But schedules rarely went as planned. There was almost always a girl home sick, one truant from school, one needing to be driven to an appointment, several screaming at another — or at me. The chaos was never ending.
The daily routine was laborious even on good days. There were no microwaves, family-size frozen entrees, Sam's or Costco's in 1972. I drove to the store, unloaded my chair from the back seat, plopped my son into the grocery cart and pushed him — and a monstrous amount of groceries — to the check-out counter.
Back at the house, little Chuck and I unloaded it all. Then I began cooking enough to satisfy the 11 of us. The girls set the table and did kitchen, house and yard detail, but it often took a lot of cajoling, coercion and instruction. Then we started on the neverending homework - times eight.
Shopping was always an adventure — eight girls and me combing through racks of clothes and shoes in narrow aisles. The clothing allotment was microscopic, yet the girls longed to dress like their classmates. We had the classic battles over how short their skirts could be.
I tried to scrape enough money out of the food budget to take them out to eat once a month, a new experience for some of them. At one restaurant nine of us sat around an oversize table. "Mom, can Juanita and I get steak if we share one plate?"
"But Mom, this lasagna is only a dollar over our limit."
The waitress looked incredulously at our multicultural group. She queried Maria skeptically, "Is that really your mom?" Two or three girls piped, "Yes!" Obviously the waitress still couldn't acknowledge me as a capable human being. She took the girls' orders, then jerked her head towards me and asked, "What does she want?"
The Gardner's 1971 portrait shows Sharon and Charles Gardner with their son Chuck and their foster daughter Debbie.
On Mother's Day, I got four separate breakfasts in bed, each girl proudly wanting me to eat hers. I dutifully forced myself to eat them all so none would feel rejected.
There was no recreation allowance, but I did squeeze the budget enough to take the girls to the zoo for a special outing. We laughed at the monkeys, recoiled from the lions, marveled at the giraffes and headed for the exit 10 minutes before closing. Two girls went ahead through the turnstile, but I needed staff to unlock the gate for me. The ticket booth and office were locked and dark. The girls scurried around the zoo looking for an employee. They were all gone!
We analyzed the turnstile; there was no way to get me through. "Mom! We'll haul you over the fence." I looked at the 8-foot chain link fence. "Absolutely not!"
The girls giggled and teased me as we realized no staff would be coming. I could just see my photo with the headlines, "Helpless Handicapped Woman Locked in Zoo." I was mortified at the thought.
I sent two girls off to find a pay phone and call Charles. He made some irate calls and eventually the zookeeper arrived. I rushed home, too embarrassed to even demand free passes.
There were continual physical and emotional needs and not enough of me to go around. We got only eight hours a week off and one 48-hour weekend each month. It was not long enough to recover before we had to return. There was no support staff, no counselors, no drivers, no kitchen help — just Charles, who had another full-time job, and me.
Charles and Sharon Gardner recently were reunited with their foster daughter, Debbie.
One night our sleep was interrupted three times by calls from police. The same girl had been picked up on the streets each time. I begged the police to just keep her until morning. Charles was too tired to make another trip to the police station. "Can't, Ma'am. You must come get her." We longed to put a lock on the door, but the fire department wouldn't allow it.
Through the course of the year, 20 different girls lived with us. My learning curve stretched my brain, my heart, my body and my patience, taking a heavy toll on our marriage and our son. Finally we resigned but left believing that, at least for a while, the girls had a taste of a loving family, regular meals and parents willing to sacrifice for them.
After we left, the board doubled the time off, installed an alarm on the door, hired cooking and tutoring help. Even so, the home went through five sets of nondisabled house parents in the following year. And we had lasted a year!
I missed the girls, but it was healing to have a quiet house again. Thirteen months later we had our own delightful baby girl, Kimberly, my second natural childbirth experience.
Eight years later I thought my life was complete — one boy, one girl, supportive husband, a move to Austin, Texas, and a new job as assistant to Justin Dart, Jr., as he developed the dream of the ADA. Justin and Yoshiko asked if we'd take in a young Japanese woman experiencing some difficult issues. We enjoyed Yayoi thoroughly, and after 18 months she moved into her own apartment. Then Justin asked us to take another girl, Chiemi, who also needed a stable family environment.
Word spread back to Japan that a family in Texas was willing to take in Japanese girls with problems. We got a call from Junichi Yamamoto, owner of an English school in Ueda, asking to bring a 14-year-old girl to us. Her mother had abandoned her and her physician father would pay us to raise her. Yumi arrived two weeks later and moved in with Chiemi. She knew no English, but hand motions and smiles work in any language.
We enrolled Yumi in an English school near the University of Texas. I was now working as the chaplain at South Austin Hospital and couldn't drive her to school. I held my breath as she took the bus from the hospital into town and back. She made it!
Junichi's father called again. Could we take another one? We hired a builder to enclose our garage to make space for Koji, a 14-year-old boy. We sent him to English school along with Yumi and reinforced their English and cultural adjustment over dinner every evening.
After a few months we put Koji in a nearby boarding school where we could have him on weekends. Yamamoto called again. Could we take 15-year-old twin boys? I gulped when I picked them up from the airport. They were built like budding Sumo wrestlers. How could I cook that much?
Looking back, I marvel that I had the supernatural energy to pull it all off for so many years. Charles was occupied working long, high-stress hours as the hospital's materials manager. I was now director of pastoral care, director of volunteer services and co-chair of the medical ethics committee, dealing with death, critical issues and grief all day. Every night I cooked for us four Gardners and four foreign teenagers, making frequent late night trips to the grocery store to replenish the refrigerator, which seemed to swallow everything I put in it.
One Saturday I wheeled past the television with a basket of dirty laundry on my lap just as a financial advisor said, "The whole tax system is geared toward business deductions. Turn your hobby into a business. You'll make more money and always enjoy your work."
I yelled at the TV, "Hobby?! I don't have time for a hobby! I'm too busy taking care of these kids!" It was my epiphany. I was doing what I loved — being a mother to many and getting paid for it. I already had a business, but had been too busy to realize it! I named my company SonRise Home Placement Service.
Yamamoto kept sending more students. The English school in Austin said they could get high school students from many countries — Mexico, Taiwan, Venezuela, Bahrain, Kuwait, Columbia, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, and more — if I'd provide a family environment to reassure their parents. I started soliciting homes from trusted friends and referrals, sometimes finding a suitable home just days before the student arrived. I made dozens of trips to the airport, always surprised that parents overseas would entrust their children to a stranger they couldn't even communicate with — and pay for doing so. Once for over a year I was responsible for five 15-year-old boys and several teenage girls simultaneously. Scary!
The most challenging placement was a 15-year-old Nigerian girl with cerebral palsy. Her single mother had no money but was determined to get her child to America to save her from institutional life. On nothing but sheer faith, I agreed, then chastised myself for doing so. It would be impossible. One week later an older couple read my urgent prayer request, modified their small home for her wheelchair and raised her at no pay — for four years!
Eventually we had 20 international students live in our own home. Some stayed just a few weeks, others two to three years. Husband Charles helped in a thousand ways, lightened tense moments with goofiness and showed the girls what real respect and safe hugs are. Teenage Chuck often chauffeured, gofered and sometimes gave up his bed. Kimberly, only 10 when we started taking international students, was a natural nurturing assistant mother to kids years older than herself.
There were another 85 students that I placed in host homes, while supervising their education, meeting with their teachers, listening to their problems and funny stories, resolving conflicts with their host families, taking them to the doctor and out for hamburgers over the course of 15 years.
When it was all over, counting the original 20 girls in foster care, we'd directly or indirectly parented 125 high school or beginning college students from 21 countries, 40 of them in our home. I had indeed fulfilled my dream, then gratefully moved into the next great era — being a grandmother and loving it!
Pure joy on wheels.
