Aunt Faye was the youngest of my Mom’s seven sisters and three brothers. When I was eight or nine, Aunt Faye was in her mid-twenties. The oldest of my aunts, Aunt Reatha, was in her late forties. Compared to my older Aunts, Aunt Faye seemed exotic; young, bold, and full of life in a feral sort of way – a wild child.
I thought she was very interesting.
Her father, my Grandad Bill, was a bit of rake and a rambler. Some part of his unbuttoned nature was certainly passed on to Aunt Faye.
She had a serious sweetheart in high school, but for reasons, unknown, they parted. Soon after, she married Dusty Spencer. Soon after that I had two new cousins: Dale Spencer and Ronnie Spencer.
For several years, Faye’s newmade family lived near mine in the tiny town of Huxley, IA. Actually, Huxley was so small, everybody lived nearby. During those years I saw a lot of Dale, Ronnie, and Aunt Faye. I didn’t see much of Dusty. I think Dusty had a bit of a rake and rambling nature, himself. It may be he got that nickname because of unannounced departures that left only dust behind. It was an impression I had. It might not be true. Maybe I’m being unfair. Still …
I was never sure when they got divorced. I’m not even sure they ever did get divorced.
For most of my childhood, my uncles and aunts in Iowa often traveled back to the places in North Missouri were we were all born - and where most of our relatives remained. My family and my cousin Donna’s family usually stayed with Grampa Joe and Grandma Ollie. Dusty and Faye usually stayed with Aunt Ruby and her husband, Harley Evans. Aunt Ruby was nearly a second mother to Aunt Faye.
Dusty and Harley seemed to be pals despite twenty-some years difference in age. (Mmm? It occurs to me that, “pal”, is a gypsy word for a partner in crime). Did that word float up from some subconscious association in my mind? It certainly could have. Dusty Spencer and Harley Evans always seemed to be only marginally separated from some unnamed nefarious something or other. The word, desperado, also comes to mind. I’m probably being unfair. But - I do recall vague talk that when Harley Evans first showed up in Ridgeville, MO, he was on the run from some kind of a stick-up in Texas. Maybe a gas station or a bank, or, maybe it was all just fanciful talk. In any case, He married Aunt Ruby, and that was that.
A good woman can work miracles.
Dusty Spencer & Harley Evans – Ridgeway, MO, 1952
After a few years in Huxley, Dusty and Faye moved to Pinckneyville, IL. I don’t know why. I do know I didn’t see much of them after that. We went to visit once. I remember a small house with a causeway connecting house to garage. I remember seeing Aunt Faye, Ronnie and Dale. That was the last time I ever saw or talked to either Ronnie or Dale. I don’t remember seeing Dusty, at all. Don’t even know if he was there.
Aunt Faye smoked, drank, and stayed out late. None of my other aunts did. I guess that’s why I thought of her as a little wild. Smoking and drinking would not have been considered, “wild”, in too many families but mine. Mt. Moriah had three hundred-some residents, five churches, no bars, and everybody knew exactly what everyone else was doing.
Ridgeway wasn’t much different. I guess that’s why Aunt Faye moved as soon as she was out of high school.
Aunt Faye moved a lot.
Dale & Ronnie Spenser – Huxley IA, 1952
After several years in Pinckneyville, she moved to Peoria IL. Did Dusty go with her? Don’t know. I believe Dale and Ronnie lived thereafter in Pinckneyville, where they had grown up, My knowledge of Faye’s whereabouts, and whenabouts from then on is pretty sketchy.
I’ll tell what I can.
Some time, before or after Pinckneyville, she moved out west to Reno Nevada.
This was likely In the 70’s. I only know the bits and pieces I occasionally heard from Mom. Somehow out there, she improbably ran into her high school sweetheart, Arthur Pontius - some forty-plus years after their teenage romance. This strikes me as the sort of romantically destined meeting that is rare in life, though likely enough in a Hollywood movie.
Arthur had owned a company: Preferred Trenching, in Carson City, NV. He was a retired widower, with a comfortable income. They spent the next fifteen to twenty years happily together - in an RV - traveling back-and-forth from Nevada in the summer, to unknown sunny southwestern destinations in the winter. Aunt Faye apparently spent her golden years on one continuous endlessly rolling vacation. A way-of-life that perfectly fit her nature.
Sometime in the 90’s, I got a call from my cousin, Donna. She said Aunt Faye had returned to Pinckneyville for a birthday party; planned by her sons. Donna gave me a number. I called. Aunt Faye picked up the phone. “Is this Aunt Faye”? I asked. “yes”, said she, “who are you”? “It’s Ken”. “Who”? “Ken . . . Kenny . . Erma Dale’s son”. “Oh yes, well, how are you”? And thus begin the longest conversation I ever had with Aunt Faye. Really it was the only conversation I’d ever had with her. The last time I spoke to her, before this time, I was ten years old.
In the background I could hear clinking glasses, loud music, and muffled voices. “Let me get my drink and cigarettes . . . I’m going ‘round to a bedroom so we can talk without screaming ”.
We talked for well over an hour.
In the course of the catch-up news, Aunt Faye said she had worked for a few years at a record-pressing plant. (Can’t remember if it was in Pinckneyville or Peoria). Recording artists and big shots from both Motown and Nashville came frequently to pick up copies of their fresh recordings. Aunt Faye meet, and talked to many of them. I was impressed. Aunt Faye didn’t think it was such a big deal. “They had their business to take care of, and I had mine”.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Billups girls are singularly hard to impress.*
“Well who did you meet”? “Oh, Glenn Campbell, Conway Twitty, Mary Wells, I think that was her name, and a manager, or something . . . Gordan? “Barry Gordy”?, I asked”. “Maybe“, I might be getting some of them mixed up. It was a while back”.
Aunt Faye did keep some unknown number of those first pressings. I hope Dale and Ronnie discovered them.
Aunt Faye is gone now, with stories untold. I wish I knew more. There is a line in a song by Paul Siebel: Hillbilly Child, that always makes me think of Aunt Faye - She’s kind of wild / She’s a hillbilly child / You should see her dance the sneaky boogaloo . . .
Wild Child -
Aunt Faye in her twenties.
* Sometime in 1961, Aunt Maxine (Donna’s Mom) met the famous painter, Thomas Hart Benton. He was painting a mural in the Truman Library at Independence, MO. I believe Aunt Maxine was there to see the new library. “Wow”, I said, “What was he like”? “Cranky old bastard”, was all she had to say. She had never heard of him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He had his business to attend to, and she had her business to attend to.
Maybe it’s a country thing.
Thanks: to my cousin, Donna Zaiger, for her invaluable research.