I first met Cynthia, aka CW, later to be familiarly known as "Ma Borgia", on or about the fourth of July, 1954. My family and I, having just arrived from Portland, were sitting on the low wall at the far side of the patio.
Frenetic preparations were underway for a campaign party for Fred Farr (the present congressman's father) who was running for state Assembly. Cynthia burst out the door onto the patio while making the following pronouncement, which is forever etched in my memory:
"Hoo-hah!! Hamms beer is now being brewed in San Francisco!!"
Those were the first words I ever heard from her. The last (coherent) words I heard from her were "I love you, David". I'm not sure which words were more surprising, the first ones -- because I had never heard an adult say anything like that, or the last ones -- because Cynthia had never, in the intervening 56 years, said anything like that to me.
Anyway, getting back to 1954 for the moment, the day I arrived was the day Cynthia began my re-education about the meaning of the word "parent". As those of you who knew her may recall, my mother was -- shall we say -- not cut out to be a parent. She was sadly afflicted with a terminal case of narcissism, but as a child growing up without any other serious point of reference, it's impossible to understand this. So the first thing Cynthia gave me was another point of reference -- a reality check which enabled the light to dawn. I began to see that my problems at home were not entirely my fault.
Those early years at the Williams' were great. Lots of after-school monopoly and hearts with John, Red, and Tony Weaver. Jump-rope on the patio which for some reason was very big for a while. Meanwhile, the situation at home was steadily deteriorating to the point that I was finally sent away to boarding school in New Hampshire. But Cynthia's reach was wide, and her daughter Beebo who was living in Cambridge Mass. at the time stepped into the breach, providing an occasional much-needed respite from the organic food and cow-milking.
Flashing forward a few years, I was a college drop-out, seriously estranged from my family, and teetering on the brink of who-knows-what. Cynthia and Russell took me in and more or less adopted me. Together with Dennis Peavey, another early boarder, I lived at the Institute for three very formative years. Many new faces appeared: Joan and Michael, Arthur Eikenberry, Reeford and Yolanda. Honey returned from Villa Mercedi with Susan Clifford (later Rayner) in tow. Ma Borgia's was in full swing. Meanwhile, Cynthia's nephew Don gave me a job which turned out very successfully for both of us. So between the vastly improved home life with Cynthia and the positive experience at Criley-Ops with Don, I transitioned from a troubled teen-ager to a reasonably capable young adult.
That's just the first 10 years, and I could go on at length about the next 46, but the first 10 were the most important. And as to the question: what did Cynthia teach me? Maybe you can already see the answer: more than I know.
David Goldschmidt
