Embarrassing Mistake (something you broke) - by Mom

Personal history question : did you ever break anything , such as a window? The home I grew up in, on the west -side outskirts of Evansville, Indiana, was a two-storey white clapboard house on an odd-shaped lot, next to an aging dwindling farm.

The backyard was grassy and bordered by numerous trees, separating our backyard from the farmhouse's front yard. There was an ancient peach tree, producing almost no peaches but lots of thick sap. It had a low bowl of 3 or 4 very thick branches coming out if the trunk and this was one of my favorite places to read and hide from chores.

One spring day, I had been nestled in the tree with a book, and decided to go into the house. There was a set of concrete steps leading up to the back door. It must have been still a bit chilly weather, because instead of the screen door, the storm door was in place. It was a wooden frame door with eight large panes of glass. I was running up the steps, tripped on the top step and, in putting my arm out to catch myself, instead crashed my hand and forearm through one of the glass panes. I remember quite well the shape of the glass shard that was still in the frame. My wrist was bleeding a little, and in alarm, I pulled my arm back through the space, across that sticking-up piece of glass.

{Mom drew a picture, which I am still figuring out how to get on here in an easily accessible way!  It kind of looks like a drawing of the above picture with some blood colored onto the bottom center shard poking straight up.  : )}

Arm in. Arm out.
There was a great hue and cry. My mother's friend Liz Grunwald, was over visiting and she had some background in science, although I think it was chemistry, not anything actually medical. Nevertheless, she was calm, she wrapped my arm in a towel, and drove my mother and me to the hospital emergency room. I wonder now who stayed with her children while she drove us, but I don't remember. A nurse poured green liquid soap into the wound and scrubbed it with a stiff brush, and that hurt worse than the injury, the stitches or anything else. The doctor came in and stitched it up. There were three cuts, one small one close to the wrist and two parallel lacerations in the middle of my inner forearm. It took over twenty stitches; I didn't watch.

After it was all bandaged, my dad picked up up at the hospital. It didn't hurt and I just went about my usual 11 year old stuff the rest of the night. I had instructions not to lift anything, and I didn't, but in the course of playing, little brother Jimmy was about to fall off a chair and I caught him. Nothing happened at that moment, but in the middle of the night , I woke up to find the whole big bandage and my bed sheets soaked in blood. We went back to the ER . The stitches in the little cut had pulled open, causing a slow ooze. My arm was restitched, and when I returned to school, I had quite the show and tell.

That was not the first or last clumsy thing I ever did to break something, but it was probably the most memorable.

Another breaking incident occurred when owns a freshman in college. I had a childhood crush on William F. Buckley., who was a brilliant conservative political writer , much admired by pretty much all the adults I knew. When I got to St. Louis University, I discovered there was a chapter of his organization for students -- Young Americans for Freedom. I can talk about the politics of the day in another piece, but this club was mainly social. I was recruited by Mimi Federer, and by default went into the yearbook as one of the officers.

I never did anything official, except help her with a party for the club members at her house just before Christmas break. As the party got started, her mother asked me to carry the punch bowl (FULL!) from the kitchen to the party area. And I dropped it and broke it, and all the punch spilled, all over me, the floor and the tablecloth. To this day, when I think of it, I have the feeling that the bowl broke before I dropped it, but of course no one knows that for sure but the angels in heaven. Everyone was very nice about it, but of course I was mortified. I sometimes still blush when I recall the moment!

Now as I have written this little story, it occurs to me for the first time, Who fills a punch bowl and carries it to the table?? Not an experienced host. You place the punch bowl on the table, mix the punch in a pitcher in the kitchen, and pour it into the bowl in situ. But I didn't known that then and evidently, neither did Mimi or her mother!

Embarrassing Mistake - by Dad

Embarrassing mistake, Personal hx , Kent McDonald


An embarrassing mistake?? What? You want me to embarrass myself? I have to think of something funny and not too embarrassing. Let me think.
Ok, here is one.  I'm afraid this is one you all know about. It was spring2010, my year to go to the ACP meeting and mom and I are really excited because the meeting is in Toronto, Canada. We have never been to Toronto or to Canada for that matter, it is supposed to be beautiful in the spring and we have some friends we are going to hook up with and mom gets tickets for an exhibit that is in town while we are there for us and our friends. Boy we are excited. So a week before the trip, we have already made our plane and hotel reservations and researched about Toronto, the art and music that will be there, etc. so we start to pack and I go to the file cabinet where we keep our passports to gather up our paperwork. Guess what? Of course you know. Our passports expired 6 months ago. We scramble, we make calls, we figure and finagle. Th ere is absolutely no way to get our passports renewed in time. We call friends who have traveled to Canada recently, the Birds , etc. it used to be before 9/11 you could go in without a passport. Then you just needed one to get back. We thought if you got into Canada, we could then go to an embassy or consulate and get it renewed. We tried to figure every angle. Finally we decided to just try getting onto the airplane. Before we did, we went to the immigration office at the airport the day of our flight. No help.
So we go to the airline desk to try checking in to the flight. You know the answer. No negotiating or begging or pleading is necessary. The answer is just plain no. No way. Can't be done. What a let down. But we can use our credit flying on canada air within a year. So now I have 5 days off work, about $2500 in plane tickets and reservations that we can't use, and we are sitting in the las Vegas airport.
Well, I did feel pretty bad.  But mom and I have learned to make the best we can out of a bad situation . We called and cancelled what we could and ended  salvaging all but the airline tickets. Of course, we had to confess to our friends that I was too dumb to check our passports before planning a trip to another country. But we ended up going to California and having artery fun vacation. So all was not lost.
The moral of this story? Check your pass or be an ass...
Love, Dad

Cars and Driving - by Mom

            I first took Drivers Ed in High School, at Academy Immaculate Conception when I was a 16-year-old Junior. It was a required part of the curriculum.  I don’t know if that was a State requirement in Indiana, or if that was just our school.  The Driver’s Ed teacher was a young coach from Ferdinand High School, the public high school in the town, whom the Sisters borrowed once a week to take us out driving. The classroom part was handled by the Health teacher, who also taught math and Phys Ed.  We saw all the horrifying films of smashed heads and bloody crushed bodies of teenagers as part of our training. Those films made some girls laugh, and some of us cried.

            Driving with the coach was a mixed experience.  My friend Sheila Washington actually dated him (secretly, of course) until the nuns found out.  But as for me, all he did was yell at me.  You have to know that southern Indiana around there is not flat—there are lots of twisty, well-wooded roads, with blind curves and what felt like mountains to me. 

            I had never driven anything, including a bicycle (not kidding) and I was terrified.  We got out on the country roads and I was going about 15 miles an hour, until I got to a really curvy part and I slowed way down.  I remembered the driving “theory” instructions to speed up a little coming out of a curve, so I would spurt on the speed, but then there was another curve, and so I slowed way down again.  Following the pavement seemed like an impossible task; I was so sure I would run off the road!  I’m sure it must have been a terrible ride for the girls in the back. Finally, Denny ( or whatever his name was—he couldn’t have been much  more than 5 years older than we were) yelled, “Just drive the car!” I was crying but this time, paralyzed by fear, and I yelled back, “You’re supposed to TEACH me to drive the car!”  He said, “Haven’t you ever driven before?”  I said no, and he softened up, and taught me how to manage the speed and the curves and the whole thing.  Not so bad after all….

            Nevertheless, I didn’t get my license until after I turned 18 because the insurance rates were much lower for an 18-yr. old High School Graduate.

            When I started driving on a regular basis, I think I drove my parents’ International Harvester Travelall. It’s a brand /  company that no longer makes passenger vehicles.  I think they were originally a tractor company that made cars for a while. The Travellall was the forerunner of today’s SUV.  It was bigger than a jeep and smaller than a suburban. 

You can see (other) pictures here : http://dayerses.com/international-harvester-travelall.html.

            I drove very little as a teenager.  I didn’t get my license until age 18, then I went off to college sans  vehicle. Living in St Louis as a “poor student”  I either walked or took a bus wherever I wanted to go.  I didn’t even have friends with cars until my Junior year.  In my senior year, I persuaded my parents to let me and Peter and some others take the Travelall to Dallas for our friend Sally Schwab’s marriage to her high school sweetheart Tony Tinkle. (Yes. Those are their real names.) I don’t know exactly how it happened, but I was allowed to keep it in St. Louis from August until I went home for Christmas break.  I broke it about 2 months into the semester, procrastinated fixing it until the last minute, then baked cookies for the mechanic-friend of the guy I was dating, who  fixed it enough so I could get home to Evansville.  Actually the sequence of those events now seems very flawed, but it was some combination of those real  moments.

            I returned the vehicle to my folks, and didn’t own another car until just before I married Kent in SLC. Shortly after I moved there, he insisted I buy a car. I was determined to take a bus to work from 3^rd East and 3^rd South to the U of U Medical Center where I worked.  That is, until I learned that the first bus didn’t run until 90 minutes after I needed to be on the job. So Kent bought me a used gray Rambler, which looked sort  of like this picture (but gray):
     

One morning in the early dark I backed it into a large dumpster behind my building, specifically, I backed the rear vent window into the protruding arm of the dumpster, smashing the window out , letting the cold air in… Brrrrr….. for the rest of the winter.

            My only real accident was on our honeymoon.  We had been married less than 48 hours, and we had driven from SLC to just outside of Battle Mountain, NV on our way to San Francisco.  Road trip! NOT! Near Battle Mountain, Kent got sleepy and pulled over and asked me to drive, which I was happy to do, although I had very little experience of long-distance driving.  The morning was clear and bright, the road was dry, and shortly after taking the wheel, I fell asleep, waking up as I drifted off the road, over-corrected at the median and rolled the car 1 ¾ times across our lanes and onto the shoulder.  You might think this was terrifying, and it would have been, if I had been awake to see it all.  The big problem was that I didn’t have a valid license at the time, having not driven much, I had not renewed in Missouri, and hadn’t gotten around to getting a Utah license. I don’t remember a ticket; since no one was hurt, maybe there wasn’t one.

            I remember thinking that Kent would be perfectly understandable to get the marriage annulled.  But he didn’t.  WE had the totaled car towed to Ely, where we got a little plane to Reno, and from there to San Francisco, where we enjoyed our honeymoon without recrimination or sorrow!  Thanks to Dad being very forgiving and loving.

Links:
Rambler:
www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=rambler+car&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8#hl=en&client=safari&rls=en&q=rambler+car+pictures&revid=1021405042&sa=X&ei=f_w6UOK6LuSViAK2v4D4DQ&ved=0CHgQ1QIoAA&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_qf.&fp=f4f342edee0689e5&biw=1115&bih=613

Cars and Driving - by Dad

When I was a teen we were allowed to get our license at 15 1/2 years old, I
think you had to drive with an adult until you were 16, then you got your
independent license. We all had drivers ed when I was in school, it was
taught by a guy named Gene Payne who was a legend in Heber, former highway
patrol became teacher who also taught health in junior high school, was
famous for setting aside two days after the deer hunt to tell deer stories
in class. He later became the owner of Snyder's Hot Pots, a swim resort in
Midway, and was alcoholic. But I digress. He was the one who taught me in
drivers ed. Prior to that I had been taught by my dad because I worked at
the garage and part of my work was washing all the used cars on the lot once
a week, so I would carefully drive the used cars from the lot to the car
wash bay, about half a block away. It was all on private property so I
didn't need a drivers license for that and started at age 13. By the time I
was 17, my dad had picked out a car he thought would be a good one for me,
and told me I could buy it. It was a 1957 Olds 88 with a giant 400 cubic
inch v8 engine which was very heavy and drove kind of like a boat. That was
my first car, though. I believe prior to that I had driven my mother's 61
chevy convertible and wrecked it once and drove it into a ditch once on a
date with Sharon Bowden. Her dad had to come and pull us out of the ditch
with his tractor. How embarrassing that was. I crashed my mother's car in
Salt Lake trying to speed up to wave to a friend (David Rasband) and crashed
into the rear end of the car in front of me. I remember that wreck ruined
the front end of the car, but only cost $700 to fix which seems like very
little, but it would probably be more like $7000 now.
I left that 57 olds for Stanton to drive when I went on my mission, and
according to the folks he "drove it into the ground". In any case it was no
more when I got back. I bought a classice VW beetle and drove for a short
time after my mission, then sold it and bought a datsun 1600 sports roadster
with a removable hardtop, the only two seater I have ever owned. I loved
that car, but sold it before I went to med school and was without a car my
first year of med school. I lived right across the street from the school so
I didn't really need a car and I bought a Schwinn Varsity used 10 speed for
transportation. My second year in med school (1976) I bought a 1965 Ford
Falcon, the worst car I have ever owned I suppose.

I  sold that car when I went to Israel for the summer after my second year,
and later bought a Toyota Corona, red 4 door that I owned when Mom and I got
married. We drove that car to San Francisco for our honeymoon. Out in the
middle of Nevada about mid morning after our wedding I was getting sleepy
and I asked carolyn if she could drive. She said yes, but she was sleepy too
and went to sleep, woke up going off the road, over corrected and rolled the
car 1 3/4 turns near the town of Battle Mountain, Nevada. Fortunately
neither of us was seriously hurt  - angels must have protected us and that
little car was very sturdy. We decided to leave the car there at the shop
and went to Ely, Nevada where we were able to get a plane to San Francisco
and rent a car for the rest of our honeymoon.

Well, I think that is enough rambling about cars. Thinking about cars
brought back a lot of memories. Thanks for asking.
Love,
Dad

Teachers - by Mom

Personal History Assignment: Tell about your teachers

            This may have to be a multiple installment topic.

           

            My first teachers were my parents. I remember sensing a feeling of excitement and delight coming from them as they showed me the world, and as I showed them things I discovered: mud pies, alley cats, the world  beyond the chain link fence between the row of garages behind our apartment building and the back yards in middle of the block.

I recall vividly my first trip to the public library with my mother. This picture  

 

must be it, because the street and cross street are the street we lived on (Elmwood Avenue) and the street where my grandmother lived (West Ferry St) The light outside was slanted, so it was either morning or late afternoon. The library was shiny and clean and nearly empty. We went to the low shelves of the children’s section.  It seems like my Aunt Quin or Aunt Mary was with us as we walked to it, but I don’t remember anyone with us while we looked at books. It seemed to me that my mom was very excited about it because it was new.  But she always loved any library, and I can tell more about that another time.

What I remember most was the airy excitement of the large well-let room, and a giddiness I felt there surrounded by all those stories.  We took home a book about Hiawatha and some other Indian  (Native American) books.  Mom read part of a book to me there, and then the rest at home.  I’m pretty sure there was one about Katerina Tekawitha (the first native American to be put forth for sainthood.) 

           

My Kindergarden teacher I don’t remember except for a little joke she made. Once we were putting on our coats and boots to go home, and I asked her to put my boots on.  She said, “I can’t.  My feet are too big.” I think I didn’t get it until much later. But she laughed at it herself and I remember thinking it was the first time I ever really looked at her face, instead of all the garb of her habit.

My first grade teacher, who I will call Sister Jean Anne is  more memorable overall, but not really in such a good way, particularly for the one event .

            First of all, know that my elementary school experiences were all in Catholic school, so everything academic is interwoven with religious education and Catholic practices.  At Holy Spirit parish, which I attended just one year, children made their First Holy Communion as a class at the end of First Grade.  In preparation, we learned a bunch of basic catechism about the sacraments of Confession and  Communion and practiced marching up the aisle as a class taking our seats as a group in a special section reserved just for us for that Sunday.

            There was specific gear to be purchased as well.  I don’t know what they sold the boys, but for girls there was a kit you could order through the school. Like school pictures, there was the Basic package and the Deluxe package, and I got the Deluxe, consisting of a veil, a little white prayer book, a rosary, some commemorative holy saints cards , a tiny white purse with an adjustable shoulder strap and white gloves. ( I still have the prayer book and the rosary, if you ever want to see them.)  It may be that the dress came from there too, or it may have come from JCPenneys. Most department stores carried a rack or two of First Communion dresses.

            Anyway, the part of this that is about a teacher is this.  On the very day, we lined up outside the church, as we had practiced many times,  so as to make a procession into the seated congregation.  Picture “Here Comes the Bride” with 20 six-year-olds.  We had made our First confession during school hours on Friday, but I was such a scrupulous kid that I convinced my dad to take me back to regular confessions on Saturday afternoon, so I would be totally pure and sinless on Sunday morning.

            I had on my little white shoes, brand new and unscuffed, and little white anklets, plus all the gear listed above, including  . . .  the GLOVES! Standing in the line with my hands pressed together, the fingertips pointing straight up to heaven, (not at my neighbor’s back or drooping apart!) as instructed, I heard the angry hiss of Sister Jean Ann, “Gloves!” and the next thing I know, she’s snatching off my little white gloves, madder than anything,  “Who do you think you are? Do you see anyone else wearing gloves?”  Clearly my mother and I had not gotten the memo that not ALL the deluxe package was to be used on The Day.

            I was so embarrassed and upset at having done something wrong, I don’t remember anything else about the sacramental portion of the day. I worried that I wouldn’t get my gloves back. I worried about sin. I worried about my mother, implicated in the crime for not having somehow prevented it.

           

            And that is the only thing I actually remember about Sister Jean Ann.  I’m sure now she was a fine young woman, who was as afraid of disappointing her superiors as I was of mine.  She wanted everything to be perfect, just like I wanted to BE perfect that day. And we totally messed up each others’ moment. No, wait.  That’s not right.  She got hers—a double file of perfect little six-year-olds marching in perfect procession onto the waiting congregation. 

Links: 

Library: http://www.buffalolib.org/content/library-locations/area-libraries?lib=Crane+Branch 

Kateri Tekakwitha:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kateri_Tekakwitha 

           

Childhood Birthday Parties - by Mom

Personal History Assignment: Childhood Birthday Parties

            I don’t remember any of my own birthday parties.  I know I had some when I was very small, one or two years old, because I have seen photos and old home-movies of them.  But I believe all my “memories” of the events are actually memories of  the recorded images and my parents’ stories.

            Our own family tradition of letting the One Year Old and the Two year old Birthday child sitting in front of the cake and taking a bite or a handful comes from my own first or second birthday.  Somewhere there are pictures of that, and if I have any memory of that at all, it is of the delight and laughter surrounding that moment. I seem to experience a certain elation at being the center of so much unmixed happy attention, and in my character there are echoes of  that “unconditional positive regard” as a therapist might characterize it.  Or we could just call it love. 

            But when I hear a comedian or an actor talking about the high they feel from applause, this moment of the birthday  attention resonates of that kind of crazy happiness. But again, I think its just from the oral and photo history, not from actual memory.

            As for the birthday parties of friends, I can’t say I remember any.  There were sleepovers, and they may have been associated with birthdays,  but I just don’t recall.  I don’t recall mothers bringing cupcakes to school for children’s birthdays, as I often did for my own children.

            Perhaps none of this happened for me because I was the oldest and my mom didn’t have a lot of experience.  It might be that because my birthday was in the summer, there was no opportunity to invite schoolmates.

            In any case, I know that I was determined as a new mother to make every birthday as special as I could.  I can even say I felt a little competitive about it—competing not so much with specific friends or neighbors, but with an ideal birthday party in the cosmos.  This ideal was always at war with my frugality and the more practical side of my nature, so while I often thought of extravagant favors and decorations, when it cam right down to the purchase, I was more inclined toward the “less is more” philosophy.  Again, I would have to look at the photos to recall the details.  I just know that I wanted every birthday of every child to be a celebration of his or her life and  the good fortune that was ours in having that wonderful small person in our lives.  I’m quite sure I always went to bed with a bundle of emotions that included delight, satisfaction and the certainty that the event had fallen short in many nameless ways.  But that didn’t keep me from wanting to go all out again the next time!

Happiest Childhood Memory - by Mom

           I think there are a number of kinds of “happy:”  Joyful happy, peaceful happy, excited happy. . .

            I have so many happy childhood memories, but  here were two that leapt to mind when I read your question, so we’ll do those. One is  of the joyful vairety; the other is delight.

            Both of these occurred when I was 3 to 5 years old, living in Buffalo, NY.

            My dad loved to take me for a walk on Franklin Street, which must not have been very far from our apartment on Elmwood Avenue.  I have just Googled for the maps of the main places from my memories of this time and found them all in a relatively small area of Buffalo. St. Joseph’s Cathedral, Canesius Jesuit School  on Delaware Street, the street we lived on (Elmwood Ave. ) and the street where my grandparents lived ( West Ferry Street. ) I know now from the map that we lived on Elmwood very close to Delaware because it was a very short walk to my kindergarten at Canesius School.  My world at age 3-5 was circumscribed by these four places.

ST. JOSEPH’S CATHEDRAL on Franklin Street.

 You can see on the map that  St. Joe’s was at the other end of  Elmwood Avenue from where our apartment was. So perhaps we drove to the church and just went for a walk in that vicinity.

            My Dad was in the Knights of Columbus in St Joseph’s parish, and also was the Scoutmaster of the Explorer Troop of the Parish.  When my mother broke her leg ice skating on Lake Erie, I was 5, and one of my Dad’s scouts Chuck  Alaimo was tasked with walking me to school in the morning. I don’t have any recollection of how I got home.  Perhaps one of my aunts picked me up and took me back home.  Chuck lived nearby and it was on his way to school, so he held my hand the two or three blocks and took me to the school in the snow and ice.  (Buffalo has the most snowfall of all American cities, if you didn’t know.)What a good Scout!

            But that’s not the happy memory I was going to tell you.

            My Dad was really attached to the Cathedral parish.   He loved the building, the grounds, the nuns and priests. I was supposed to go to kindergarten there, and I don’t know why that fell through, perhaps because of the distance from our house. Anyway, my intended kindergarten teacher was Sister Aurelia.  I recall she was young and pretty, and the day Dad told her I wouldn’t be coming to her class, she went into the convent and brought out the three figures – Jesus, Mary and Joseph—that we have used all these years in our main nativity set.  They were wrapped in a hankie or a scarf, and she seemed so sad.  

            But that’s not the memory I was going to tell.  This is it.

            One day in the spring my Dad and I were walking down Franklin Street in front of the cathedral and we met a man in a wheelchair coming the other way.   We stopped and talked, and I saw that the man didn’t have any legs below the knee.  I started to cry and they asked my why and I said it was because his legs were gone. The man smiled really sweetly and reached in his pocket and gave me some coins.  My Dad kind of didn’t want to take them, but the man insisted that he wanted to give me something, that it wasn’t for Dad, it was for me.

            I remember noticing that my dad’s feelings were stirred by this encounter, but I didn’t understand it.  Now, I can surmise that the man was a veteran of WWII which had ended only a few years before, during which Dad had lost buddies but himself had been spared grave physical injury. Perhaps he felt, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.”  Anyway, we went into the cathedral and used the coins to light a candle for the man with no legs, and knelt and said a prayer to Mary for him.

  I can’t imagine it was my idea to do that.  My Uncle Johnny had a candy and ice cream store and I’m pretty sure I would have thought of getting an ice cream before I would have thought of lighting the candle.  But my dad made me think that I was the one who was pious and generous, and I felt quite happy that I was such a good girl. I think now it was a defining moment, literally, in that in whatever way a 5 year old can have a sense of self, I had the sense that I was sympathetic, prayerful and unselfish. More than likely, it was how my dad wanted me to be, or to become. I just know that it made me feel really happy.  I call this kind of happy “Joy.”

The second happy memory involved a toy truck. I have found a picture of it and would really like  to paste it here, but I can’t figure out how to do it..  It was a Tonka truck 1954  with a green cab and white cargo area.  It was heavy, to my hands at least, molded metal with hard black rubber wheels, and a chain across the open back. The white sides of the cargo area were like slats.  On Google the captions call it a utility truck.  Anyway, our apartment was on the second floor, above the dental office of our landlord, Dr. Patti (sp?) who lived in the 3^rd floor apartment above us with his wife and children.

Our apartment was spacious to my eyes. It had a front entrance and a back entrance, both up a flight of stairs. The back door entered directly from the outside, but the front door entered from an indoor staircase.  From the front door, the kitchen was directly ahead and the bathroom to the left at the end of a hallway.  To the right the hall went to the living room and two bedrooms.  The hardwood floor of the hallway ran from outside the bathroom all the way to the back door, an extremely long distance to me at the time.

I don’t know why we got the truck, but the day we got it, Daddy started playing with me with it, rolling it to me across the floor. I loved the feel of it, the sound of the rubber wheels rolling on the wood, and especially that power of pushing it and watching it go such a distance! Little by little, I learned to line it up and push it straight so that it would go farther and farther without bumping either wall, and get all the way to Daddy on one push.  Gradually, he backed up farther and farther down the hall towards the bathroom end. That was the dark end, while I sat in the living room end, which was full of light from the windows on that side.  Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, watching intently as we sent that truck speeding between us, back and forth. From my push it would go clear into the dark  where my Dad’s big hands would catch it, turn it around and whizzz it back to me.  It had a hefty feel as I turned it back around for the return trip.  I loved the solid weight of that truck.

 We were all laughing at the sheer fun of simple play.  I clapped my hands every time I sent it down the hall, and every time if came back to me. Over and over I sent that truck into the dark and only to have it return again and again and again from my father’s hands, into mine, my mother leaning in the doorframe, cool and graceful in her yellow and brown skirt, cheering us on.

Our play seemed to last for hours, but in fact, it has lasted 56 years in my heart and mind  as a moment of pure happiness, the kind I would call “delight.”

Happiest Memory - by Dad

June 24, 2012

My happiest childhood memory – well, it is hard to know when I stopped being a child. What keeps coming to my mind is a sweet memory of my dad taking me fishing when I was a little kid – I suppose I was 8 or 10 years old – down at the north fields near Heber..  Now there was a little creek below Grandpa McDonald’s (my grandpa, not yours) barn. I believe it was called the “London Ditch” after the barn which was called the “Londonderry Farm”. So it was my first time fishing and the first time my dad had taken me. I guess Stanton, who was 2 years younger than I,  wasn’t old enough. So it was just me and my dad. He showed me how to put the worm on the hook (of course he did it for me} and how to gently toss the line in the water so as not to shake the worm off and let it drift into the bank with the current.  Well we had fished for about half an hour, which seemed like an eternity to me, and my dad asked me if I wanted to catch a fish. Well at first I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he said he was getting a nibble on his bait and he thought he would be catching a fish shortly and wondered if I would like to catch the fish with his pole and line. Well, I was a little too proud, I guess,  to catch my dad’s fish even though  he really wanted me to, so I said no,  I wanted to wait and catch my own fish. Well, sure enough he reeled in a nice rainbow trout a few minutes later. I didn’t catch anything that night and I think we went home with one fish. But more important I realized that my dad would have liked to let me catch his fish and that he loved me enough to want me to have the experience and thrill of catching one, and that he loved me. I guess learning that my dad loved me was my happiest childhood memory. And I miss him even though he’s been gone 19 years. We fished occasionally after that, but no other fishing trip was quite as special.

Love,

Dad

Trouble at School - by Dad

I can’t think of anything that I got in trouble for that put me in a good light like your mothers’ story. I can tell you my experience trying out for 8^th grade football. As I recall, my folks discouraged me and didn’t really think I needed to play football. I knew exactly nothing about football at the time except it was the cool thing to play sports. The coach was a friend of my dads’, Dell Wallengren, who was also my 8^th grade math teacher. His wife actually was a writer and later went on to write for tv shows, in fact I just looked her up on Wikipedia, Orma Wallengren, and she wrote the script for Jonny Lingo . Anyway, I knew none of this in the 8^th grade and Dell was just the 8^th grade football coach. So I went and picked up my gear, actually I think it was the 3^rd practice or so, and I dressed and went onto the field and became a halfback. Well, I knew nothing about the plays cause I had missed the first two practices, but I stood in place and when the ball was hiked, the QB handed it off to me. Whoa, what am I going to do with this ball. Everyone pounced on me because I just stood there with the ball. The coach came over and told me to go learn the plays. Well, I was so embarrassed I didn’t really want to learn the plays or to expose myself to more embarrassment. So I just left the field, went to the dressing room and took off my equipment, checked it all back in, and thought “maybe tennis”. As it turns out, pep band was the closest I got to playing football during my junior and senior high school. If there had only been a cycling team!

Trouble at School - by Mom

PERSONAL History # 3

Did you ever get in trouble at school?

            Yes. Where should I start?

            In elementary, I had playground issues.  I was constantly in quarrels with the other girls because they didn’t like me.  Most of them lived in a neighborhood on the other edge of the  parish boundaries. Their houses were in a regular development with sidewalks, curb and gutter, small “ticky-tacky houses” and our house was on a rural road bordered by woods on one side and an ancient worn-out farm on the other.  My parents had purchased the house on a foreclosure resulting from the man of the family going to jail for embezzlement.  Their dads worked in the unionized factory where my dad was employed in management.  He was very mid-level management, but he wore a suit and tie to work and their dads wore coveralls, essentially.

            All this is to say, we were kind of from different worlds and they said I thought I was better than them. Looking back on the attitudes in  my home – the reading, the music, the aim to be cultured and educated, the emphasis on good manners – I probably did act a little snobby.  Those girls thought I was “rich” and possibly we were, compared to their lives.

            Anyway, the playground was segregated by a rope, boys’ side from girls’ side.  So the girls played a variety of “tag” which, being chubby, I was not good at to start with, but one of the favorite games was TV tag—wherein you had to include the name of some TV show in the tagging.  We didn’t have television at our house, so I was often left out. (Call the waaa-mubulance, right?) Anyway, quarrels ensued, based on many other things as well, and I got in trouble for that.

            This all changed in the middle of 7^th grade when our parents moved us to a different parish, a huge story for another day. I got along fine in the new school until I graduated eight grade and went to high school.  I think I went to the boarding school in part to avoid those girls who would have been at the same  diocesan high school, as all the parish school fed into the one Catholic high school on that side of town.

            In high school I was only in “trouble” twice, both in my Junior year.  I was president of the Junior class, and so was expected to “work for the man” so to speak, set a good example, keep others out of trouble, etc.

            Traditionally, the girls in our school were there for one of two or three reasons: to eventually enter the convent as nuns, or to get a better education, or to take refuge from rough family situations. As you know, divorce was not acceptable for Catholics in those days; some of our girls were from divorcing families, I think, and at least one girl in our class had a father over in Viet Nam—Robin Benkhart.  He was a Colonel, should have been out of the line of fire, but he was killed our sophomore year. I still miss Robin, who went home after that.

            The reason I tell you this is that in our Junior year, some girls came to school who had had trouble at home—sex, drugs, etc.  One of the girls was Monna.  She was the niece of our music teacher and our hall proctor, Sister Michelle. When she came the principal Sister Mary Dominic and Sister Michelle had a meeting with me and asked me to befriend her and help the other girls to be friendly with her. So I did, and she got a long fine.

            But she started sneaking out at night, meeting boys and who knows what, and unfortunately, confided in me.  Ultimately she escalated to hitchhiking to Evansville 50 miles away and partying until the wee hours, then hitchhiking back. 

The nuns suspected something, and asked me to tell them what I knew.  What I knew was that she would be expelled. She started taking along another girl, Eleanor, also very troubled,  who was on her last thread as well. I didn’t understand Eleanor at the time, but looking back, I think she must have taken some acid or something, because while brilliant, there was something disturbed about her mind. However, she was a fine writer and we shared a lot of our stories and poetry that year.

            Well, I wouldn’t tell the nuns and they were really mad, furious, in fact.  I asked them for permission to consult with our chaplain about what to do and they refused.  They said I had a duty to tell; I said I had a duty to be loyal.

It was the worst trouble I had ever been in, but interestingly, it was the first time I experienced having real power.  They couldn’t force me to tell.  I went for a long walk, trying to figure out what to do, and finally I went back to the office and told the sisters that they had enlisted my help to be a friend to these girls, and that was just what I was going to do. I would not betray them, and that if the sisters needed to know what the girls were doing, they would have to persuade them to confess.

            Then I went to Monna and Eleanor and told them what was going on, that the nuns must already know about their escapades or they wouldn’t be asking me about it, and that things would go better for them if they would confess and promise to stop, which is exactly what happened.

            The second thing  actualyy occurred first but it was only a prank, in which I was just peripherally involved, but caught the wrath anyway.  This one had to have been in our sophomore year, because the principal was Sister Mary Esther, and she had a TEMPER! 

            At that time we had a chaplain that no one liked, and he didn’t like the girls either. I think he was Hungarian, not that it matters.  He was on temporary assignment to the Academy, because Father Pat, the previous chaplain, was a little too touchy-feely of the girls. He (Father Pat) would make popcorn in his room, invite a few girls down, and squeeze our arms, and sideways-hug us, a LOT! We thought he was funny, but I guess it became an issue, probably some girl who was not so innocent realized it was inappropriate, and told the nuns. Anyway between Father Pat and Father ___________, we had this Hungarian temp guy to say Mass for the nuns in the morning, the High School girls at 11:30 am and the college girls at 12:30 or so.  After the college Mass he would literally run to his little yellow VW Beetle and tear out of the driveway and down the hill.  More than likely, he had added these services to an already full schedule of ministry, but all we saw was that he couldn’t get away fast enough.

            One day during the college mass, the older girls got together and lifted his car up a flight of steps to a colonnade above the parking lot.  I had nothing to do with that, but when I saw it, I suggested they put a “Just Married” sign and some tin cans  on the back.  Apparently that was more offensive than moving the car.

            The priest was evidently so angry they were afraid he was going to have  stroke. There was no humor on the part of the nuns over this, at least none that we saw, but they were generally a good-humored bunch and laughed at a lot of the other stuff we did, so I bet they had a chuckle in private!

Anyway, I got called to the office over the intercom, in a tone that predicted my imminent demise.   Sister Mary Esther started yelling from the moment I turned the bend on the staircase above her office and she saw my unrepentant face.  Fortunately, there were a dozen girls gathered on the staircase between me and her, too thickly massed to pass through, so my scolding was delivered at a distance.

             I got “campused” (grounded) for a month. For the sign (maybe I made the sign, but I don’t remember) for encouraging the prank (  I was the sophomore Class president too – see expectations above)  and  for not doing something to stop it…..

            I have to say, that one was worth it.  That chaplain didn’t last long, and we got Father _________________ who we had until we graduated, and loved so much. I  can tell you about him another time.

            Those were my bads in school.

Chores - by Mom

Personal History Number 2

Chores

My parents were not enthusiastic about giving me housework or yard work on a regular basis. We didn’t have chore charts either. When I was a teenager, my dad was very set against my getting a little summer job, but was willing to permit me to do volunteer work, which I did at age 13, as a Red Cross volunteer on a youth program, and later a couple summers on Congressional election campaigns.

I’m not sure what the issue was, but I wonder about it sometimes, whether my mother didn’t feel like taking the time to teach me to do housework, or if my dad had a problem with it.  He did have an attitude about physical labor, that it was somewhat beneath him.  I’m not sure how he squared that with Mom, leaving her to do the lawn mowing, the house painting, and the other things that needed to be done.

            One thing I loved to do was to “clean house” while mom was at work and surprise her with the vacuuming or other tasks.  I think now, I may have just made things worse….

            On the other hand,  I was a little day-dreamy, and maybe just wasn’t an effective enough cleaner to make it worth her effort to keep me on task.

            I was quite a reader, though, at an early age, and there was an age difference of 5,7, and 9 years between me and Ed, Elizabeth and James, respectively. Mother would take us to the library faithfully, every week or two, and we could check out the maximum books permitted for each kid’s library card.  My “chore” if you want to call it that, was to read to the other kids.  Sometimes I would help them learn to read, but mostly, they listened to me.  I loved doing the voices and sound effects, and leading them in choral recitations of repeated phrases.  We had our favorite Dr. Seuss books, plus Wind in the Willows series or something like it. Pippi Longstocking we loved.  Later, I read them the Chronicles of Narnia, or as much as they could tolerate. I know this kept everyone out of mom’s hair while she made dinner every night, and paid bills, and did laundry.

            In my parents’ view, our main job was to get good grades, read, practice music, do our homework perfectly,  and earn scholarships so we could go to college.

            My other “chore” was babysitting the kids, when Mom worked for Bernardin company in Evansville, Indiana, which made jars lids.  She was the personal secretary to Mr. Bernardin and sometimes brought work home, such as invitations to his childrens’ weddings and his brother’s elevation to Catholic bishop of Evansville diocese. So I would entertain my siblings and keep them (and probably me too) away from her take-home work.           

            When I was about 9 or 10, I started reading the Trixie Belden mystery series. Trixie Belden was the girl/kid detective who solved non-lethal mysteries.  She had a very rich  BFF, Honey, who was an only child. Honey was left alone in her mansion while her parents travelled. She had a governess and a groom for her horses, dozens of bathing suits, and her own pool.  Yet she envied  Trixie Belden who had three brothers and was required to do “Chores” every day.

            Along with Honey, I envied Trixie’s chores, and Trixie’s mother, who baked bread and pies. I think I asked my mother if I could have chores, and I wanted her to teach me to make bread, (which she thought was hysterically funny, because you could BUY sliced bread, in a bag, no less, at the day0old bread sotre for 30 cents a loaf, with no baking whatsoever!!)

  Eventually, I got the job of dusting her “bric-a-brac” in the dining room hutch.

            Bric-a-brac, if you don’t know, refers to a variety of china figurines, teapots, and ivory carvings she got on her travels before she was married. I loved handling these items, and probably did more day-dreaming than dusting. But that was my chore.

            We all helped wash and dry dishes, but the rotation was informal; we helped when we were told to help.  There was no dishwasher or garbage disposer.  I was convinced that I was asked to help only for the meals when we had spaghetti sauce – very messy—or fried eggs—very hard to wash off, and one time, I said just that! My sass regarding this perceived injustice was swiftly punished, and I kept my comments to an inaudible level after that.

            In high school, I baby-sat during the summers, and during the school year, every girl at my school had a chore assigned for the whole academic year.  These chores had to be finished before classes each day. Every Friday or Saturday we did a more detailed cleaning. Usually we had about 30 minutes between the end of breakfast and the start of 1^st Period. Most chores took between 10 and 15 minutes, if you didn’t dilly-dally.  One year I had  the assignment to brush two certain staircases on my dorm hall. The ceilings were about 20 feet high, so the staircases were probably 30-40 steps each.  Then on Friday or Saturday, I washed the stairs and polished the hand-rails and spindles.  Another year, I had an assignment that was shared with two other girls – cleaning the recreation room.  Another year I helped in the kitchen from time to time; that one is pretty vague in my memory, but I know hairnets were involved!

            I think my parents’ views of work were very different.  My mother adored her own father, and bragged about how hard he worked for the family – even waiting on my grandmother personally, bringing her coffee to her bedroom,  and other considerate acts, as well as working at a hard job (ship-building) and keeping up the garden and the house.  My mother was very proud of how hard he worked.

            My father, on the other hand, seemed to disdain physical labor for himself personally and those who performed it.  When I learned toward the end of his life that one of his assignments in the military was “heavy equipment operator” I was very surprised.  When we were young, he would often take us to worksites and watch the big machines with us, but he never told me, at least, that he had done that kid of work himself. I don’t know why he wouldn’t be proud of it, except that it was “dirty” work.

            I have learned my work ethic, such as it is, from your dad, from the stories of the Mormon pioneers, from my remembrances of my mother and from meditation on what her father must have done in his various occupations.  I’ve always considered myself to be a little lazy, and tried to overcome it.