NOT THE END

Summer 1965: Two Kappa sisters and I were living in Mrs. Maggart's basement. Mrs. Maggart (soon to be Mother-in-Law of roommate Ann,) lived upstairs in the tiny house. The basement itself had been thrown together, and was dark, dingy and grim. The kitchen, perhaps the most attractive room in the apartment was, unfortunately, an inch and a half below Manhattan's water table. But, it was close to campus--an easy walk in that long-ago time when students didn't own cars.

I was taking "Appreciation of Architecture," "Modern Methods of Teaching Math," and some other class that has completely slipped my mind. I only remember that my newly found study habits, and access to the Kappa "Files" (my first time ever--I promise) yielded nine hours of "A" to prop up my wobbly transcript. But, even more important, I had reached the 126 hours I needed to graduate with a Bachelor of Science degree in Elementary Education. I was Free at Last! I fulfilled Daddy's requirement that I could marry TJG when I had my college degree; and, as of this early August Friday morning, I had it.

But, I wasn't feeling the joy. The accomplishment, yes, but not the joy. I wasn't sure I still wanted the one thing I had worked so hard to achieve. I'd traveled the good girl route: I would be a teacher. I had pledged Kappa. I attended Kansas State. I would be married to a good Catholic boy. I had my degree. But, those efforts and results were far outweighed by the doubts I'd been nursing most of that year.

The logical question might be: "Did you ever talk to your friends about your feelings?" But the answer, as illogical as it sounds, was "No. No, I didn't." I thought about talking to my spring semester roommate, but the whole situation felt so cemented into place...so written in stone that I choked back my opening sentence day after day. I think much of my fear, or concern, or hesitation was hinged on the notion that it would be overwhelmingly embarrassing to admit I'd made a mistake, to back out now.

There were, perhaps, ten or more Kappas getting married that summer. Everyone was giddy and excited and planning, but I didn't feel a part of it. I wanted to feel a part of it, but I didn't. Especially when I was alone in our dorm-style room...I just had a terrible weight in my stomach and felt as helpless as the little raccoon caught in one of those horrible traps that allows no escape. Without chewing off your paw, anyway. I didn't have the nerve to do that. Nor, did I have the nerve to embarrass Mother or Daddy, and waste the money they'd already invested in this affair. This wasn't a case of the nerves. This was months of deep down knowledge that I had chosen the wrong path. And, total fear of what might come next...marriage or a broken engagement. I was twenty-years old.

Years later, my roommate of that semester, Nancy Stone, happened to be in Dodge City and dropped by for a short visit. Darrell and I were together and living on Hart Avenue. Nancy and I had married about the same time and, coincidentally, divorced about the same time. It was that afternoon that I learned she had also been questioning her decision to marry...right along side of me in that tiny room in the Kappa house. She never said a word, as I had never said a word. Not one word. What a shame.

I held to the belief that the worst option would be calling off my wedding. I think it would have put my Mother in her grave, although my Dad might secretly have been pleased. I was stuck just as Nancy was stuck. We both went through with it, but I remember the morning of the ceremony when I stalled and stalled and stalled. One of Grandma's red butterfly chairs had made its way upstairs, and that's where I sat, lighting cigarette after cigarette. I'm sure I smelled like a neglected ashtray by the time we got to church.

The point of all this? I'm not sure I know. It's simply part of my story. A beginning and an ending. An embarrassment. A failure. A triumph. A sorrow. A questioning. All of which, I did not want to include in this little book, but it kept tapping me on the shoulder. It's a huge part of who and what I was, and who and what I am. Lots of people got married in 1965. They just didn't get divorced in 1969. I dragged that tombstone everywhere...Born in 1965-Died in 1969. Failed Marriage. And because I filed the papers, I was the one who failed. Failed to keep my commitment (for better or for worse), failed to keep my vows (in sickness and in health), failed to consider my Mother's sensibilities.

But: Succeeded in saving my child. Succeeded in saving myself. Succeeded in standing firm with those who tried to persuade me to return to him. Who considered it my obligation to save him. Succeeded in saying "No" to his mother. Succeeded in saying "No" to Father Lavrih--a kind and gentle man who had been in the Yugoslavian underground in the fight to topple Tito and then, somehow, escaped to the U.S. and ended up in Jetmore. He had married us, but I told him "No" kindly and he didn't argue. He came back from time to time but more, I think, to check on me than to carry messages from Agnes, my former mother-in-law. I know I had not possessed that strength before, and I'm not sure I've had it since. But, I had it then. Neither my daughter nor I would live in his world. We would create our own.

Which, as we all know, would eventually include a man who walked through fire for his two young daughters in order to save them, and together, to create their world.

PS: Last January, I thought there would be lots of Darrell in my stories but, as you see, he's missing. Surprisingly, trying to write about him has been much too hard this year...too many tears in the process. But, I believe it's a good process, so I'll explore it in more detail next year. In the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed these little essays. And remember...I'm just getting my footing. Writing is "Progress, Not Perfection!" And, coincidentally, Your Mom is also "Progress, Not Perfection!" So, Merry Christmas to each of you. I love you all and...Stay Tuned.

December 25, 2016

THE LINGERING EFFECTS OF CATHOLICISM

Catholicism, in its mid-century Dodge City, Kansas, form and version, staked a claim to my intellectual and emotional being at the moment of Baptism, and has never let go.  No matter how far afield I may roam, Catholicism taps me on the shoulder with the not-so-subtle reminder that a Good Catholic Girl would not make the statement I just made.  Or laugh at the joke I just heard.  Or agree with the theology just espoused by my agnostic friend.

A Good Catholic Girl is set apart.  A Good Catholic Girl doesn't question.  A Good Catholic Girl, whose resume includes twelve years of Catholic school, would not act in many of the ways I have during these past 70+ years.  Sometimes I'm bothered by that.

But, sometimes I'm not.

Today, in nearly every group I'm with, a healthy number of the others were raised as Catholics. Very few of them are practicing Catholics, most are "fallen away," as it used to be described. "Fallen Away" is one of many coded expressions about Catholics that means they are holding an "Express Ticket to Hell."  I, personally, had never intended to be a "fallen away" Catholic.  It just happened.

But, let's not get ahead of ourselves.  Before I fell away, I was a CATHOLIC.  I have met many Catholics over time, but they really don't understand what it means to be a CATHOLIC.  A CATHOLIC has taken to heart everything she was ever taught by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Wichita, KS, and everything she was ever taught by the old and grouchy Monsignor of her youth and his cadre of young seminary graduates...most of whom began attending said seminary upon graduation from Eighth Grade. It was indoctrination and fear or, not to belabor the point:  INDOCTRINATION and FEAR.  Whereas I wouldn't have understood those words at the time, I do now.  But, at the time, I just thought it was normal to scare the shit out of little kids.

On the good side, right now my parents are sitting quite comfortably on cushy over-sized thrones in the CATHOLIC section of Heaven because of the blood, sweat and tears they expended in producing a Good Catholic Girl.  A Good Catholic Girl, however, who may have ended their lives prematurely by divorcing a Good Catholic Boy, marrying a Baptist, and becoming a Methodist.  And, yes, I do have guilt about that.  Actually, I have guilt about everything.  One cannot be a CATHOLIC unless one is quite miserable and guilt-ridden.

Much of our misery began when we learned that the little angels did not fly us down to earth because they wanted us to be happy.  No.  We were placed on this planet to honor God, and perform Good Works.  If you do not do both of those in the right way, and with the right intent, and with the right procedure, you are damned.  To hell. Forever.  Now, I can accept honoring God as a given, but Good Works are so ephemeral.  I mean, what exactly is a Good Work?  We learned that prayer was a Good Work.  But, which ones and how many?  No one had exact figures.  Helping old ladies across the street was a classic Good Work.  But, how old is old, and how far do I have to help her?  All the way home? What if my Mom doesn't let me cross that busy street?  I can't go on with this, but you will understand how my insecurities would find a real home in Good Works.    

I really felt that things began looking up when Pope John XXIII invented Grace and Love back in the early '60s, but he died much too soon and Grace and Love without him nearly faded out of sight. And, I was such a fan of Grace and Love, too.  It's probably why I'm a Lutheran now--they hit on that Grace thing in the 1520s.  Our new Pope Francis, though, seems to be bringing Grace and Love back and I have high hopes.  I know I'll always be a Catholic--even if one falls away she can never just walk away.  I'll carry the good and the bad of it, because it's part of me. Part of who I am and part of why I am.  I wouldn't be me without it, so I'm learning to accept and live with it.  It could be worse.

LOVE AND KINDNESS--A SHORT SERMON

I ran across this little tidbit today, and since I haven't been doing much with quotes recently, I thought I'd get back in the game. It may seem odd, but I love to work with quotes and write about them. In the end--every time--I've learned way more about myself than I knew at the beginning. With that in mind, let's try this one out:

"How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young. Compassionate with the aged. sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because, someday in life you will have been all of these."

Hmm...primarily because I'm 71 years old, I feel safe in suggesting that this is a good quote. I'm confident that I know whereof I speak. Obviously, I've been young and, just as obviously, I'm openly flirting with "aged." I have striven when I needed to and, like nearly everyone else, I've had hours of weakness, interrupted--if I'm lucky--by moments of strength. I don't think about it a lot, but I've lived the life...for better and worse.

"Tender with the young..." I know I've been tender with the babies. Everyone is tender and careful and soft with babies. That's what they're for. Whatever the magic human instinct is--we mostly melt when we're holding a baby. Especially when it's our own. I still remember Grandma, only a few weeks before she died, coming out of her foggy, confused and frightened inner world, focusing for a few seconds inches from Jackson's face, saying: "Aren't you just the cutest thing!" Those were the last understandable words I ever heard her utter, but in that brief moment, she was tender and loving with the young. She recognized her own baby's baby's baby.

Whereas, I can speak with some confidence of babies, this quote actually speaks of "the young" and therein lies the rub. I was not always tender with the young. I have yelled and threatened the young. (my young--I stay away from other women's young.) I have swatted the young. I have been extremely irritated with the young and prayed (Dear God...) that nap time or bedtime or the new school year would PLEASE, JUST GET HERE!

"Compassionate with the aged..." This one really makes me nervous. As much as I loved my mother--she was the first person I called with good news--(I always tried to keep the bad to myself), and as much as I wanted her to love me, I don't think I was nearly as compassionate with her as I should have been. I tried...I really did, but compassion wasn't my closest companion. I'm a little too self-centered for compassion. I tried to help. I tried to include. I tried to visit often, but I know it wasn't enough. I didn't look under the obstacles or around the obstacles...I left them in the middle of the path and became trapped behind them. I can remember one phone call--received after I had been dieting for a few months--and it was my mother asking if I was all right because her friends said I looked like hell. I should have laughed. I mean, Really! In retrospect it's a great story but, instead, I seethed. For months. It was a sometimes difficult relationship, but still one deserving of much more compassion.

"Sympathetic with the striving..." My first reaction to this phrase was a question: Do strivers really need sympathy? I've always thought they were just doing their thing and were quite content in the process. But then I went to Wikipedia, my source for everything. George Washington Carver (the peanut guy) wrote this quote. I had never thought of him as a quote-ster but, now we know he was. As I read about his life--each experience more sad and horrific than the one before--I began to have a different take. George Washington Carver was a definite striver and notably prickly. Perhaps prickly because, on top of living that horrendous life, he was black, and that fact alone had kept this brilliant man out of educational institutions all across this country. Including those in Kansas.

Our quote has begun to take on a slightly different tone. Bear with me here.

I have learned over the last two years that I spent a fair amount of time in, for lack of a better and much less dramatic word, "survival mode." I didn't originate that thought but, when presented, I began to understand its truth. I was 25 in April of 1970 when I moved from Windom, MN, back to Dodge City, leaving TJG behind. I intended to divorce him and build a life for Mickie and myself. Once the shock of that decision and the process of carrying it out began to work its way through my life, I realized that the only person responsible for Mickie and for me, was me. It was all in my ballpark. That's scary...but surprisingly good at the same time. At that moment, or shortly thereafter, I became a striver. I didn't think of myself that way. I was simply doing what had to be done and it seemed the most natural thing in the world. But, I swear to God, if a mountain had shown up on the road ahead of me, I could have moved it. By myself. With my bare hands.

Was I obnoxious? I didn't think so, but I know my thought process was different. My priorities were different. My goals were different. And, I would move heaven or hell to attain them. And I did. It was good practice, because sixteen years later I had to do the whole damned thing all over again. That time I put my striver uniform back on and became single-minded, strong and driven. I don't know if anyone out there had any idea of what was behind my behavior, and it really didn't matter. I had my family and myself to hold together. If I thought I was scared the first time, I was terrified in 1986. So...sympathy for the striver? I think I get it.

Which brings us to the closing lines, "tolerant of the weak and the strong." I do believe that in today's world we have become intolerant of the weak. Too many times we label them lazy, or manipulators. It sometimes separates the Republicans from the Democrats. And, our left brain from our right. I have to come down on the side that we are all "Hostages to Fortune" and that "There but for the Grace of God,,," is as true today as when my mother said it decades ago.

But "weak" has a lot of faces and we may not recognize it. I believe weak sometimes masquerades as strong and confuses us no end. We think we recognize strong, but we don't always recognize what is driving it. Or hanging over its head. Tolerant of the strong? I think I can get that, too!

Now, my loves, to the crux of the matter. Please re-read GWC's quote, because I have some words of wisdom! I've talked on and on (and on) about what we should do for others, but my guess is that GWC might be telling us to turn that around and apply it to ourselves, because...we will (or have been) all those things at sometime in our lives (conscious or not). And, we may need a little love, tolerance, and forgiveness for ourselves, from ourselves. Sometimes that's hard to grasp. Most of the time that's hard to grasp. Whereas, we're often taught to be kind to others, we're not often directed to be kind to ourselves. Because...isn't loving our self just a little bit narcissistic?  It's much easier to forgive a co-worker who dropped a nasty comment the other day than yourself, for that really tacky faux pas you committed last week. But it may be an even better thing to do.

My generation was raised to be critical of itself. We didn't get a lot of "love yourself" and "forgive yourself" stuff. It was more likely to be just the opposite. I believe you were raised in a much better time, and can accept some of this touchy-feely talk more than I ever could. And, I believe that's a good thing. So, I'm asking that you take that kindness that resides in each of you and apply it to yourselves every now and then. Don't be stingy. Be kind to you...and that would make your Mom very happy indeed!  

LESSONS LEARNED

I've noticed that when the older grand-kids talk about their college years, it's always good. Great memories. Great bars. Great parties. Great friends.  Wow! I'm happy for them, of course, but perhaps a little jealous at the same time. My memories are so different. Back in my day, it was a much more conservative world.  No men in or near the women's dorms. Women must be safely inside the doors of their living quarters by 10:00 p.m. Monday through Thursday.  The doors were locked precisely at 10:00, and if you were late, and had to knock, there was hell to pay. Friday and Saturday nights, one could carouse until 1:00 a.m.; Sunday night--until 11:00. No excuses, no exceptions.  But, even in my day, that was a lot more freedom than I ever had at 206 East Oak. Although, I nearly forgot the "Sign Out" sheets. Kansas State and the Kappas, in those days, did require that we sign-out every time we left the building.  Name, time, where we were going and when we would be back.  Onerous as that might seem, they never told us we couldn't go, and all we had to do was come back. On time. Not really a bad thing...but, rules weren't what broke my spirit...  

When I went to college (and, trust me, I couldn't wait), I was hot stuff.  I had graduated from St. Mary of the Plains High School third or fourth, maybe fifth, in my class academically.  Any of those numbers are pretty good considering we had 36 people in our class.  Or, was it 26?  I don't remember. I had been a cheerleader, third page editor of the school newspaper, and editor of the school yearbook. Those are all hot things. I had also chosen the theme for the Junior-Senior Prom--Bali Ha'i. South Pacific, the movie, had been out for a few years but must only have reached Dodge City, because I was totally enthralled with it and the Bali Ha'i concept.  Pile those things together and I was, obviously, ready for college.  The Big League. "Kansas State University of Agriculture and Applied Science: Get Ready...I Am On The Way!"

On the second day of class at KSU of A&AS, I was hurrying to my Freshman Honors English class. Yes--Honors.  And how, you may ask, had I qualified for Honors English?  I have no idea. I did test rather well, but I was as surprised as anyone else on this one.  But, no matter. I found the class in the basement of some non-descript building toward the center of the campus.  I was dressed (per Seventeen Magazine) in my oh-so-new plaid wool skirt and matching sweater. Green, I think.  I was feelin' g-o-o-d.

His name was Ralph Adamany, and all of his tall, dark, handsome gorgeousness was draped over the lectern at the front of the room.  Without hesitation, I took the seat immediately in front of him.  I was 210 miles from home, I'd just pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma, and God had dropped my ticket to heaven right in front of my eyes.  It could not get any better than this.

This was a smallish class made up (as I remember it) of a lot of kids from Kansas City.  Big City kids from Big City high schools. I, however, was undaunted. Whereas, these KC Kids may have looked down on St. Mary of the Plains High School...Home of the Crusaders...and, perhaps, even looked down on Dodge City, I was fine. I could run with the best of them--especially in that plaid skirt.

Finally, the oh, so handsome Mr. Adamany began to speak. He was recently returned from a year of study in Italy. Oh! This is so definitely not Dodge City.  His studies had been of the literary sort, and as he went on in that magical way of a gorgeous someone recently returned from Italy, I become lost in visions of Tuscany and Firenze and Roma and...what? What was that? Hello? Mr. Adamany seems to be giving an assignment. Our first reading will be Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms which we will, of course, compare to Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front.   

What! What? We are going to do what...before when? Are you sure that's possible? Big City Hotshot Guy on my left is already spouting off about Hemingway's style.  I do recognize Hemingway's name but who the hell is Remarque? Does anyone else think it's hot in here? Big City Girl behind me is now rebutting everything Big City Guy has just said about Hemingway, and presenting her own theories. Mr. Adamany is looking at her with a slight smile and a bit of interest. Can someone please open a window? I don't know what these people are talking about and I can't breathe. I don't think we knew about Panic Attacks then, but I was on the cusp.

To make this sad story sadder, I must tell you that I struggled with Remarque and didn't get Hemingway. I struggled with metaphors and totally missed similes. Frankly, I was in completely over my head.  In deep trouble. I assume it was Mr. Adamany's pity or, more likely, his total ennui, that let me escape his class with a C, just before I quietly requested that he place me in a regular Freshman English Class.  I didn't marry this handsome English teacher, nor did I see Italy until I was near middle age. In fact, within the week, Mr. Adamany not only forgot my name, he forgot I was ever in his class. Mr. Adamany broke my heart and my spirit. I was never that young, nor that hot again.

SMOP

September 1958:  Saint Mary of the Plains High School.  It was, as I think about it, a perfect example of mid-century architecture--all linear and glass and brick and starkness--sited about a mile north of Dodge City in the middle of a dry pasture.  They said it was a quarter of a mile long and I believed them, but in retrospect...probably not. It just felt that way during the five minute classroom changes. I don't remember being nervous at all about my first day.  I think my sister had reassured me that the lockers were easy to operate and the classrooms well marked.  I would be fine.  Of course I would be fine. I still had some self-esteem in those days.  Sister Mary Kathleen (Eighth Grade) tried to squeeze it all out of me, but I fought back and clung tight.

I don't remember what I wore that morning. I'm sure I chose it carefully, but whether it was something new, or left over, or handed down I don't know. It must have looked good, though, or I wouldn't have worn it. So, it's a safe bet that I was hot. Or, as hot as someone could be who cut her own hair with sewing scissors in one hand, and a small make-up mirror in the other.

As mentioned above, this was the first year that we would change classrooms...and teachers. Most kids do that in fifth grade in today's world, but not us Catholics and I was pretty excited about it. Algebra was a required class, as was Religion and English I. I also opted for Latin I--Veni, Vidi, Vici and all that.  I think we had some Study Hall time and an Activity Period. We had Phys Ed which met in the Quonset Hut located behind St. Mary's.  I'm sure the Diocese spent millions on this school, but forgot to include any area that would be large enough for a dance, a pep-rally, basketball or, an all-school assembly. Thus, the Quonset Hut--carried in, piece by piece from the crumbling Dodge City Army Air Field.  You should have seen the Chapel though. Solid marble imported from Italy. Had Michelangelo still been alive, they would have hired him to coordinate the slabs.

St. Mary's had opened in 1952. By 1958, the Band (they'd had great uniforms in Mary's era) was eliminated and replaced by...nothing.  And, I had taken flute lessons for two years. Also, apparently, for nothing.  They had never had an orchestra; nor advanced Math, nor anything beyond Chemistry. They did, however, teach Religion I, II, III and IV. The only thing I remember from those Religion classes was very early on when Mary Lynne Mangan raised her hand and asked, "How can God be just and merciful?" The nun blanched, and managed to choke out: "Because God is God."  I reminded Mary Lynne of that a few years ago when we met for lunch in Kansas City.  She had no memory of it...I had found it life-changing.

I had my first Girl Crush when I was a Freshman.  (I'd had a Nun Crush in Seventh Grade: Sister Mary James Marie.  I would have gone to the Convent in a heart-beat then, but neither Mother nor Daddy would let me.) The Girl Crush was named Pam Saunders. Pam was, I think, from Beaver, Oklahoma. She was blonde, sturdy, raspy-voiced, and afraid of nothing. Especially the nuns. And...she wrote everything in Peacock Blue ink  with a bold, loopy scrawl. I was smitten.  I immediately talked Mother into letting me buy Peacock Blue ink, and proceeded to spend hours imitating Pam's distinctive handwriting.  Only a few days into September, Pam tried out for cheerleader with a cheer none of us had ever heard (although, to this day I can still perform it word for word--pose for pose) and won in a landslide.  I don't remember whether it was between semesters or at the end of the school year when Pam returned to Beaver...never to be seen at St. Mary of the Plains again.

Her departure, however, did provide an exciting opening for me.  At the beginning of Sophomore year I tried out for cheerleader, stealing Pam's "Satisfied" cheer, lock, stock and barrel as they like to say in western Kansas. And I won a place on the squad. It was my year.

Besides the hotness of wearing my cheer-leading-outfit to school every game day, Sophomore year also provided the means for my first Priest Crush. His name was Stephen Smithers and he appeared magically on the first day of school. He was not a dull diocesan priest dressed in a black suit like we had grown up with. No, he belonged to an order.  I have no idea which one, but he resembled a short and well-fed St. Anthony when he hurried down the hallway, friar outfit billowing behind. He was often in a hurry, sometimes a bit breathless, and completely unaware of my feelings toward him and, like Pam, disappeared forever on the last day of school.

Junior year was, well, Junior year. My crush on TJG had begun during the summer months of 1960--facilitated by some friends of my sister who knew him from hanging around a front street bar, but he had left for Notre Dame, taking my heart and soul with him. I stole the "Satisfied" cheer one more time, and surprised myself by winning the Head Cheer Leader spot. Wearing the uniform on game days had worn a bit thin by then, so I rolled the waist band one time to make it a little shorter, and felt better about it.

I became Third Page Editor for the "Plainsette," the school newspaper.  I think it came out every three weeks and we really did learn a lot, despite Sister Mary I Don't Remember who was the oldest, meanest, most out-of-touch woman I had ever met.  We battled mightily that year--most seriously--about the Junior-Senior Prom Theme--which was Bali Ha'i, thanks to Me. She determined it wasn't a real place and consequently, could not be the theme. I'm not sure what the hell that had to do with whether or not it was the theme, but I finally proved it actually was part of the musical, "South Pacific", and she grudgingly allowed us to decorate with Bali Ha'i decor.  I think both of us missed that Bali Ha'i was actually a mystical island, always visible on the horizon, but always out of reach. That's nearly spiritual.  We could have dressed as nuns.

Because I was madly in love with TJG, and talked about him incessantly, I could not get a date for the Junior-Senior Prom. The nuns promised Richard Casey fewer detention hours if he would take me to the Prom...and he did. I wore an old bridesmaid dress my sister had worn for Nan Johnson's wedding, and attended the Prom.  I think it was all anti-climactic--Saint Mary of the Plains Catholic Kids did not spike the punch--nor, did they dance any dance that could be seen as an Occasion of Sin.  I think I had known Richard Casey since Kindergarten and at any point in all of those years, he would measure in at six inches shorter than I. But, Richard was a nice guy. Personally, I hope he's a happy grandfather now.  Hell--at this point in time, I just hope he's still alive.

Senior year? Does anyone want to talk about senior year? For most of us, that last year of high school was 180 days of Senior-Itis.  And I had it...bad.  I was the editor of the yearbook, which meant that Sister Mary I Don't Remember was still in charge of the largest part of my life. TJG was back at Notre Dame, and I was depressed.  Not clinically, just self-diagnosed.  I didn't have a boyfriend close at hand, school was a drag, I had to go to college before I could get married, and college would be attended in Kansas...not South Bend, Indiana. Nothing was going my way.

The yearbook, I thought, was a success.  "The Crusader" had always been green with fat padded covers. I opted for a very 60's type of design in wine and silver with flat covers. No old fashioned padding for "The Crusader" this year. The pages morphed from a weak, embossed finish to a crisp semi-gloss and it was fashion-forward, if not stunningly professional. I was a bit surprised at how thin it was without all that padding but, hey,,,I saw it as very cool.

I drank my first beer that year at the County Lake, my second at Jerry Hessman's farm. My third and fourth at Ken Brady's blow-out party a week or so before graduation.  Someone ratted us out on the Brady party and the nuns swore we would not get our diplomas.  That was a little worrisome...my Mother would have killed me.  Maybe Daddy would have, too.  Then, just when things couldn't get worse, they got worse. I was called out of class to the Principal's Office. Now, I'd worked in that office all year, one hour per day, because I'd taken all the classes that St. Mary of the Plains offered for seniors, and had nothing to do.  They devised the free labor plan. I thought I had gotten along with Sister Mary Vincentia pretty well, but she had now called me into her office and closed the door. That was not a good sign when dealing with Sister Mary Vincentia.  It usually meant crying. Less often, it meant yelling.  In my case it meant Serious Concern.  Someone had ratted to Sister Mary Vincentia that I had sat on Ken Brady's shoulders in the waters of Lake Afton (Senior Sneak Day), and wrestled another girl who was on some one else's shoulders.  This behavior, which we had simply thought was great fun, turned out to be: AN OCCASION OF SIN. SEXUAL SIN...WHICH IS ALWAYS WRITTEN IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BECAUSE IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEXUALLY SIN WITHOUT GOING TO HELL.

Well, DAMN.  I might not graduate and, if Sister Mary Vincentia is right, I'm going to Hell.  We didn't say the "F" word in those days, but if we had, I would have said it right about now. I had to go home, sit down with my Mother and tell her I drank at Ken Brady's party. (Actually, my Mother and a lot of other mothers were upstairs with Mrs. Brady during that party...and, whereas I would bet they were also drinking, I didn't know that for sure.) In addition, I would have to confess that I SEXUALLY SINNED on the Senior Sneak.  And, I thought I'd been so good at the Sneak. Ken Brady--he was such fun--had injected a couple of dozen oranges with Vodka for the Sneak and I didn't even taste one.  But, you'd better believe I would have sucked one dry on my way home from school that afternoon if any still existed.

I walked in the back door and found my Mother in the kitchen. There was no sense in wasting time. I gathered up what little courage I possessed and confessed: "I drank two beers at Ken Brady's house the night of the big party." Considering she had driven a few of us home, I would guess she already knew that, but hadn't said a word. So...that went pretty well, but now for the SEXUAL SIN. Those are always tricky. Her initial reaction seemed to be one of shock. Her mouth just kind of hung there. Then, she began a small rant as I cowered on that hard metal red step-stool.  But wait! The rant isn't about me. It's about Sister Mary Vincentia. My Mother thinks Sister Mary Vincentia is sick. And obsessed. My Mother is criticizing Sister Mary Vincentia! My Mother is ticked at Sister Mary Vincentia, and is.taking sides. My side. I feel a little shaky.

I did graduate...with everyone else, despite SEXUALLY SINNING with Ken Brady.  Like Pam Saunders and Stephen Smithers, I never entered the doors of St. Mary of the Plains High School again.  It closed not long after we left, becoming St. Mary of the Plains College, which, in turn, closed a few decades later following a Student Loan Scheme tied to a mystical Truck Driving School located somewhere in Texas.

Today, the remains of Saint Mary of the Plains (SMOP) are slowly crumbling back into that dry pasture from whence it all sprouted. Dust thou art...and all that jazz.

THE OTHER FAMILY I GREW UP WITH

Let's move on to Aunt Letha and Uncle Ray now. I don't think it really means a thing, but I've noticed that I always say "Uncle Joe and Aunt Pauline," but reverse the order for Letha and Ray. But it is interesting (for me anyway) that I've had a much harder time writing about them.  Joe and Pauline were so flamboyant with such strong personalities, it's actually hard to stop talking (or writing) those memories.  There's always one more story about Joe and Pauline...I know it could go on for pages.

I'm going to suggest that Ray was a middle child...more toward the older than the younger end of the Weigel tribe. I would also suggest that Ray was an introvert.  He wasn't unfriendly, nor was he unkind, he was just very quiet and as withdrawn as he could manage with only a newspaper between himself and whoever else was in the room. It was easy to forget that Ray was even there.  He did say "Hello" as we came in and "Goodbye" as we left (with, no doubt a sigh of relief), but that was generally it.

Despite his frugal lifestyle...or, perhaps because of it, Ray was filthy rich. His oil wells gushed while Daddy's went dry. (I was very little then, but that fact was always a sore point with Mother). Letha grew up somewhere near Cimarron on a farm and then, after high school, became a secretary.  I don't know how she and Ray met, but the two opposites  did create a life together. Sometime when I was in grade school, Letha's father died, leaving her a healthy portion of Gray County. Even with that, the two of them continued to live as simply as they always had. Letha did dress well. She was always very stylish in a matronly sort of way.  I don't know why women were  "matronly" then. I think it was the undergarments, but it was difficult to tell 40 from 70. Pauline dressed exactly the same, but in much darker colors. Especially brown.

Despite having raised two children, Letha seemed to like me and, occasionally, invited me to spend the night with her and Ray.  Spending the night with Letha (always a Friday) guaranteed a meal that included Banana Cream Pie. And Letha's Banana Cream Pie, I guarantee, was the best you would ever taste.  In addition, I got to sleep in Barbara's bedroom in her high, soft, fluffy double bed and read as late as I wanted. Barbara must have had every Nancy Drew book, and I borrowed them all. It was heaven, I tell you. Heaven.

While Ray read his newspapers and monitored his investments, Letha played Bridge.  And, she went to Philomath Club, and Ladies Day at the Country Club, and PEO and whatever else was available in those days. Letha was social, likable, thoughtful and loved Uncle Ray year after year.

Sadly, Letha's end was due to Alzheimer's Disease. The slow, steady, forever kind. Uncle Ray died in the spring of 1975 and Letha couldn't live alone. In contrast to Aunt Pauline, Letha was very good at writing checks, but household management would have been too much for her. And, Letha was totally addicted to cigarettes, but, as we learned, completely unaware of whether or not she was smoking one at any particular moment, and where she might have laid it down. My sweet, favorite aunt was a danger to herself and anyone else who might be in the house. Barbara would take Letha to Kansas City and find a nice retirement community for her to live in.

Mother was livid. Barbara was ruining Letha's life...snatching her from her friends, her bridge games, and her home. I felt terrible for Letha and had mixed feelings about Barbara. It was a bad time. None of us volunteered to take care of Letha, and none of us had any idea of the complexities of care for someone with dementia. The Who and the What and the When and the Where became overwhelming. Barbara was right. Letha could not be alone, and Dodge City had nothing for her.

Much later, I realized Mother's vitriol, which I always believed was directed at me, was really her reaction against the circumstances...neither me nor Barbara. Mother's best friend had dropped dead a few months before Ray's death had precipitated this crisis, and now Letha, her second best friend, was leaving. Poor Mother couldn't deal (well) with losing them both. It was terribly hard for her and I'm sure she was anticipating what her future might be as she aged.

As it turned out, Letha did very well in Kansas City.  She found new friends, participated in activities, spent time with Barbara and her family, and continued to play Championship Bridge even though she had no idea where she was or, sometimes, who she was.

As I think about Letha, I can wax a bit philosophical and note that she had always been a woman who accepted what was.  She could mold herself to the circumstances, find her niche and enjoy it. By contrast, Pauline was a fighter...a "My Way" type of person. When Pauline broke her hip and learned that she would have to move into a nursing home--at least until she was entirely healed...if, indeed, that was possible--she simply died. Pauline willed herself dead. Letha found new Bridge partners.  

THE FAMILY I GREW UP WITH

Oh Dear Heaven! (The perfect Grandma expression, don't you think?) She would be horrified to see that I have just written a sort of headline sentence that ends in a preposition. She was such a stickler for grammar, that woman.

We're going back in time again...you need a little more schooling on the Dodge City Weigel's, and I need more remembering.  Sometimes when I remember I come across reasonable reasons for the why I turned out like I did.  It's a very cheap type of DIY analysis that may do me good.  

Dodge City was much smaller when I was growing up than it is today. In 1950, the population was 11,262. Three of those 11,000+ were Weigel Brothers: Joe, Ray and Bill.  Let's look at them one by one with Joe being first. Joe, my Mother would contend, was always first.

I'm not sure what brought Uncle Joe from Victoria to Dodge City, but I'm guessing it might have been the Dodge City Flouring Mills, located near the single railroad track that ran along the north side of Trail Street. And, I don't know why it was called a "Flouring" Mill, but that's the way it's listed in the Kansas Historical references.  Uncle Joe was a salesman for the Mill, and traveled the country taking orders for flour. He met Aunt Pauline in Pennsylvania, and eventually married her. He didn't marry, nor did he bring her to Dodge City until he had built a house for her...the house you'll remember on First Avenue, a block south and across the street from the High School.  (Mickie's friend Davi-Anne Brewer's family bought it from Joe's estate...I think from the estate, and when they moved, Mother's Art Teacher, Jim Wilson, bought it for his family.  I believe Lisa Sinclair was next--she ran the Carnegie Center for a number of years...and that's as far as I can go.) I need to remember to drive by and look at it next time I'm in town. I never think to do that--although I check on the Oak Street house which just gets scarier and scarier.

Aunt Pauline was born and raised in Latrobe, PA, which I considered the height of sophistication and civilization--an impression Aunt Pauline never discouraged. It was in the East, for heaven's sake--although, today, Wikipedia describes Latrobe as being a part of the Pittsburgh, PA, Metropolitan Area. Aunt Pauline came to Kansas with a great deal of impressive crystal, sterling silver and china, plus the training to sense immediately whether a guest had the chops to know which fork was appropriate for which course. Dinner at Aunt Pauline's was the one time per year that a seating at the children's table was a blessing.

Uncle Ed (the youngest Weigel, from Omaha) in a moment of pique after one too many drinks, told me that Labtrobe was simply a coal mining town and the Reeves' (Aunt Pauline's family) were nothing but dirt poor coal miners. Except, of course for Pauline's brother, Kevin, the alcoholic priest who died with the DT's at Aunt Pauline and Uncle Joe's house when I was very young. Mary can remember bits and pieces about that week. 

Joe and Pauline never had children, and the story was told that Uncle Joe refused to consider adoption. I don't know if adoption was an issue for him, as much as the fact that he had been the oldest of twelve children, and just didn't want any kids around. He and Pauline slept in separate beds--just like Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore, but in a larger bedroom.  They were the only adults I knew who didn't sleep in a double bed, and I considered that odd. Although, now that I've written that sentence, it occurs to me that Aunt Letha and Uncle Ray actually slept in separate bedrooms--she at the front of the house, he at the rear. Barbara's bedroom was in between.  That never struck me as odd, though. How weird.

Uncle Joe and Uncle Ray owned the automobile (as Aunt Pauline was fond of saying) dealership (Daddy worked for them) until 1948. They both retired that year--coincidentally, on the exact same day that Chrysler Corporation came visiting and closed their dealership. Per Mother, Daddy came home that afternoon and poured himself a drink. Joe and Ray, while not expecting to retire quite so soon, were rich and took it all in stride. By contrast, Daddy was not rich. I'm told he poured a second drink.

Within a week or so, Daddy was working for Huntsbarger Buick, thus beginning his lifetime love affair with the Buick Limited--the priciest and most luxurious Buick ever sold. I learned to drive in a 1958 Buick Limited one Sunday morning on the By-Pass north of Dodge City. Daddy, of course, sat on the passenger side offering advice and I still cling to two of those gems. 1: When driving on a highway, look down the road at a distance (this will prevent over-correction); and, 2: Watch where the white line intersects the hood of your car when you're properly in your lane, and then keep the white line in that spot. In a 1958 Buick Limited, the sweet spot was about one-third of the way from the left edge of the left "eyebrow" of that beautiful car. I did love that huge, dark-green Buick even though Aunt Ida said its fins looked like pig teats.

Oh--One more piece of advice from Daddy: When a car is approaching your road or street or highway from the right or left, watch his front wheel to be sure he is slowing down in order to stop. You can see that even if the wheel doesn't have spokes. I still do that, and I think of Daddy every time.

PS: In case Joe and Pauline seem to be getting short shrift, I need to tell you that in 1970, Uncle Joe was very ill for some months. Aunt Pauline couldn't drive, nor had she ever written a check. Daddy took over the check-writing duties and I became her designated driver. Since I was teaching, my driving time was limited, but we worked it out. As a Thank-You gift to me, when Uncle Joe began to improve, Aunt Pauline asked me to drive her to one of the nicer clothing stores in Dodge City--I wish I could remember the name--to which I had little exposure, as I had been on an extremely limited budget for some years.

She announced to the staff that she would purchase two outfits for me, and so I began to look, choose and try on. Look more...choose again...try on...becoming a bit nervous as I examined the price tags in the dressing room. Each time I came out to show her a dress, I told her the price and she seemed unfazed. I began to suggest that her purchase of one outfit was more than generous--she certainly didn't need to buy two. She, however, was hell-bent on buying two. Finally, the decision was made and Pauline pulled out a couple of those hundred dollar bills she always carried in her billfold. I was a bit shaky, but ascending fast to seventh heaven.  I loved those two outfits and wore them for years. Actually, I wish I still had the wool brown and white number. I remember most how her kindness at that time overwhelmed me. I was divorced, poor, struggling and embarrassed about it, trying to make everything work.  The imperious Aunt Pauline appeared to me as an Angel that afternoon. I'm still grateful.

DELAYED REVELATION

I told Jay a story this morning.  It's an old story, one I've told every now and then.  Mom was especially fond of it. You probably heard it--years ago, but this time in the telling, a brand new ending fell out of my mouth.  It came from nowhere, but I find that happens sometimes when I talk to Jay. Fortunately, he has the knack of catching those unplanned words, and immediately tossing them back into my lap for me to chew on.  Today was one of those times, and this essay is his assignment.

So...let's see where to begin.  This is a sixth grade story, which makes it a little hard because sixth grade is kind of a lost year for me, in the sense that I don't remember much about it.  I mean I don't remember anything about it, and it's not because I'm old.  It's because...well, because it was just that kind of year.  I don't remember our teacher's name.  I don't remember what she looked like.  I don't remember where I sat in the classroom.  Shoot--I don't even remember where Mary Lynne sat.  I do remember some of what Sister Mary Whomever wasn't, but very little of what she was.

I'm guessing Sister Mary Whomever was youngish.  I say that because it fits with the common ending of this story.  Of course, I wouldn't have had any idea of her age because I was eleven and, at eleven, everyone looks old...especially if they're scrunched into one of those tight, white, starched head-dresses the Sisters of St. Joseph of Wichita, Kansas, so favored.  But, as I seriously began to think about that year and "the" story, I began to remember times when Sister seemed unsure of herself, sad maybe, or overwhelmed.  Sixth grade math problems weren't easy for her and, from time to time, she came up with the wrong answer or the wrong process to find the answer.  Geography was another problem for her.  I loved maps and always thumbed through the pictures in National Geographic every month--and, no, not just to see the naked natives--so I had a pretty good grip on the subject matter.  And, whereas I am totally ashamed of myself, I was not quiet when Sister Mary Whomever ran up against a snag in either of those subjects.

Equally unfortunate, when Sister handed back corrected papers and marked something wrong that wasn't wrong, my hand was the first one waving in the air.  Nor was I shy about joining the chorus when someone else had been marked wrong, but wasn't, and Sister disagreed.  Even if it was Frosty Gilbert--my second grade Occasion of Sin.  I've always had a strong sense of justice and just a bit of a mouth.

And this, my loves, brings us to the crux of the situation.  Sacred Heart Cathedral Grade School operated on a six week grading system, with the school year divided into six six-week periods. We were well into spring and it was the last Parent-Teacher Conference night.  Daddy went to the conference with Mother.  I don't think he had ever gone to a school conference or program before. Remember, it was the fifties and dads didn't do those things.   But on this evening, Daddy went. 

I didn't worry about the conference.  My grades were good.  Sister Mary Whomever might tell my parents that I needed to work a little harder but, really, I thought, it's hard to criticize A's and B's. It turned out, however, that Sister did have a concern, and it wasn't working harder.  She believed I was just a bit "mouthy."  I'm not sure that was her terminology, but it was definitely her meaning. I was much too quick to speak up for myself, she told my parents. Too quick to speak up...period, she said. My parents needed to correct this character flaw.  Character flaw, as you may guess, is yet another way to say "sin."  Of pride in this case.

Per Mother, my Father, upon hearing this concern immediately "reared back" and told Sister Mary Whomever that "Speaking up is exactly what I want her to do."  He went on, explaining carefully that people who didn't speak up often got run over, and he did not want me to get run over. Ever. In retrospect, I would guess it was quite a speech for someone as quiet and retiring as my Dad.

That short evening at a Parent-Teacher conference quickly became Mother's favorite story when, within a couple of weeks, Sister Mary Whomever disappeared. We finished sixth grade with a substitute and a mystery. The mystery only deepened when a friend with contacts in the convent, told Mother that Sister Mary Whomever had simply left the nunnery rather abruptly. For a good Catholic, that was scandalous.  For my Mother, it became the basis of a great story climaxed by the sweet, quiet Dad everyone knew and loved, scaring a nun so badly, she questioned her calling and fled the convent.

I, myself, have told the story a few times in my usual, self-deprecating way. I laugh at my sixth grade shortcomings, flaws, and frighteningly immature behavior and, then again, at the surprising consequences for Sister Mary Whomever of tangling with my peace-loving father...unlikely as that connection might have been.

But, not this morning. This morning as I told Jay the general story, but leaving Sister safely in the convent, the magic words poured out.  Not words I might have thought of on that long ago night or the next day, but what I felt on this morning's call with Jay as I told the story:  "Oh my God.  He likes me the way I am."  (Forgive the present tense...I have no idea why it came out that way.) Did I have to be 71 years old to realize this story that's hung around for decades, isn't at all about my mouth-iness and smartass-iness? It's not about a poor nun questioning her vocation. And, it's not really about Daddy, either, overcoming his penchant for silence.

It's about My Daddy, rising to the occasion and affirming to Sister Mary Whomever and, by extension, my Mom, who and what I was.  And, because of that affirmation, letting them know he liked who and what I was! He liked me! What a wonderful miracle is that?     

THE DISCOVERY

I was never comfortable with our basement on Oak Street.  Well, that's a lie.  I was scared to death of our basement on Oak Street. For starters, it was dark.  The steps down to the basement itself were creepy enough--open treads--then at the bottom, only a dim single light bulb let you know you had landed safely.  The rest of that cold concrete cavern was in shadow. Deep and dark shadow.

As far as I can tell, our basement was the exact size of our house, with the exception of our side-porch which had been my all time favorite place (well, one of them, anyway) until it was ripped off, and our living room expanded into that area.  If I moved back to Dodge City and bought that house, I would take a chain-saw to the east end of the living room and rebuild that little porch and reconstruct the two elegant doors that used to open onto it from the house.  It was shaded by trellises covered in ivy, and was nearly as magic as under the piano and halfway up the stairs.

I digress.  Back to the basement. I was the only person in our house bothered by this, but you should know that our basement was pretty heavily populated by creatures of all shapes and sizes--each one scarier than the one before.  There was no part of it that was completely safe. Even if you stood under a light bulb, you could sense they were watching from the shadows...first one creeping closer, then another...I can't make it scary enough for you to understand, but think about hair standing up, and chills crawling down your spine.  Although, if two or more people were in the basement at the same time, it became a friendlier place.  A less scary place.  A brave place, even. But not if you were alone.

Which is why the story I'm about to share is a little confusing, even for me.  It begins in the basement, and I was by myself.  Why?  I have no idea.  Maybe I was bored, or on a hunting mission for some lost treasure, or (surely not) just snooping around.  I was in Mother's little area--her makeshift utility room where she sewed and ironed, and where the washer and dryer were.  There was also a set of cabinets that came from the original kitchen, but they were against a wall--far enough from the light bulb that I wouldn't go over there, even on a bet.  No, I was carefully going through a chest of drawers that stood at the edge of her little space.

Top drawer:  Needles, pins, thread (surely every color that ever was), measuring tape (I loved to measure things), scissors of all shapes and sizes.  I moved on--drawer by drawer.  Mom sewed a lot in those years--nearly everything I wore--and she saved the little bits and pieces of fabric when she finished a project.  I've reached the bottom drawer now, and I'm on my knees--the better to dig right in.

Looks like more fabric scraps...Ooh, this is nice.  It's shiny and kind of lavender in color and slick-feeling. Just under that is a soft flannel material with a teeny-tiny print.  I picked up some pink flannel and quickly reached for a heavier yellow fabric. When I saw the organdy...I just sat down. Hard. Sat down right on that cold and dusty concrete floor. Sat down where any spider nearby could creep up and take a hunk out of my bottom, leaving deadly poison to finish me off.  I was in a state of shock. Gobsmacked. The fabrics in my hand matched the Toni Doll wardrobe that Mrs. Santa Claus had made for her last Christmas. The lavender skating dress with the silver trim. The flannel print pajamas and the pink flannel robe.  The yellow hat and coat.  The green organdy Church dress.  It was all here.  Every scrap.

I know! Mrs. Santa Claus left it at our house just in case something got ripped or torn and needed to be repaired.  Or, she might have it...umm, no.  Or, maybe we just had those fabrics... or not.  Way too fast, I ran out of reasons for that exceptional coincidence of matching fabrics. Way too fast.

I think, at this point I was a fourth grader. It's not that I hadn't heard stories that Santa Claus wasn't real, but I didn't believe any of them.  When I asked my Mother if there really was a Santa Claus, she always answered, "Of course there is."  But the rumors and stories at school were getting harder and harder to deny.  I stayed firm, though.  I was a believer.  Santa Claus was real. Mrs. Santa Claus was real. She had made the clothes for my beautiful dark-haired Toni Doll...the same Toni Doll her husband had delivered to our house the year before the wardrobe arrived.

I'm sure I didn't hold on to this terrible discovery for very long.  My nature was to yell quickly and loudly.  Once I had figured out a story as to why I was digging through that chest of drawers, I was on my way to find my Mother.  My poor Mother...

I don't remember the conversation.  I remember worrying about being in that chest of drawers, but once I confessed I had found the fabric and asked again if Santa was real, I go blank.  I don't remember how my Mother handled it.

As you know, I was the youngest in our family, and maybe Mother and Daddy did want to hold on to Christmas as long as they could.  My sister had kept her mouth shut--had never breathed a word about Santa which, when you think about it, was pretty exceptional.  It makes me wish I'd been a bit nicer to her.

Since I'm writing this for you and not myself, I'm really sorry that I have suppressed the actual conversation on the reality of Santa Claus.  But, maybe, it's better this way.  I'm sure I processed the information, mourned a bit, and then moved on with life.  But, without Santa Claus, or small children who believe in Santa Claus, Christmas is never Christmas again.

PS:  In June of 2015, when Dr. C. and I were driving through New England, we stopped at Stockbridge, Massachusetts, to visit Norman Rockwell's museum.  I'd grown up with "The Saturday Evening Post" and its occasional Rockwell covers.  His was a great and honest vision of our world.

As you've learned, visiting a museum with Dr. C. is not a hurried occasion, so we wandered and studied every painting, print and lithograph.  I think we were in a large room on the lower level of the building when I spotted a painting that Rockwell labeled "The Discovery."  And there in the middle of that painting, in all of his shock and horror stands a young boy--maybe six or seven years old--in front of a large brown chest of drawers, bottom drawer askew and spilling Santa's whiskers and bright red suit out onto the floor.

I stood there a long time, feeling the chill of that basement floor so many years ago. And, I knew exactly..exactly how that shocked little boy was feeling.      

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW, PART III

I know I listed in Part 1 of this little series that a good Catholic girl was always aware that death was close at hand and could strike at any moment.  The nuns did not mean strike your neighbor. The nuns meant strike You...and, if not this instant, probably later today. You needed to be ready: Confession--recent.  Mass--yes, just this morning.  Underwear--clean, with a little bow on the waistband. Now that I'm 71, and attend a number of funerals each year, that subject isn't as horrifying to me as it once was, but it is a bit disconcerting.  We may visit it later, but for now, let's just skip to the Communists.

The Communists...You must remember that second grade was my home away from home in 1951-1952.  Actually, if my math is still decent, 9.3% of my life, up to that point, had been spent in second grade. The Cold War was raging, Stalin was in charge of Russia (Union of Soviet Socialist Republic), and was trying mightily to conquer as many eastern European countries as he could.  I'm not sure we understood much of what was going on, but the headlines made us nervous and we knew the Communists were bad people and wouldn't stop until they ruled everything.  Our way of life was in jeopardy and Dodge City was their next target.

Our teachers--nuns of all ages--weren't terribly well educated in those days.  Most had attended Catholic grade schools and then entered the nunnery upon eighth-grade graduation.  I don't know if they read newspapers or news magazines, or just listened to baseball games.  I say that because they were a bit weak on some of our subject matter and current events, but they knew everything about baseball.  They were crazy for baseball.  We were allowed to listen to the World Series during class. Most of the games were played in the afternoon in those days, and it was a great time.  The nuns kind of relaxed a bit when the World Series started.  They had definite favorites (the Dodgers were big) and I loved every minute of it even though I didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

In second grade we learned that the Communists were closing in on us.  They were already in Dodge City (incognito and under cover) and could be living next door.  Our best friend could be a Communist.  (Now that I think about it, it's a wonder we had friends at all, considering they were Occasions of Sin as well as Closet Communists.)  Or, if not our best friend, perhaps her Dad was the Communist.  We were warned--again and again--that the Communists might come to our second grade door at any moment and demand to know if we were Catholics.  Dear God! Who in Hell would be attending Sacred Heart Grade School if they weren't a Catholic?  Of course we were Catholics. Communists especially hated Catholics. Apparently, they were fine with Protestants.  Being Catholics, we were obligated to always tell the truth and if someone asked if we were Catholics we must say, "yes." If we denied being a Catholic, we were telling a lie, but even worse, we would be denying God and THAT WAS A CAPITAL LETTER OFFENSE.  And, I know you remember what that means.

When they came to our classroom door, they (the Communists) would ask us one by one if our parents were Catholics.  And, we would have to tell the truth.  Knowing that if we told the truth to save our soul but kill our parents, or perhaps just send them to the Gulag, was way too much for a second grader.  As a matter of fact, I'm so upset right now just telling this story, I have to stop!

Oh...It's all right.  I'm OK again...but wondering.  Did this go on every day as I'm remembering, or was it just once or twice during the entire year?  I have no idea.  I couldn't even guess.  I loved my second grade teacher, Sister Mary Michelle, and I'm sure she was telling us what she believed...or was told to believe.  But, why didn't our parents speak up?  Why didn't they pull me out of there and let me go to Central School where I wanted to be anyway?  That makes me think of today's Home Schoolers who honestly believe they are saving their children from the horrors of public education and dangerous teachers with dangerous thoughts.  The Home School advocates are on a mission. A mission that is wide and deep and sometimes dark and just doesn't make sense to most of us.  Maybe that's what our parents were doing.  Saving our souls and, in the process, saving their souls.  They were charged with raising their children in the faith.  They were charged with raising good little Catholics.

So--who would I have been if I had been allowed to attend Central School?  I would still have been crouching under my desk avoiding the Atomic Bomb destruction resulting from a Communist attack, just like the little Catholics down the street would have been.  But, other than that, the Communists would have left us alone.  They, of course, would assume that a public school was  filled with Protestants and that would have been enough for me.

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW, PART II

Sadly, after all that buildup, First Communion was anti-climactic.  I did enjoy the gifts--I remember a beautiful silver rosary in a tiny silver case from Uncle Joe and Aunt Pauline, but I don't remember anything else from the event. I think Uncle Joe took movies in our back yard after church that were transferred onto VHS a few years ago, and now reside in our brand-new storage shed on Bell Road--just in case you need to look.  My Mom made an absolutely gorgeous white organdy dress and veil for me (guest room closet), and we bought white patent-leather shoes and frilly socks.  That's a stretch...I don't remember frilly socks, but I do know I would have wanted some.  I loved frilly socks. I had my picture taken (professionally) some days before the event. You'll recognize it when you sort things out. It's obviously me in a white dress and veil looking (and feeling) very pleased with myself. I had not yet made my First Confession.

Unfortunately, the trauma of being shriven of our sins and learning about Purgatory and Hell far outweighed the wonder of our First Communion.  The wonder in which Jesus, who spread grace and love and forgiveness throughout the Middle East two thousand years ago, is represented in the form of bread and wine (body and blood) with an open invitation to share that grace, love and forgiveness at his table.  He takes all comers and loves all comers.  Unfortunately, we never heard that part.

Because I forgot, or perhaps never registered the actual ceremony of our First Communion, the most exciting part for me became the fact that now, I could receive Communion at the Daily Mass (8:20 a.m.) that was the official start of each of our days at Sacred Heart School. In those long-ago times, one fasted from Midnight in order to receive Communion.  Since most families served dinner at 6:00 p.m. and put their kids to bed about 8:00 p.m., we had not--at the beginning of Mass--had anything to eat or drink for twelve to fourteen hours.  And, yes, the occasional kid did keel over. At least two or three per week.  But, it was worth it, because when we got back to our classrooms we could bring our lunch pails out of the closet, and eat our breakfast. I loved eating breakfast at school...sitting in my little old-fashioned desk. My Mother packed a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich for my breakfast, and filled a small jar with milk.  She covered the milk jar with waxed paper and then screwed the lid on very tightly.  Most days it leaked--but not very much...just enough for the sandwich to be a bit damp around the edges. It was the best part of my Second Grade day.

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW, PART I

Many years ago, Robert Fulghum wrote a huge best-seller titled, "All I Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten."  It was wonderful and people (me included) still quote favorite parts of it. However, if you attended Sacred Heart Grade School as I did, everything you needed to know had to wait for Second Grade. Second Grade served as the microcosm of my entire eight year experience at Sacred Heart.  Maybe, the microcosm of all twelve years of my Catholic education. Or, and I'm afraid this may be the true one...my entire life.

In addition to the requisite Reading, Writing and Arithmetic everyone learns at some point in their educational life, Sacred Heart Grade School second-grade curriculum included the following:

1:  First Confession

2:  First Communion

3:  Death is Right Beside you

4:  The Communists will be here Soon

I suppose it's best to take these four subjects in order, although you need to know that #1 may tie in with #3.  #4 may show up in #1, #2 and #3.  And, #2 will get very short shrift.  With that out of the way, let's see where this takes us.

I was six years old when I walked into Sacred Heart's second grade classroom, but I did turn seven in mid-October.  Plenty old enough to realize that life was precarious and full of the dreaded "Occasions of Sin." If I didn't want to burn in Hell for all eternity, I'd better be aware of them.  An "Occasion of Sin" could be a person, a place, or a thing.  For example, my best friend could be an Occasion of Sin, but it was more likely that Frosty Gilbert would be my downfall because he made funny jokes, and talked back to the teacher, and pretended to fall out of his desk, and you just couldn't help but laugh even though you were in the classroom.  And that, of course, was a sin.

Perhaps not a sin that would send you directly to Hell if you happened to be run over on your walk home for lunch but, certainly, a sin that would require time in Purgatory.  Be aware that even if you go to Heaven, you must burn off your sins in Purgatory before you're allowed in.  No matter whether you're relatively good or terribly bad, you will burn when you die--but, I hoped for Purgatory as I imagined those fires were a little less intense than the glowing brimstone of Hell.

As we began to study for our First Confession, we were given little blue booklets which contained general directions for Confession, plus a listing of sins we might have committed up to that point in our life.  Venial Sins--those that did not send you directly to Hell in a Handbasket--were printed in regular style.  (Like this)

MORTAL SINS WERE PRINTED IN CAPITAL LETTERS.  CAPITAL LETTERS INDICATED THAT YOU WOULD GO DIRECTLY TO HELL, YOU WOULD NOT PASS "GO," AND YOU WOULD NEVER RETURN.  THE ROAD TO HELL WAS A ONE-WAY ROAD.  YOU WOULD BURN AND SCREAM IN AGONY FOR ALL ETERNITY.  THERE WAS NO END.  IF YOU HAD COMMITTED A SIN THAT WAS PRINTED IN CAPITAL LETTERS (LIKE THIS) YOU SHOULD--VERY CAREFULLY--GET YOURSELF TO A PRIEST AND CONFESS.  BUT, LOOK BOTH WAYS TWICE IF YOU HAVE TO CROSS A STREET TO DO IT.

Because we were reminded daily that we could die at any moment, both Purgatory and Hell were as real to me as if their entry-doors were adjacent to our classroom.  Whereas, Purgatory would most likely be simply labeled as "Purgatory," Hell would include: "Abandon Hope all Ye Who Enter Here." I shuddered every time a door slammed.

I did mention "eternity" a paragraph or so back.  The nuns were fond of telling us that in order to understand eternity we must imagine the beach at an ocean with its tiny grains of sand.  If we picked up one grain of sand every hundred years, by the time we had cleared off all the beaches of all the world it would still be the first minute of the first morning of the first day of eternity.  It was a long time to burn.

Every night I went to bed knowing that I could die at any moment ("If I die before I wake...") and knowing that if I was lucky enough to avoid Hell, I would still have years in Purgatory.  It didn't matter what I did.  Fire was the end result.  But wait!  What if I just didn't sin?  Just lived a life with no sin...ever?  "Impossible," declared the nuns.  No one (except God himself) could live a perfect life. Burning is inevitable.  I think I could even spell "inevitable" in second grade.  I know I could spell Purgatory.

Another thing about Confession and sin:  It is very hard to go to any length of time without sinning, which means one must make frequent visits to the Confessional Booth.  Because one must be in the State of Grace to receive Communion, it is best to keep Confession and Communion very close together.  We made our First Confessions on a Friday morning in April, and our First Communions the following Sunday.  It was a long and tense weekend--what with avoiding sin and undergoing a Toni home permanent all on the same day.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING, PART II

Today, we'll look at the Weigel side of the family...The Paternal Grandparents.  Their story is relatively short, despite the fact that a distant cousin of Daddy's, named Helen Hall, researched and put together a genealogy of the Brungardt clan, of which Daddy was a member.  I don't think I'm telling you more than I know when I write that his mother was a Brungardt.  

And, I don't think we'd ever heard of Helen Hall until she showed up at our door one afternoon, and proceeded to move in for a few days more than Mother was comfortable with. Mary, by this time, was either in college or living in California so she missed our Helen Hall. Helen talked a lot, basically dominating any conversation.  She was an expert on nearly everything, so the rest of us remained rather quiet...including Uncle Joe, who was an expert on everything but, with Helen, surprisingly polite.

Mary has the actual genealogy books, and I have a book of stories that Helen wrote, called Grandfather's Story. It's a little blue book on the shelves in the den in case you're looking, and does go back into the years in which the family was in Russia.  I've never read the entire book, but I have good intentions.

  

My paternal grandfather was Joseph Valentine Weigel.  He was born in 1869--I assume in Russia--and died in Victoria in 1947.  I would have been two, going on three when he died and my only memory of that event was being put down for the night in a bed that was already occupied.  Maybe it was Aunt Hattie or Aunt Ida? I don't know, I only have that brief flash.  Just enough to remember I didn't like it. And, thinking about it now, hoping I was beyond the bed wetting stage.  Especially if it was Aunt Hattie or Aunt Ida. I'm sure they didn't make plastic pants then...although, even thirty years later they didn't really work worth a darn.

Mary has memories of going to Victoria, but I've only seen photos.  Aunts and uncles, other kids older than I, and older men and women who might have been related, but I don't really know.  I do know that fishing was a popular activity there, simply because the aunts have talked about it and I've seen the occasional photo of everyone holding stringers of fish. It's a pretty flimsy memory to hold onto, I know.

It sounds silly, but I don't really know what Joseph Valentine Weigel did for a living.  He fathered thirteen children--twelve survived, so he had to be doing something besides just resting up.  I think they lived in Victoria itself...maybe just across the street from the Catholic church, and I don't remember any talk about a farm...so, that's a mystery.

Katharina Margaret Brungardt was my paternal grandmother.  I love her name--Katharina seems so glamorous. So Russian...or maybe German.  She was born in 1872, and died in the fall of 1962.  I'm assuming she also was born in Russia, but I don't know.  She did pop out a lot of kids, but when my Aunt Helen (Uncle Ed Weigel) went into labor during a visit to Victoria a year or two before Mary was born, Grandmother Katharina is said to have panicked because she only knew how to have a baby, not how to deliver one.  Thanks to my Mother and unnamed others, Cousin Tom Weigel arrived all in one piece.

I can give you a roll-call of the uncles, in no particular order:  Joe (oldest), Ray, Wendell. Bus (Bernard), Doc, Bill (Daddy), and Ed (youngest.)  Now for the aunts: Ida (oldest), Hattie, Elsie, Eleanor, and Alice (youngest.)  There are interesting facts and figures about the Weigels.  Let me share just a few of them here...

Joseph Valentine and Katharina had twelve living children.  Those twelve children produced twelve more children...which would be my generation.  I've always thought that was quite ecologically responsible and an example of German precision.  Of the seven boys, only Doc had a college education, although Ed would have liked to have you think he did.  Out of five girls, four had college educations--two nurses and two teachers.  I can't explain that anomaly, but I like it. Elsie (the only girl to miss college) married early, lost her first baby, then moved with her husband to California. They returned to Kansas only for infrequent visits. In fact, not a one of the twelve children remained in Victoria...which had to be unusual in that day. 

If you're interested, there is the tiniest bit of gossip of the fairly harmless variety.  Uncle Doc may have had  a fondness for the drink and, unfortunately, for drugs.  He married, divorced, and then married again. He had one son with each wife.  When he was killed in a car accident, I was old enough to remember Daddy hearing the news on the phone.  I'm sure it was a few years later that my Mother told the story of the Catholic priest in Victoria, telling my Grandmother that Doc could not be buried in the Catholic section of the Victoria cemetery because he had been DIVORCED and RE-MARRIED and so, was obviously living in MORTAL SIN...and I know you know what that means. Doc could, however, per the parish priest, be buried outside the fence of the cemetery near the Weigel section. Katharina did not take kindly to the exclusion of her son from sacred, hallowed ground, and she answered the priest that, no, he would not be buried outside the fence, and took Doc to Gorham, Kansas, where he was buried in blessed soil...inside the fence. I'm proud of Katharina.

Many years later, heaping insult upon injury (although that's just my opinion) when Uncle Joe died, and his estate was dispersed, it was equally divided into ten shares...not the twelve shares you might expect for his twelve nieces and nephews.  I had mentioned Uncle Doc's two boys a paragraph or so above.  They were cut out of Uncle Joe's will--not just not mentioned, but excluded by name.  I think it was a "Sins of the Parents being visited on the Children" sort of moment, but I've always been taken aback by that. Now, I wish I could remember if Ida, Hattie, or Alice included them. Part of me thinks that at least one of them did...but I can't be sure.  

It's interesting to me, at least, that we never really knew the twelve cousins.  I have never met Doc's two boys, and they might not even be living now.  We saw Tom and Chris occasionally...occasionally meaning every few years.  Elsie's two children were Dorothy and (I think) Rick.  I don't know anything about them.  I have met Wendell's son once or twice in Kansas City, but I don't think I've met his sister.  We grew up with Barbara although, she was probably ten years older than I.  Bill was another five or so years older than Barb and, sadly, he died a number of years ago.  And that leaves Mary and me.

There is no doubt that Mother and Daddy loved their families, but neither needed to be surrounded by them.  I know they enjoyed the times when there were gatherings...but years could pass between those visits.  I don't know that I ever met Uncle Doc, and only met Aunt Eleanor two or three times. It was the same with Aunt Elsie...I saw her less than a handful of times.  I met Wendell at least once--he did live on a farm outside of Kansas City until they moved to Oregon, and I dearly loved Uncle Bus who  visited now and then. He was, I believe, my Godfather--in the Catholic sense of the word.  I visited Ida, Hattie and Alice when they lived in Kansas City and I was in school at K-State.  Of course, Joe and Ray lived in Dodge City so I grew up with them, and Ed and Helen were a huge part of my few years in Omaha.

Katharina was unable to cope with life after my grandfather died, and her daughters (Ida, Hattie and Alice) decided she should move to Kansas City where Ida was living.  Hattie would resign her teaching job in Detroit to be a full-time caretaker for Katharina, while Ida continued to work--she was an anesthetist for a surgeon who taught and practiced at the KU Medical School.  Alice would cheer them on from her lovely apartment in Greenwich Village and would continue to teach Home Economics in Elizabeth, NJ, but certainly visit Kansas City every summer...if she had the time.  I don't think anyone questioned the arrangement, and it simply came to be.  They purchased (or built) a lovely four-bedroom, four-bathroom house on an acre of land somewhere on Nall Avenue. They loved the house--it was the first of three they built over a number of years...each a little nicer and larger than the one before. Eventually, Grandmother died, Alice retired, followed soon after by Bus, and both moved to Kansas City, joining Hattie and Ida in the family home.

We took the train to Kansas City once or twice a year, visiting Ida, Hattie and Grandmother. Grandmother never spoke, nor do I think she ever acknowledged that I was there.  She was in a little world of her own, rocking occasionally near a front window.  Daddy always went in alone to talk to her...he was rumored to be her favorite...but I don't know if they were ever able to really communicate. Grandmother was a mysterious woman through no fault of her own.  I don't know if she wanted to be moved to Kansas City, or what her state of health really was. Maybe she couldn't have lived on her own, but she failed quickly after her move. I dreaded going to visit and was always uncomfortable...maybe even a little frightened. These visits to Kansas City were always quiet affairs. Life was lived in whispers or very low tones. Laughter wasn't appropriate, and doors must shut quietly. We tip-toed around each other as Katharina slowly slipped away from us all.         

BEFORE THE BEGINNING, PART I

I think we might need a little genealogy right about now--just enough to get a grasp on what I would call immediate family.  The Weigel's and the Crowley's.  Theoretically, I never had grandparents. They existed, of course, but three of the four had "shuffled off his or her mortal coil" before I was born. The fourth quietly rocked in a chair, positioned near a sunny window, but never spoke nor acknowledged anyone's presence.  I remember visiting Kansas City when, after our arrival, we would be taken into the living room and presented to Grandmother Weigel.  For me, it was as terrifying and choreographed as meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace. 

On Mother's side, Memorial Day required a trip to Pratt to visit her parents' graves.  I don't think Daddy really liked to go--that was the era when Dodge City had motorcycle races and car races and even an occasional horse race on summer holidays, so he was, no doubt, missing one of those events when he drove her to Pratt.  In fact, I don't remember him ever getting out of the car.  Just sat and waited during her many stops.  And, it was always an all-day affair...sometimes with dinner on the grounds.  You know, it just occurred to me that I never wondered why she  didn't drive herself to Pratt. I know that when I was finally old enough to be trusted not to embarrass her, Mary got a reprieve, stayed home and I was alone in the back seat.

Actually, visiting graves became an annual (or whenever the mood struck) life-time outing for Mother and me.  It was one of the last things she gave up and, each visit was identical to the visit before.  We followed the same route through the cemetery, while she made the same comments about the same people; always surprised at how long her friends had been dead. Much like I am every time I look at Daddy's grave and hers.  

MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS:

My maternal grandparents were John Walter Crowley and Mary Agnes Ryan Crowley.  They both died before I was born, although there are tiny black and white snapshots of them holding Mary when she was a baby.  For me, sadly, they could be any older couple, but I know they're my grandparents because my Mom identified nearly everyone on the backs of most of her photos. Not on all of her photos, however, so we still have an unknown person here and there who could be the very one responsible for my questionable temperament, mousy brown hair, or weakness for sugar. We'll just have to guess.

I am serious in saying that I wish I'd actually heard their voices and inflections as they spoke. Did they discuss politics and, if so, who was their Trump of the day? I'm sure there was gossip. There's always gossip...but I missed it. Without all that, they're not as real as I would wish. Mother had stories, of course, but not as many as you might think. The few I remember were repeated again and again, and so it's a very thin biography I pass down to you. 

Ancestry.com has offered glimpses of basic information on the grandparents. It tells us that Grandfather John Walter Crowley was born in March of 1870 in Iowa.  That's it for birth records--they're a bit sparse from early-day Iowa.  Ancestry agrees with Mother's story that John Walter's father (John Crowley) died in 1875 at the age of 25.  We don't know how or why, but I've always heard it was an accident on the railroad.  Grandfather John Walter turned five that year.

As to John Walter's mother, Ancestry is silent.  I don't even know her name.  I do know, per Mom, that she also died very young, and John Walter was orphaned before he was twelve.  Did he have brothers and sisters?  I think so, but I don't really know. Many of the photos under the bed are without labels or with first names only, and that's no help at all.

Mother told that sad story this way:  John Walter's mother had been sick and knew she was going to die. On the morning in question she hugged and kissed her children good-bye as they left for school knowing she wouldn't see them again.  When they returned later that day, she had indeed died.  That story terrified me as well as made me terribly sad.  She had (reportedly) Mastoiditis, an infection of the mastoid bone located just behind the ear.  Before the era of antibiotics, Mastoiditis was the leading cause of death in children.  (The infection, apparently, goes into the brain.) Even today it can be hard to treat...per Web MD.

My maternal grandmother, Mary Agnes Ryan, was born on September 9, 1871, in Lockport, Illinois. Mary Agnes' father was John Joseph Ryan (1836-1904) and her mother was the notorious Catherine Connor Ryan who sailed alone to America in the 1850s, wrapped only in Aunt Hettie's shawl to keep her warm.  By the way, Aunt Hettie's shawl is here, carefully wrapped in tissue paper in the little chest that looks like a pile of suitcases.  I haven't looked at it very much since Dr. C. told me that Anthrax spores could live for centuries. A word to the wise:  View it, but don't wrap any of the grandchildren in it.

Great-Grandmother, Catherine Connor Ryan, was born in 1844 and died in 1918.  I hadn't thought of it before, but I have to wonder if she was caught up in the Spanish Flu epidemic.  She died while she was visiting Pratt, spending a month with Mary Agnes, John Walter, Helen and Mother. After her husband, John Joseph Ryan died in 1904, Catherine Connor Ryan simply floated from one adult child to the next, spending a month with each before beginning the circuit again.  Mother has suggested that a month with Catherine Connor Ryan in the house was a very long time, and her father simply remained silent and hid behind the newspaper when he was home. Catherine Connor Ryan gave birth to a number of children, but Ancestry seems to skip one or two, and double up on others.  My grandmother might have been the second child, but I don't know for sure.  I counted nine children, before Catherine Connor shut it down by 1890.

Mother, I'm sure, was named after her (Catherine Connor...Catherine Constance) and, good Catholic that she was, told us often how Catherine Connor Ryan convinced the bishop of Salina to build a church in Caldwell, Kansas, simply by outlasting the poor man.   She saw no reason why Caldwell didn't have a church, and she remedied the situation. I've always thought she was fascinating, maybe the tiniest bit on the strong-scary side, but you never forgot her.  I have a distant cousin researching the Ryan roots, and she has come across two diametrically opposed stories on Catherine Connor's fate after reaching the United States.  One: She worked as a housemaid somewhere; and, Two: She attended an elite private girls' school in Chicago. Hmm...interesting choice, take your pick.

In this case, it is Catherine Connor's husband, Great-Grandfather John Joseph Ryan about whom I know nothing.  Since he died in 1904, two years before Mom was born, she knew very little.  I don't think she ever mentioned him.  Poor John Joseph...I assume he did support all of those kids, but that's about it.  He was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1836 and died in Caldwell, Kansas.  Everything in between is a mystery.

Finally, let's meet Mom's mother, Mary Agnes Ryan Crowley. She who was born in Lockport, Illinois, died on her 68th birthday, which is pretty sad...and a little spooky because, as of this minute, I'm three years older than she was when she died.  That happenstance makes me feel that I should get out of my chair and do something great and wonderful...but I never do.  She died of a stroke or, the effects of a stroke.  Her obituary would lead me to believe that she was something of a mover and shaker in Pratt--particularly focused on women's organizations and do-gooding.  After her death, Mom spent time in Pratt helping her dad pick up the pieces, but I don't know how much or when.  He sold the house within a relatively short period of time, and moved into the hotel in Pratt.  Mary would have been turning one during this time frame and I remember Mom talking about her various baby-sitters when she was in Pratt looking after her Dad.

John Walter lived only a few more years, dying in 1943, and Mom and Daddy paid off their Oak Street House with an inheritance from him. I don't know, but I think he was a quiet man (his pictures look that way) and definitely a worrier...but, why not, after losing a Dad and Mom so young?  Mom used to tell the story that every time he returned to Pratt, finishing his run, he slowed a little at a specific curve in the track where he could see his house on Main Street.  Each time, he was checking to be sure it hadn't burned down.  I'm sure I inherited Mary Agnes' blood pressure and John Walter's worry genes.