I watched a 1937 movie this morning called "They Won't Forget." It stars Claude Rains - one of the best underrated actors ever - as the district attorney who wants to make a name for himself and Allyn Joslyn as a rabid reporter who used prejudice and sensationalism to incite a town and eventually even the nation. It's a good movie featuring a very young and pretty Lana Turner.
It is pretty right on for what is happening in the media today with this young black male being killed in Sanford, Florida. Now that we have news 24/7, there is a lot of time to use up. I believe that the media is trying cases before they ever come to trial.
At St. Patricks parish we - Vern and I - belonged to a group called CEW, Christian Experience Weekend. It was sort of a mini Cursillo on a parish level. A series of talks made up the weekend and often someone would tell of a family crisis and how that trauma brought them closer to the Lord. One time one of the talks was about a murder and I commented to Vern that you could see where that catastrophe would make a difference in one's life. Vern said: "We are just hearing one side of the story, before we pass judgement, we should hear the other person's story." That has stayed with me. Before I condemn someone, let me hear both sides. (Although I have to admit as judgemental as I am, sometimes it's a stretch to see both sides of the coin)
Before the media, as in white haired, blue eyed Anderson, whose keeping them honest? and the obnoxious Nancy Grace who is just annoying (I told you I was judgemental, and there are not two sides to either of them) and the other CNN personnel, Wolf with the bad toupee and all of them who drum up drummed up stories, let them hear and report both sides. We deserve to hear the whole story whether it's a murder case or our Presidential Elections. I am worried about a country where most young people get their news from Jon Stewart. Oh, for the days of Uncle Walter C, who was as liberal as Jon Stewart, but more palatable and nicer.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Jesus Wept
As often happens when I hear a song, a Bible verse or spoken words, it triggers a memory. This one was of a trip to Oklahoma City in 2007 with Vern and Maureen. While there in that wonderful city, we visited the Memorial for the 168 people who died in the terrorist attack on the Merrah Federal building on April 19, 1995. It is a long reflecting pool and behind it are all size glass chairs, one for each person killed. Many are small for the children at a day care center in the building.
Maureen had wandered off to take pictures and Vern and I were sitting on a bench in front of the reflecting pond. Practical Vern said that he thought the monument was a waste of good land. He thought that it would have been better served to replace the building to show that you can bomb us but we will rebuild. I tried to tell him that, this open space was a place of healing for the people of Oklahoma City. He wasn't buying my explanation - it wasn't the first time.
We had parked the car on the side street across from the monument and noticed a sign on the building that said: Old St. Joseph Cathedral. I love visiting churches so we walked around the church to see if it was opened. It wasn't, but we noticed in the back of the property, a statue. The statue had it's back to the Federal Building Memorial, and it was titled: Jesus Wept. There was a plaque nearby, that said before the bombing, in that spot had been the rectory for the old Cathedral and the bombing had damaged both the Cathedral building and the rectory. It had been decided to repair the Church but to tear down the rectory and place a statue in its place. As the three of us stood looking at this statue, we were moved to tears, Vern included. The full impact at what had happened was before us in seeing Jesus' hand over his face.
We had seen pictures many times of the Oklahoma City Monument but never the one put up by the Diocese. It is well worth visiting. It is a good reminder of the human side of Our Savior. He felt anguish and pain as we do. And He loved us so much that He died for us.
Friday, March 23, 2012
MALL GIRLS
A Mall girl is not someone with big hair who hangs out at the local shopping center - although I suppose they did that - but a woman who is responsible, caring, generally upbeat, is not afraid to show her feelings and always has a good time doing what she sets out to do - or at least makes you believe that she is. One of them is in heaven, loving us from there and finding us parking places.....but that's another story.
Vern taught them how to do things outside. They worked in the yard and the garden. He taught them to fish. They all like the outdoors. Many of them are involved in the sport of shooting clays. Yet, they are all very feminine and most of them are excellent seamstresses. Their homes make you feel at home. They love people and animals Right now all of them have responsible careers and their jobs are coincidentally in some form of marketing.
There were times in Washington, Illinois when they were notorious or infamous - depending on who you talk to. Our granddaughter, Ellen, once asked her dad if she could change her last name because she wanted to be a Mall girl. I love them. I also like them - there were many times when I didn't. Living with them was not always easy. I'm remembering all those years when we just had one bathroom. They loved their father so much. At the end of his life, they took turns round the clock sitting with him. He would have panic attacks when he thought he couldn't get his breath. One of my best memories is coming in to his ICU room in the middle of the night and Alissa sitting on the step stool, asleep with her head against the side of the bed reaching up, holding his hand. That is pure love. It could have been any of the others on any other night.
Clockwise: Mary, Alissa, Lora, Angela, Maureen in 1998
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Dressing for Church
I'm Ranting!
I blame the Catholic Church. Before the "changes" of Vatican II, going to Church was a dress up occasion. No matter how poor you were - and we qualified - you wore your Sunday Best (that's where the expression came from) when you attended Mass or Service or whatever your particular Congregation Sunday morning Ritual was called. In the 60s, when the Church said, women did not have to cover their heads in a Church anymore, off came the gloves - if you wear a hat, gloves are part of the ensemble - then nice shoes, slacks instead of skirts. It's almost a game to see how 'dressed down' a person can be in Church.
Men and boys wore suits, or at least a white shirt and tie. Women wore the best that we had. What started me thinking about this was when I was in Florida recently, a family with teen aged girls walked by us going up to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday and the young women were wearing short shorts up to the cheeks. First of all, the parents should have told them to go back to their rooms and change. Note to parents: It is okay to tell your children you don't like something they are wearing. They get over it. With daughters you are likely to have that thick tension filled silence but you just crank up your favorite music on the car radio and get on with life.
Some years back, when we were starting the Trolley Tours in the City of Peoria, I attended a series of meetings at CityLink - the Bus Company. While waiting in the lobby for a meeting to start, one morning, a very attractive woman in a silk like dress, hair and makeup perfect, said hello to me and I apologized because I didn't know who she was. When she told me, I was shocked because she was a member of the parish and when I saw her at Church on Sunday, she was usually in jeans or Bermuda shorts and wore no makeup. Come on people, when you attend Mass, you are going to see the King of the World - who is not Leonardo deCaprio on the front of the Titanic - but the Person who loves you so much He died for you.
Before I go any farther, I must comment on the fact that for the most part, our Protestant Brethren still seem to dress more appropriately than we Catholics do. Notice people attending other Churches, they can give us some pointers on Ecclesiastical Fashion.
Okay, so I'm an old person but part of the problem in this country is we have lost pride. Pride in how we conduct business, pride in what we achieve in education and pride in how we look and act. You know that expression: "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" is so true. As women, if we have pride in and take care of how we feel about ourselves first, the rest of the family falls into place easily.
And to those of you who say that the most important thing is going to Church, that Jesus doesn't care how we dress, you are right, Jesus loves you so much, He doesn't care. But you should.
I blame the Catholic Church. Before the "changes" of Vatican II, going to Church was a dress up occasion. No matter how poor you were - and we qualified - you wore your Sunday Best (that's where the expression came from) when you attended Mass or Service or whatever your particular Congregation Sunday morning Ritual was called. In the 60s, when the Church said, women did not have to cover their heads in a Church anymore, off came the gloves - if you wear a hat, gloves are part of the ensemble - then nice shoes, slacks instead of skirts. It's almost a game to see how 'dressed down' a person can be in Church.
Men and boys wore suits, or at least a white shirt and tie. Women wore the best that we had. What started me thinking about this was when I was in Florida recently, a family with teen aged girls walked by us going up to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday and the young women were wearing short shorts up to the cheeks. First of all, the parents should have told them to go back to their rooms and change. Note to parents: It is okay to tell your children you don't like something they are wearing. They get over it. With daughters you are likely to have that thick tension filled silence but you just crank up your favorite music on the car radio and get on with life.
Some years back, when we were starting the Trolley Tours in the City of Peoria, I attended a series of meetings at CityLink - the Bus Company. While waiting in the lobby for a meeting to start, one morning, a very attractive woman in a silk like dress, hair and makeup perfect, said hello to me and I apologized because I didn't know who she was. When she told me, I was shocked because she was a member of the parish and when I saw her at Church on Sunday, she was usually in jeans or Bermuda shorts and wore no makeup. Come on people, when you attend Mass, you are going to see the King of the World - who is not Leonardo deCaprio on the front of the Titanic - but the Person who loves you so much He died for you.
Before I go any farther, I must comment on the fact that for the most part, our Protestant Brethren still seem to dress more appropriately than we Catholics do. Notice people attending other Churches, they can give us some pointers on Ecclesiastical Fashion.
Okay, so I'm an old person but part of the problem in this country is we have lost pride. Pride in how we conduct business, pride in what we achieve in education and pride in how we look and act. You know that expression: "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" is so true. As women, if we have pride in and take care of how we feel about ourselves first, the rest of the family falls into place easily.
And to those of you who say that the most important thing is going to Church, that Jesus doesn't care how we dress, you are right, Jesus loves you so much, He doesn't care. But you should.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Grandma Rena
Her name was Irene but everyone called her Rena. She was the youngest child in her family (born in 1891). Her two sisters, Betty and Pearl were about six feet tall. Her brothers, Pete and George were well over that. Grandma was about 5 ft. 3.
She was sixteen when she married. She lived in Kingston Mines, Grampa lived on a farm in Timber Township. Their favorite place to "go courting" was on a hill at the top of the cemetery in Kingston Mines under a big oak tree. Grampa told the story, that one night he was late getting to pick her up and he left the road and cut through a field. As he walked quickly through the field, it was a dark night and he had the feeling he was being attacked. He said he took out his knife and slashed his way across the field fending off his attackers. After he had walked Rena home, he walked back up the road. The moon was now shining bright and what he thought was attackers was really mounds of hay. He said he cut up a ten acre field that night. (remember I told you Grandpa embellished somewhat) NOTE: Before we had the square bales of hay of today, a horse drawn baler would wrap a bundle of hay about half the size of today's bales and farm workers would stack the shocks on top of each other.
Grandma said that when she was young she was very proud of her 18 inch waist and when she had her first child, Aunt Juanita, she didn't have that tiny waist anymore and she said to Grandpa, expecting to get some sympathy: "I look like and old cow!" And he answered: "Yes, you do!" I'm sure he was joking but a lot of years later she still didn't think it was funny.
Grandpa had been baptized Catholic but didn't attend church and when they married they named their children: Juanita, Iola, Stanley, Russell, Jessie (who died as a young child) and Woodrow. The family lived in Pottstown at that time and the priest at St. Johns on the far Southside came out to visit. Before long Grandpa was back in the Church, Grandma and the children were baptized and the next children were: John, Mary, Leo, Francis and Teresa.
They lived on Charlton Street, two blocks from St. Patricks. They were a lively, gregarious bunch. When we were young we were at their house a lot for family gatherings. A block away - in the other direction - was the Melrose Club, a neighborhood tavern run by the Peters Family. That was the Scovil family hangout. All of them. (The first time, Vern ever met Grandma, we went over to the Gin Mill Tavern to pick her up. The Gin Mill was a neighborhood tavern between Saratoga St. and MacArthur Highway owned by the Bulger family.)
When Grandpa died, they were living in the Warner homes and she continued to live their for awhile until financially she could not live on her own. So she began to live with her children and my cousin, Ben. But I really think the place she liked living best was with my parents because just as when she had been raising her children, there was usually a lot going on at the folks house and Grandma liked being around people. She loved going to Church events and funerals. If she barely knew someone, she wanted to attend their visitation. (another chance to be with people). She carried a pinochle deck of cards in her big purse - that she had with her all the time - and if she could coerce three other people to a game she would. She cheated. She reneged on cards all the time. She loved having Vern as a partner because he was kind but if she was playing against our brother, Russ, he would call her on her reneging. She did not appreciate that.
My mother washed and set her hair for her at least once a week. A family story is that when Mother started into labor with our youngest sister, Suzanne, Grandma told her that before she could go to the hospital, Mother would have to 'fix' her hair. And Mother did - and complained about it for years long after Grandma was gone.
Grandma was always very neatly dressed in a nice house dress, hose and black laced shoes with a small heel - very similar to the white ones in the picture. She always wore earrings and her rings and watch. She had a good navy blue dress for Church and funerals. One year for Easter, she bought a pair of red shoes. She was in her sixties and Mother was incensed that a woman her age would buy red shoes. I'm not sure she wore them much, I think she just wanted them.
As she got older, she lived in nursing homes. The last one Queenswood in Morton - the parents were living in Morton at that time. The night before she died, our cousin, Ben, his wife, Eva and I went to the hospital to visit her. I remember how she clung to my hand, she was, I believe, really afraid to die. We talked for awhile about family, I tried to make her laugh and relax but I don't think she did. She is buried next to Grandpa on that hill in the cemetery at Kingston Mines. The oak tree is long gone but the stump is still there.
There are a lot more stories on Grandma that my siblings and cousins could tell - and do. But this is the essence of the grandparent I knew best.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Animal Tales - Duffy
Next door to our friend, Marge Lee lived a family that raised Bedlington Terriers. When Leah and I would go for a visit, if the dogs were out in their temporary pen, Leah never made it into the house, she just stood and petted and admired those little dogs. In their show dog cut, they really look like a sheep. Leah asked Kay, the breeder, how much they cost and I don't remember, but it was exorbitant.
In December, of 1994, Leah had her first stroke. Looking back, we realize she had had TIAs several times previously and we didn't recognize what they were. The stroke in December left her weak in her right arm. I remember she had a little ball, she worked in her hand to give her strength. When Kay heard about Leah's stroke, she offered us one of her pups, who was not a pure white and had small spots on his skin. The only condition was that we have him neutered to keep the breed pure. Because of his color, he was not a "good" dog. Leah was thrilled and we believe that taking care of - she named him Duffy - helped her in her recovery. We had him neutered and with shots, etc, Vern was heard to grumble: "so much for a free dog!"
Leah loved Duffy and Vern did too. He was a nice little dog but he had some bad habits. One he hated squirrels, and he would stand on his back legs looking out in the side yard and if he saw a squirrel, he would go ballistic until he could get outside to chase it away. He also loved to go down into the woods , and would come back filled with cockle burrs and most evenings, Vern or Leah would sit pulling burrs out of his fur. His fur was very similar to a poodles. And he didn't like me. Never mind that I was the one who saw that his water bowl and food bowl was washed and filled, he wanted nothing to do with me. So help me, if he went outside to do his business, when he scratched on the door to come in, if I opened the door, he would stand for one second, right front paw raised as if he was going to step over the threshold and then turn and run away. After this happened a couple of times, I would say - in probably not the friendliest tones: "Get your ass in here!", if he still ran away - which he often did, I would tell Vern or Leah to answer the door and he would come right in, bouncing in like it was the first time he had scratched on the door.
When Leah had a more massive stroke in April of 1995, she had a trach tube and feeding tube put in and she got a terrible infection. She was in the hospital several weeks and then she went to Rosewood Nursing home behind ICC.
We asked permission of the nurses at OSF, if we could bring Duffy into the hospital to visit Leah and they agreed to Sunday nights after 8:00 p.m. We would bring him in the back entrance and up on the elevator. He would come into Leah's room, and greet her, smell her and lay down beside her so she could pet him. I swear that every nurse on that side of the hospital found an excuse to come into Leah's room to pet Duffy. When she was transferred to Rosewood, because of the infection she was in a private room and when we would visit often we took Duffy along. As we walked down the hall to Leah's room, residents in wheel chairs would reach out to touch and pet Duffy as we walked by and he was very patient with them. When we would get to Leah's room, once more he would jump up on her bed, lick her face and lay down on the bed beside her.
When Leah died, Duffy became Vern's dog. Vern had been raised with animals his whole life, and he loved this little dog, partly because he had been Leah's but Duffy loved him as well. Many nights, Vern would sit in his recliner, watching TV with Duffy on his lap. And if we were on the porch, Vern would whisper "squirrel" and the dog would take off calling and sliding to get down and chase.
My sister Judy and her daughter Michelle found a little stuffed dog that looked just like Duffy. They brought it to Leah in the hospital and it was buried with her in her casket. Someone gave us another one, that I kept on her bed.
One year we went up to Wisconsin to see our Benway grandchildren in a Christmas pageant. Joel led Duffy in on a leash as the one and only sheep in the performance. He got to the altar and laid down by the manger and watched the proceedings. He never moved. When Vern and I traveled, Duffy went to Wisconsin on vacation. The Benway family loved having him..
When Vern died in 2008, I told Lora that Duffy was theirs and they gladly welcomed him into their home. By this time he was getting older and when they brought him back with them when I moved to this house in Peoria, all the daughters went out one evening and Duffy was at the house with me. He was outside quite awhile and I went out looking for him. We had dug a huge hole for a new septic tank and I was afraid he might fall in. I found him walking along the pine trees on the east side of the house. I don't think he realized where he was, it was dark and it had been awhile since he had been there. I called to him but his hearing was going and it was only when I was right next to him did he see me and he gladly followed me into the house - for the first time, I might add - and laid down on his bed and slept.
He died shortly thereafter and Randy and Lora had him cremated and when they came down one time we sprinkled his ashes over Vern and Leah's gravesite. There he rests with his two good friends.
As I write this, I am crying. I don't know if it's reaction from the Chemo, for this last pet in our family or for the two family members that I loved and are gone. And oh my gosh, so help me - believe it or not - a squirrel just walked across the telephone line in the back.
Animal Tales...The end
In December, of 1994, Leah had her first stroke. Looking back, we realize she had had TIAs several times previously and we didn't recognize what they were. The stroke in December left her weak in her right arm. I remember she had a little ball, she worked in her hand to give her strength. When Kay heard about Leah's stroke, she offered us one of her pups, who was not a pure white and had small spots on his skin. The only condition was that we have him neutered to keep the breed pure. Because of his color, he was not a "good" dog. Leah was thrilled and we believe that taking care of - she named him Duffy - helped her in her recovery. We had him neutered and with shots, etc, Vern was heard to grumble: "so much for a free dog!"
Leah loved Duffy and Vern did too. He was a nice little dog but he had some bad habits. One he hated squirrels, and he would stand on his back legs looking out in the side yard and if he saw a squirrel, he would go ballistic until he could get outside to chase it away. He also loved to go down into the woods , and would come back filled with cockle burrs and most evenings, Vern or Leah would sit pulling burrs out of his fur. His fur was very similar to a poodles. And he didn't like me. Never mind that I was the one who saw that his water bowl and food bowl was washed and filled, he wanted nothing to do with me. So help me, if he went outside to do his business, when he scratched on the door to come in, if I opened the door, he would stand for one second, right front paw raised as if he was going to step over the threshold and then turn and run away. After this happened a couple of times, I would say - in probably not the friendliest tones: "Get your ass in here!", if he still ran away - which he often did, I would tell Vern or Leah to answer the door and he would come right in, bouncing in like it was the first time he had scratched on the door.
When Leah had a more massive stroke in April of 1995, she had a trach tube and feeding tube put in and she got a terrible infection. She was in the hospital several weeks and then she went to Rosewood Nursing home behind ICC.
We asked permission of the nurses at OSF, if we could bring Duffy into the hospital to visit Leah and they agreed to Sunday nights after 8:00 p.m. We would bring him in the back entrance and up on the elevator. He would come into Leah's room, and greet her, smell her and lay down beside her so she could pet him. I swear that every nurse on that side of the hospital found an excuse to come into Leah's room to pet Duffy. When she was transferred to Rosewood, because of the infection she was in a private room and when we would visit often we took Duffy along. As we walked down the hall to Leah's room, residents in wheel chairs would reach out to touch and pet Duffy as we walked by and he was very patient with them. When we would get to Leah's room, once more he would jump up on her bed, lick her face and lay down on the bed beside her.
When Leah died, Duffy became Vern's dog. Vern had been raised with animals his whole life, and he loved this little dog, partly because he had been Leah's but Duffy loved him as well. Many nights, Vern would sit in his recliner, watching TV with Duffy on his lap. And if we were on the porch, Vern would whisper "squirrel" and the dog would take off calling and sliding to get down and chase.
My sister Judy and her daughter Michelle found a little stuffed dog that looked just like Duffy. They brought it to Leah in the hospital and it was buried with her in her casket. Someone gave us another one, that I kept on her bed.
One year we went up to Wisconsin to see our Benway grandchildren in a Christmas pageant. Joel led Duffy in on a leash as the one and only sheep in the performance. He got to the altar and laid down by the manger and watched the proceedings. He never moved. When Vern and I traveled, Duffy went to Wisconsin on vacation. The Benway family loved having him..
He died shortly thereafter and Randy and Lora had him cremated and when they came down one time we sprinkled his ashes over Vern and Leah's gravesite. There he rests with his two good friends.
As I write this, I am crying. I don't know if it's reaction from the Chemo, for this last pet in our family or for the two family members that I loved and are gone. And oh my gosh, so help me - believe it or not - a squirrel just walked across the telephone line in the back.
Animal Tales...The end
Animal Tales - Tuffy and Rufus
We were without a dog for awhile and Leah began reading newspaper ads. Vern was incensed that she would consider buying a dog, but it was hard for him to say no to Leah. She found a breeder of shitzus and paid for it herself - it was about $75.00. She named him Tuffy. He followed her everywhere. In the picture he is standing under a low coffee table so you can see how small he was. I don't remember how long we had him but at least six or seven years. He loved to be carried and Maureen remembers that he would be laying on his back and if you threw a small sofa pillow to him, he would bounce it around on all four paws. As you can see from the picture, he wasn't the handsomest dog with his prominent overbite, but Leah loved him. He was definitely a house dog.One early evening, all of us were gone except Leah. She had taken him outside. She was sitting on the back porch steps and he ran to the end of the sidewalk and fell over dead. A couple of weeks ago when I was in Florida, my sister, Suzi, told me that when it happened, Leah called her on the phone and said: "Aunt Suzi, Tuffy went down the steps and died". Suzi asked if she wanted her to come over and Leah said: "No, I just wanted to tell you." and hung up. That was our Leah, short and to the point. Maureen was the first one home and they wrapped the body in an old towel and took it out to the apple tree where other pets were buried. When we got home we felt so bad that Leah and been alone when it happened but she seemed to be alright with it. Vern buried him and erected a small sign bearing his name.
Shortly after Tuffy died, Leah went for a ride on her bike and as she came down Cruger road riding from the vicinity of Cummings Lane, running behind was a pretty white with orangish markings little dog. He had followed her home. He was a nice little dog and obviously a good breed. We looked him up in a dog book and the closest we could figure he was a Cairn Terrier. We told her we couldn't keep him - he had a collar but no tag and that she would have to watch the paper for lost dogs. She named him Rufus anyway. Sure enough, a lost dog ad appeared for a Cairn Terrier and we called the number and a young couple came out and looked the dog over, played with it a bit. The dog didn't seem very much interested in them and they decided it wasn't their dog. And that was how we got and kept Rufus. He was a good dog, and he enjoyed being outside as well as in.Some nights he preferred to stay outside on the porch. We left the screen door on to the porch locked open so that he could chase bunnies - most of the dogs game of choice. One night, he had stayed out, and the next morning when Vern left for work, he noticed that the bottom panel on the storm door into the house was all bent in. Rufus was nowhere around, and we never saw him again. Vern's theory was that a band of Coyotes had chased him up on the porch and that was how the panel was pushed in as he struggled to get away and they took him off and had him for dinner. It was a while then before we had anymore dogs.
Unless you want to count the two German Shepherd puppies that Angela and Maureen said had followed them home behind the car. They came with colorful bandanas around their necks. I assured them that I was sure they had a better home and to take them back. And they did......begrudgingly.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
GRANDPARENTS
On Christmas Eve, in 1916, our mother was a six month old baby. Her mother had gotten pneumonia and was in the bedroom dieing. One of Grandma Evelyn's sisters had pulled Mama's cradle closer to the kitchen cook stove to keep her warm. Mother told the story that had been told to her, that she was sleeping and all of a sudden she let out a cry. And one of her aunt's said to the other: "Def just died." Someone then came from the bedroom to tell those waiting in the kitchen that our grandmother had passed. Her name was Evelyn but the family called her Def. I wish I knew why.
Mother was the youngest of nine children. Grandpa Theodore tried to keep the family together but several of the older children were already married - mother has nieces older than herself - and eventually the three youngest children went to live with other relatives. While researching family genealogy recently, I found that Grampa Theodore had remarried and I wonder why he didn't take the children back to raise. Another story we've missed.
Most of my memories are of my Scovil grandparents. They lived a block away from us at one time on the Southside and they were a large and gregarious family. When my parents were married in November, 1935 - I was born in July, 1936 - they spent their wedding night in an upstairs bedroom in the house on Charlton Street. Our dad said the next morning, he noted to his father that the hot water bottle that had been put in the bed to keep the bed warm was still warm. Grandpa Frank not to be outdone, remembered that a hot water bottle of ice had been put in the bed on the night he was married and the receptacle was so hot, they used the water inside to make coffee the next morning.
Grandpa bought a coal mine near Pottstown. The deal was made with a handshake. Dad and Uncle Stan helped him work the mine. Small family coal mines were common in that area.(There is an excellent book about coal mining in Peoria County that can be bought through the Peoria Historical Society. I have a copy but have loaned it to someone so cannot remember the name) A family story is that one time a huge chunk of coal fell on Grandpa and Dad and Uncle Stan pulled it off. Later no one could believe these two teen aged men could lift such an immense stone but they had and saved their fathers life. The man that Grandpa had bought the mine from died and during the depression, the man's son took the mine back as their were no papers on the sale. Grandpa bought a houseboat and moved to the river and trapped muskrat and beaver and fished. In the living room at their house on Charlton Street, there was usually a rack with a stretched fishing net that Grandpa was working on. He repaired it with a tool similar to crochet needles.
Grandma and the children were on ADC, Aid to Dependent Children, because Grandpa's address was elsewhere. Dad, who was a precinct committeeman......and that's another story, helped him get a job as a bridge tender on the Franklin Street Bridge when Grandpa was in his 60's so that he could qualify for Social Security for he and Grandma..
He told us children that his grandfather went to sea on a pirate boat with Captain Cook. While doing research, I read that Great, great grandfather, Cyrus Porter Scovil had been a cook as a young boy on a sailing vessel. Grampa Frank had a tendency to imbellish.
The first joke I ever heard was one he told us. The State Mental Hospital was a huge complex in Bartonville and he said that one of the patients was walking close to the fence one day and he saw a farmer in the field working. The patient asked what he was doing and the farmer said he was putting manure on his strawberries. The inmate replied: "And they say we're crazy, we put cream and sugar on ours."
When he died, there was a huge party at my parents house and someone told the story that Grandpa Frank had told about going to an Irish wake and someone had taken the casket that was in the middle of the room and stood it in the corner to make room for all the dancing and partying. He always said that someone put a drink in the corpse's hand but that may just be a story.
I will post more on Grandma Irene in another post. She's the one we had around the longest and there are many more stories on her.
Mother was the youngest of nine children. Grandpa Theodore tried to keep the family together but several of the older children were already married - mother has nieces older than herself - and eventually the three youngest children went to live with other relatives. While researching family genealogy recently, I found that Grampa Theodore had remarried and I wonder why he didn't take the children back to raise. Another story we've missed.
Most of my memories are of my Scovil grandparents. They lived a block away from us at one time on the Southside and they were a large and gregarious family. When my parents were married in November, 1935 - I was born in July, 1936 - they spent their wedding night in an upstairs bedroom in the house on Charlton Street. Our dad said the next morning, he noted to his father that the hot water bottle that had been put in the bed to keep the bed warm was still warm. Grandpa Frank not to be outdone, remembered that a hot water bottle of ice had been put in the bed on the night he was married and the receptacle was so hot, they used the water inside to make coffee the next morning.
Grandpa bought a coal mine near Pottstown. The deal was made with a handshake. Dad and Uncle Stan helped him work the mine. Small family coal mines were common in that area.(There is an excellent book about coal mining in Peoria County that can be bought through the Peoria Historical Society. I have a copy but have loaned it to someone so cannot remember the name) A family story is that one time a huge chunk of coal fell on Grandpa and Dad and Uncle Stan pulled it off. Later no one could believe these two teen aged men could lift such an immense stone but they had and saved their fathers life. The man that Grandpa had bought the mine from died and during the depression, the man's son took the mine back as their were no papers on the sale. Grandpa bought a houseboat and moved to the river and trapped muskrat and beaver and fished. In the living room at their house on Charlton Street, there was usually a rack with a stretched fishing net that Grandpa was working on. He repaired it with a tool similar to crochet needles.
Grandma and the children were on ADC, Aid to Dependent Children, because Grandpa's address was elsewhere. Dad, who was a precinct committeeman......and that's another story, helped him get a job as a bridge tender on the Franklin Street Bridge when Grandpa was in his 60's so that he could qualify for Social Security for he and Grandma..
He told us children that his grandfather went to sea on a pirate boat with Captain Cook. While doing research, I read that Great, great grandfather, Cyrus Porter Scovil had been a cook as a young boy on a sailing vessel. Grampa Frank had a tendency to imbellish.
The first joke I ever heard was one he told us. The State Mental Hospital was a huge complex in Bartonville and he said that one of the patients was walking close to the fence one day and he saw a farmer in the field working. The patient asked what he was doing and the farmer said he was putting manure on his strawberries. The inmate replied: "And they say we're crazy, we put cream and sugar on ours."
When he died, there was a huge party at my parents house and someone told the story that Grandpa Frank had told about going to an Irish wake and someone had taken the casket that was in the middle of the room and stood it in the corner to make room for all the dancing and partying. He always said that someone put a drink in the corpse's hand but that may just be a story.
I will post more on Grandma Irene in another post. She's the one we had around the longest and there are many more stories on her.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Hawks
When Vern and I traveled, he would always look out for hawks - sometimes the steering wheel going in the same direction as his eyes and I would reach out and turn the wheel back. He would count how many we saw along the way, or point out a red tail or a small sparrow hawk and other types he would spot. "The best time to see hawks," he would say, "is about noon time when they're looking for lunch". Imagine his excitement when a red tail hawk pair made a nest in a tree at the flying field. (for those of you who didn't know Vern, he flew model airplanes and was partly instrumental in the Washington flying club getting their place on Cruger Road) He kept his binoculars in the car and checked on the nest building, egg laying and hatching, etc.
When he died and I would be traveling somewhere, I would see a hawk and say to myself: "Hi, Vern, hey, I know you're watching out for me. Thanks!" Just one of the silly things a person does. The Bible says we are not to ask for signs and I don't but I believe that sometimes they just come your way. When Maureen and I traveled together, she too began to notice hawks and my sister Judy commented on seeing them several times while traveling in and from Florida. And both commented that Vern was looking out for us.
One time, Maureen and I were coming home from the cancer clinic on Route 91. I had been sure that the cancer was spreading and I was so relieved when I got a good report. We were driving along side Hoerr Nursery when Maureen pointed out a hawk traveling right along side the car just below the tree line. "Look, Mom", she said, "Dad's telling you to stop worrying needlessly, everything is going to be alright".
There have been other hawk sightings at odd times and it just makes me feel good to see them. The latest was this Wednesday. On Tuesday, I had been out to see Dr. G. and told him I would do another round of chemo. I'm doing this because my children and friends have asked me to do it. I am ready to go on the next big adventure - death - but will try this whole chemo cocktail one more time. Dr. assured me if I didn't like it, we would stop or try something else. So every three weeks, I'll be going in to get a treatment. Wednesday morning, I was sitting in the Den, which faces the back of the house, and out of nowhere came a hawk, landed very briefly on the telephone lines and flew off. Was it a sign, a coincidence, a God incident, or a superstition? I'll let you decide. As for me, I like to think it was Vern stopping by so briefly, almost like a wink, to say he approves of my decision.
When he died and I would be traveling somewhere, I would see a hawk and say to myself: "Hi, Vern, hey, I know you're watching out for me. Thanks!" Just one of the silly things a person does. The Bible says we are not to ask for signs and I don't but I believe that sometimes they just come your way. When Maureen and I traveled together, she too began to notice hawks and my sister Judy commented on seeing them several times while traveling in and from Florida. And both commented that Vern was looking out for us.
One time, Maureen and I were coming home from the cancer clinic on Route 91. I had been sure that the cancer was spreading and I was so relieved when I got a good report. We were driving along side Hoerr Nursery when Maureen pointed out a hawk traveling right along side the car just below the tree line. "Look, Mom", she said, "Dad's telling you to stop worrying needlessly, everything is going to be alright".
There have been other hawk sightings at odd times and it just makes me feel good to see them. The latest was this Wednesday. On Tuesday, I had been out to see Dr. G. and told him I would do another round of chemo. I'm doing this because my children and friends have asked me to do it. I am ready to go on the next big adventure - death - but will try this whole chemo cocktail one more time. Dr. assured me if I didn't like it, we would stop or try something else. So every three weeks, I'll be going in to get a treatment. Wednesday morning, I was sitting in the Den, which faces the back of the house, and out of nowhere came a hawk, landed very briefly on the telephone lines and flew off. Was it a sign, a coincidence, a God incident, or a superstition? I'll let you decide. As for me, I like to think it was Vern stopping by so briefly, almost like a wink, to say he approves of my decision.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Animal Tales - Tippy
Talking to Alissa last evening, she reminded me of Tippy, the only bird in this menagerie that passed through our lives in fifty-one plus years as a family. I've tried to keep this chronicle in a time order, so this chapter should probably be Chapter Two and a Half.
When Father Eugene Gould became pastor of St. Patrick Parish in Peoria, his housekeeper was Helen MacSomething - her B-I-L was the chaplain at OSF for years. She was the best person and we all liked her very much. She and Lora became fast friends and when Lora was Confirmed, she asked Helen to be her Sponsor. Helen called me and asked if It would be okay to give her a parakeet as a Confirmation gift. She told me had had a parakeet as a child and she had named it Tippy. She had fond memories of her pet bird and wanted Lora to have that experience as well. Vern and I said it was fine and Lora named her parakeet Tippy too.
Tippy was really a pretty bird, green and yellow. I don't think he ever talked, but he tweeted on occasion. Our family - Vern was the worst - would not keep the bird in the cage. No matter how much I protested, the bird was on someone's head or shoulder or on the drapery rods or the top of the hutch. The top of the hutch and the drapes were his favorite place to do bird doo. And if someone came to the door or went outside, the cry went up "Bird's out!". One warm day, Mary was going outside, Tippy was on someone's shoulder, and before you could shout "Bird's out", Tippy was on Mary's head and out the back door. Lora was devastated and the whole family began calling and looking around the neighborhood. My brother, Richard, was a police officer and our neighborhood was his beat that night. He came by and wondered why everyone was out on the street - because Lora and her sisters had enlisted all the close neighbors into the search - and when we told him what was happening, he got that silly grin on his face, picked up his microphone and pretended to send out an APB on the capture of Tippy. Lora felt reassured that the police were on the case. I remember him driving away, head out the window, hand on the bill of his cap, searching the skies for a lost bird. What a character.
Lora felt so bad about Tippy being out in the weather that she wrote a letter to a local children's show, Captain Jinx and Salty Sam and Captain Jinx read a portion of her letter on the show and asked the whole city to be on the lookout for a lost bird. As for me, I had the drapes cleaned and washed off the top of the hutch.
The rest of the story: Lora married Randy, who coincidently as a child had a parakeet who flew out the door and .....it's name was Tippy.
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