Driving 101

      Recently, sister Judith Anne and I were reminiscing about when she taught me to drive.  All those who hang onto side straps when I get behind the wheel, blame Judy!
      Back before the days when everyone was required to take drivers ed, our Dad took me down to Washington Street on Peoria's Southside on a Sunday afternoon - when there wasn't much traffic - to give me a lesson on driving a car.  I've got to be honest, at 16, it wasn't one of the priorities in my life but Dad felt it was "a rite of passage", I guess.  I remember that he pulled the car into the brick dock in front of the Ice Company Building, got out and told me to get behind the wheel.  I was pretty nervous.  And over the years, when I get nervous, I get sillier than usual.
      First, he explained about the "H" of the gear shift - I got that.  "Put your left foot on the clutch," He said.  "Which is my left foot?", I asked.  I think he swallowed his cigarette.  After he reminded me I was left handed and that might be a clue, and my left foot went to the clutch and right foot on the accelerator, easing it out slowly.  A few bumpy starts and the car moved!  Amazing!
       Now several, actually many, yards in front of me was an Ice Truck parked as we were, parallel  to the street,  he suggested we start again - left foot on clutch, right foot on accelerator and turn out to the street and proceed west on Washington.  Actually driving on a street was pretty intimidating and since there was no traffic, my first thought was getting out to the street fast before any cars came, so look at the rear view mirror,  left foot on clutch, right foot on accelerator hard to beat any oncoming traffic - and there was none, and all of a sudden his foot came over  to the brake and we stopped suddenly.  "Get out of the car." He said tersely.   I was so concentrated on left foot, right, I had not turned the steering wheel, and we almost went under the Ice Truck.
      That was the end of my driving lessons from Dad.   It was really okay, because we had street cars and then buses that went right by the house on Howett Street.
       When I married Vern, he could care less that I drove.  In fact, he liked the idea of knowing that I was home with the babies and not gallivanting out somewhere.  Periodically, I would decide I really should drive and convince Vern to take me out on the back roads by the airport - we were living on Maxwell Road by this time.  We drove a four door Ford and Vern had built a bench and covered it with carpet.  It fit in front of the back seat so that the daughters could play in the back or sleep when we traveled to Missouri.  When Vern would drive towards Smithville Road, Alissa, then about three or four, would realize it was going to be a driving lesson, she would be on her knees right behind the front seat and she would begin to cry:  "Don't let her drive, Daddy, she's going to kill us all!"  Not the best confidence builder.
       In 1965, Judy's husband, Bill's job transferred him to Pennsylvania and Judy said that before she moved - she was primarily my wheels - I was going to learn to drive.  We were living on Martin Street at that time and our automobile was a black station wagon.  We would load my five (I was pregnant with Maureen) and her two in the back and I proceeded to learn to drive.  (Alissa had cousins in the car with her and was distracted)  When you have that many kids and they are being kids, you tend to tune them out and so I concentrated and learned to drive.   Vern was not happy, as I said he liked the fact that I was home and "barefoot and pregnant",  to quote an old saying.    The first time, I went to the grocery store by myself, no kids, and he didn't have to go - he hated grocery shopping - he began to realize me driving wasn't such a bad idea.
      I am grateful to my sister for teaching me this most basic of skills.  I have driven to Missouri, Indiana and Wisconsin on my own many times.  And taken my turn driving as we meandered out West.  When I travel now, I just put on my 'favorites' playlist and enjoy the drive.  When I hear of women my age who never learned to drive, it makes me sad.  What freedom, they are missing.
      Shortly before Vern died, I did most of the driving, often even to Church.    I can think of a couple of times that we went up to Wisconsin to visit the Benways and I drove four and a half hours both ways - he liked to sleep in his own bed too.  A lot of things change in 52 years of marriage.
           

Incident #12-8475

     I was robbed!  Actually!   Saturday, April 7, daughter, Mary was showing her Aunt Judy and myself some of the views of Couer d'Alene, Idaho when my cell phone rang.  It was daughter, Lora saying she had bad news.  The police had called her and told her that someone had unlocked the back window into my living room and they needed me to contact them.  I did.
    I called dear friend, Sue Sepich, who went to the house, checked it over and called me back to tell me that all the televisions were missing, the computer monitor and a gallon jug of change in the hallway.  She made sure that the house was secure and told me not to worry, there was really nothing I could do until I got back.
    Yesterday about 1:30 p.m., I arrived home, and it looked pretty bare.  I checked the jewelry chest - everything was there.  I thought I could do a little work on my i-pad but the thieves had screwed up my modem and wiring.
     This morning I went to Best Buy and bought TVs and a monitor.  After dinner tonight with Phyllis Calliss and Maribeth Bachar,  I asked them if they would carry in the TVs for me.  They obliged.  Earlier I had called Linda and Bob Nieukirk to see if they could help me out and about 7:30, Bob, Dennis Doolan and John Bremenkamp came over and the triumvirate put together my TVs, a new TV stand, hooked up the new monitor, and as you can see I am back in the computer business.  How blessed am I to have friends and family to get me through - s-i-l, Gregg, gave me a list of what to look for when I went to replace what I had lost.
      I asked the Bob/Denny/John trio what I could do to repay them.  They suggested I write a letter to their wives reminding them of how wonderful they are.  Although one of them said it might be too late for that!!
      When I received the call from Lora, I was shocked and felt almost violated.  Forty years in the country, half the time not locking our doors and we never had anything stolen.  The police told me that when they were at my house, a neighbor told them that a screen had been removed from a window at their house but the window would not open.    The police supposed someone was casing the neighborhood.
      There was only one thing I was concerned about and it was not taken; the rest is just stuff and it has been replaced.  I'm glad I was not here, those consequences I don't want to think about.  Thank God and my many dear friends.

My sister, Judy and I were talking about good memories. One of which is at during different times, both of us worked as waitresses at the Bingo Games at the Italian American Hall on Louisa Street across from St. Boniface Church. I worked with Joanna Dunne and Elaine Bianchi, my friends from High School. Judy worked there a few years later when Mom was playing this most boring of gambling games.

What Judy remembers most, is the wonderful ladies of The Auxiliary making the best Grilled Cheese ever.

Italian American Grilled Cheese

Thinly slice tomatoes Thinly slice onions

Two slices of bread of choice Lightly spread mustard on one slice Catsup on the other American Cheese slice Slices of tomatoes Slices of onions (cover bread slice with both. Sweet onions are best, purple onions are good) Another slice of cheese(Judy uses pepper jack these days) Top with second slice of bread and butter outside of bread. Put buttered side on cold griddle/pan Butter outside of other slice. Grill until brown of choice

Judy says that most of the women who played Bingo played twenty four to thirty-six cards and if they had to go to the bathroom, they would give her a quarter to watch their cards. She says she got wore out playing their cards but it was a quarter for a pack of cigarettes.

The Media

     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.

Jesus Wept

      Yesterday's Gospel reading was from John 11, the story of Lazurus.   When Jesus had heard his friend died he had a very human reaction.  Jesus wept. (John 11:35) This is the shortest verse in the  Bible.
        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.

MALL GIRLS

      This morning I invited myself to breakfast at Bill and Phyllis Calliss'.  Breakfast was excellent and before I left, Bill showed me this picture from the September, 2011 National Geographic of the Women's Land Army.  Women from all over Britain worked on farms during WWII.  This is a picture from the archives.  Bill said:  "When I saw this picture, I thought this could be the Mall girls".   He's right!  Even though this picture is of their backsides, you have the feeling  that these are strong, secure women with a purpose.  That's a Mall girl.
      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.

      If they had lived in Britain in the 1940s, they would have belonged to the WLA.  It would have been a new adventure and they are always open to trying something new.  As a group they can be a bit overwhelming at times, but they are loyal to each other and to me.   I am blessed.




Clockwise:  Mary, Alissa, Lora, Angela, Maureen in 1998

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.