The Six Wives of Perry Green Marquis

Perry Green Marquis

Time for a little family history and a few tales of that most enigmatic ancestor, one Perry Green Marquis. Perry lived a very long and colorful life that is perhaps best told through the lives of his many wives. Get comfortable and settle in. It's a long story (he had a lot of wives).

Perry Green Marquis, affectionately known as “The Old Sire,” was born on Thursday, January 22, 1824 in Posey County, Indiana. Posey County is at the extreme southwestern tip of Indiana. It shares the Wabash River as its western border with Illinois and the Ohio River as its southern with Kentucky. It is still a largely rural county with a population fewer than 30,000. At the time Perry was born, it must have been a lonely place for its population was less than 5,000.

In 1840, when Perry was 15 years old, he moved in with his grandparents William A. and Mary Marcus while his father, James C. Marquis, moved to Wells County in northeast Indiana, presumably to farm a parcel of land he'd just bought. It's interesting to note that James and his brothers, Solomon and William, all owned land but in different parts of the state. Perry maintained a close relationship with his grandfather until the old man's death prior to 1860. James, for his part, left Perry out of his will when he died in prior to 1850.

In 1854, Perry took his young wife and two small boys across the Wabash River into White County, Illinois and set out for Hamilton County, just a few miles down the road.

Hamilton County records show Perry was granted 200 acres of land for farming. He received 160 acres on August 7, 1854 by the Department of the Interior, General Land Office. He received an additional 40 acres on March 28, 1855. The 1860 census lists Perry as a Farmer Landowner with $500 worth of land and $150 of personal property. Family legend, however, states that Perry was a heavy drinker and that he “drank away acres of timber.”

Elizabeth Martin
Perry married Elizabeth Martin on March 5, 1849 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. Perry was 25 and Elizabeth was 18.

Elizabeth Martin was born in 1830 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana near what is now the Evansville area. The Martin family, it seems, was both sizable and wealthy. In January 1869, one Lucy Martin brought suit against the late Elizabeth Marquis’ children. Also named in this document is William Martin, Minerva Martin (probably husband and wife), Charles Martin, and Nancy A. Martin (also probably husband and wife). In a pleading document dated September 1871, William Martin states that he and the defendants are joint tenants of fifty-six and one-half acres in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. It appears that this legal action was to get total property rights of what would have been part of an inheritance from Elizabeth Martin’s parents. A cursory check of land grants in Posey and Vanderburgh counties shows that the Martin family collectively owned about 2,000 acres.

Elizabeth's gravestone

Perry and Elizabeth Martin had four children:
    •    William B. Marquis, born 1850
    •    James T. Marquis, born 1852
    •    Sarah F. Marquis. born 1856
    •    Joseph P. Marquis, born 1858

Eight months after giving birth to her son Joseph, Elizabeth died on Friday, November 5, 1858 in Hamilton County, Illinois. She was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Margaret Freeman
Two months after Elizabeth’s death, Perry and Margaret Freeman were married on Sunday, January 16, 1859 in Hamilton County by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. He was 34, she was 16. While the short courtship might give one pause, one must consider that Perry found himself alone, raising four children (ages 8, 6, 2, and 10 months) while also trying to keep his farm going.

Margaret Freeman was born on Sunday, March 14, 1842 in Illinois. She died on Saturday, January 18 1862 in Hamilton County and was buried in the old section of Antioch Cemetery. Her gravestone is worn and barely legible. She was laid to rest next to Perry’s first wife, Elizabeth (Martin) Marquis.

Perry and Margaret Freeman had one child, Mariah Elizabeth Marquis. Named after Perry’s sister, Mariah (and his first wife), she was born December 18, 1860.

Amanda's sister, Clarinda Cowen

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen
Four months after Margaret died, Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen were married on Thursday, April 3, 1862 in McLeansboro, Hamilton County, Illinois by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. This was Perry’s third marriage and the only marriage for Amanda Elizabeth. Perry was 38 and Amanda was 23 years old. Given the short amount of time between Perry’s marriages, one may assume he did not like living alone – at least not without a wife to care for his growing family.

On August 13, 1862, four months into the marriage (and 16 months after the war began), Perry joined the Union Army at Knights Prairie as a Private, Company B, 110th Illinois Infantry. The “Muster and Descriptive Roll of the Regiment of Illinois Volunteers” lists Perry as 38 years old; 5 feet, 10 inches tall; black hair; blue eyes; fair complexion.

It is unclear how much actual battle Perry saw. There is no specific mention of Private Perry Marquis’s exploits. His unit, however, is documented to have fought in a number of battles, including two seminal events: the Battle of Chickamauga, where the Union Army suffered one of its greatest defeats in the War; and Sherman’s March to the Sea.

If Perry fought at Chickamauga and elsewhere in Tennessee, it helps explain the brevity of his marriage to Amanda Elizabeth Cowen. According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Amanda came (to Illinois) from Tennessee in a covered wagon. Her family, who still lived in Tennessee, fought with the Southern Army, but those who came to southern Illinois served with the North.”

The basic experience of war also served as a contributing factor. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “Perry went away to serve and came back such a hard and changed man that the marriage could not last.”

Company B was mustered out on Thursday, June 8, 1865 in Washington, DC. After returning to Hamilton County, Perry joined the Grand Army of the Republic Post 469 at Macedonia.

Perry and Amanda divorced in 1866. Child custody was an immediate point of contention. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “My mother Kate indicated that whenever ‘Old Perry’ moved on, he would insist that his offspring should go with him. When he confronted Amanda Elizabeth with this demand, she met him with, ‘Over my dead body!’ He did not take Katherine and Alexander.”

Still, he must have borne her some lingering affection since he named his next daughter, Amanda.

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen was born in March 1839 in Tennessee. Judging from her sister Clarinda’s photo and family lore, Amanda was “of sturdy stock,” a large woman who was known for her outer and inner strength. During the War, while Perry was away, Amanda worked the fields with Perry’s sons, ages 12 and 10, plowing with a team of oxen. She was pregnant, alone and raising her husband’s five children, ages 12, 10, 6, 4 and 2.

She died on Sunday, August 11, 1907 in Flannigan Township, Hamilton County, Illinois, less than a month after Perry’s death. Her obituary in the McLeansboro paper, The Leader, read, “An old lady died here at the home of her son Alex. Buried at Cartwright Chapel Cemetery.”

Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen had two children:
    •    Katherine Marquis, born 1863
    •    Alexander Rhodes Marquis, born 1865

According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Grandmother raised Alex and Katie. Katie died when 12 years and is buried at Cartwright Cemetery beside Grandmother.”

Blind musician G.W. Marquis

Margaret Perry
Perry and Margaret Perry were married on Thursday, March 1, 1866 by O.P. Kelly, Justice of the Peace. Perry was 42 and Margaret was 33 years old.

Margaret Perry was born about 1833 in Indiana. Perry and Margaret Perry had two children:
    •    George Washington Marquis, born 1867
    •    Amanda Marquis, born 1870

Perry divorced Margaret Perry in 1873.

Sarah Matilda Clanton
Perry married Sarah Matilda Clanton on Monday, September 15, 1873 in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s fifth marriage. He was 49, Sarah was 15.

Sarah Matilda Clanton was born in 1858 in Missouri. Perry and Sarah Matilda Clanton had three children:
    •    Mary Etta Marquis, born 1875
    •    Ellen (Martha E.) Marquis, born 1879
    •    Infant Marquis, born 1883

Perry and Sarah were divorced, year unknown. Sarah died November 29, 1923 in Pinckneyville, Perry County, Illinois.

Susan Angeline Gibbs
Perry and Susan Angeline Gibbs were married on Monday, July 27, 1891 by R.M. Harrelson, Justice of the Peace at the Gibbs home in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s sixth marriage and Susan Angeline’s first. Perry was 62 and Susan Angeline was 48.

Susan Angeline Gibbs was born on Sunday, November 13, 1842 in Knox County, Tennessee. She united early in life with M.E. Church in Tennessee and lived a devoted Christian life until death. She died on Saturday, June 4 1921 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois and was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Perry was saved and committed his life to the Lord in 1885 in Hamilton County, Illinois. According to his obituary in The Leader, “He professed faith in Christ in 1885 at an arbor meeting held on his own place and held out faithful till the last. He talked of joining the Baptist church at Antioch but thought himself too feeble for baptism; while he did not belong to any church he was a liberal giver in helping build and keep up churches.”

Kate at Perry's grave, McLeansboro.

Perry died on Thursday, July 18, 1907 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois at the age of 83. He was buried in Antioch Cemetery amongst all of his wives. His gravestone reads:

----------------
MARQUIS
----------------
Perry G. Marquis
Jan. 22, 1824
July 18, 1907
Co. B 110th Reg. ILL Volume. Inft.
---------------
AT REST


Note: all of these details (and more) are due to the diligent research of my cousin Dan Robbins. For more stories, see his wonderful Marquis Family genealogy site at http://www.forestcastle.net/family/marquis/marquis.htm

The Little Boy Who Wouldn't Say His Prayers

Della with Susan Leona and Robert Kim Huffstutler.

Once,” Della said (and rather ominously at that). “Once there was a little boy (and here, always, always, she looked at me with cold, dark eyes) who wouldn’t say his prayers.” 

You could hear the horror of that thought in her voice as she moaned. Her face, in shadowed profile, tilted up away from the light and we watched, oddly fascinated, as the loose skin of her neck quivered. Right on cue, her wicker rocker let out a “screeeeeeeeeetch” that made us all jump a foot in the deep dark of the front porch.

Growing up, this was Halloween. With a pinch of salt thrown over one shoulder, we whistled past the graveyard hoping to escape the notice of the powers of the air. Halloween was frowned upon in that house, tolerated for the sake of us children who merely saw it for the entertainment that it was. Fifty years ago, it was an entertainment – a harmless bit of fun tempered with a little vandalism, a spot of tooth decay and a dash of outright illegal behavior.

Today, Halloween seems to be a quite different thing. When we were kids, boys dressed up as super heroes. We only had two: Batman and Superman. Or we dressed as cowboys or Indians, astronauts or hobos. Girls dressed as princesses, Indian and otherwise, and Raggedy Anne or (shudder) Barbie. Back then, Halloween was a sort of dress rehearsal for our future ambitions. 

Today, I think Halloween has undergone a warped reformation. It's stripped away the fun and the playfulness and embraced death with open, vacant, decaying arms. Halloween has returned to its roots of demons and devils, blood and gore. Since when is death fun? Some still see no harm because it “isn’t real.” They don’t believe in monsters. As for me, I see monsters every time I watch the news or read a paper. I believe in monsters. I have met monsters. The evidence is everywhere – especially in my Bible.

Perhaps I’m naïve. Or perhaps I was a little too fully taught about the consequences of foregoing prayer and a respectful relationship with the Lord above. For, as Della warned us…

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers,
and then one night he went away upstairs,
his mammy heard him holler, his daddy heard him call,
but when they pulled the covers back he wasn't there at all!
They searched him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press
and even up the chimney flue and everywhere, I guess.
But all they ever found of him was pants and roundabouts
because the goblins will get you if you don't watch out!

Uncle Charlie's Farm

My beautiful sisters Donna and Susan.

I have been blessed all of my life with two sisters who quietly and pleasantly fill in the gaps of my life. From hardship to spiritual lack to memory lapse, they have gently corrected my mistakes, set me back on my feet and even pressed a few dollars into my hand before sending me back out into the world--all of which speaks to their superior character.

Many times when I have spun my yarns I'll get a phone call or an email gently pointing out the factual errors in my recollections. "No, that was Della" or "that was five years ago" or "Colostomy?? No! He had a tracheotomy--wrong end!"

Therefore it is my distinct pleasure to offer the following recollection which, I'm sure, will generously provide those in the know with ample opportunity to engage, direct and confide.

Uncle Charlie he had a farm, he had lots of chickens.
Uncle Charlie he loved them all, they were his friends.

The girls--Becky, Susan, Colleen and Donna--used to sing that song quite often. Or rather, Grandmere, Sarlita, Carlita and Jarlita did. At one point in our youth we gave ourselves Mexican-style names although mine, perhaps, was more Spanish Colonial as I was called Don Diego. It doesn't speak well of our parents that someone felt that, since we were emulating immigrants, we belonged in the fields. That's how we came to visit Uncle Charlie's farm: we were recruited to de-tassle corn.

First, let me say what a lousy job that is and allow me to apologize to anyone I have ever unintentionally maligned for having to do any kind of agricultural work. I might add that our parents knew what they were doing when they loaded us onto that flatbed truck and sent us out into what appeared to be endless rows of feed corn. It was dirty, boring, hard work and, after we had finished, we found our wages (hot dogs, potato salad and tall, cold glasses of lemonade) to be, however sating, wholly inadequate to the task. Right away we learned that work is hard and that, because it is hard, one should be humbly grateful for and respectful of those things which were given to us through the fruits of our parents' own hard labor.

Sometimes I know for a fact that youth is wasted on the young. I will warn you, however, that a wise youth is a formidable force of nature. Think of all the things you know now--not just the factual reality of those things but the whys and wherefores as well. Now, imagine what you could have accomplished if you had possessed all of that knowledge and wisdom when you were 18.

It's only over the past ten years or so that much of what I learned 30 and even 40 years ago has started to make perfect sense. It may be because my perspective has finally shifted, thanks to time and age, to a point where it is aligned with that of my teachers. Because I now see the world from the same angle and manner in which they did I am more able to share in their viewpoint and benefit from their experience.

If that's so, then I need to remind myself to be appropriate and deliberate in my discussions with the younger generations of my family. If I truly want to help them, I need to offer advice and guidance while looking at their world through their eyes. I need to gently and lovingly offer kind assistance in much the same way as my beautiful sisters offer it to me.

Birthdays With Aunt Myrtie

Miss Myrtle Marquis, circa 1918.

Time, it has been famously said, keeps on slippin' into the future, and as it moves inexorably on to points unknown it leaves us bobbing in its wake to sink or swim with the outgoing tide. Change is a biological imperative and a key component of God's design. New generations rise to take our place and help us step down to take our last walk into the fading light. It is the most natural of phenomena, and yet I can't help begrudge a few minor points.

I appreciate the fact that my family, once so compact and easily contained, has become a large, gangly creature that romps about like an overactive but well loved chocolate Labrador. Full of exuberance and easy affection, it runs in circles that grow ever wider and far flung. I don't know half my cousins' children by face or name, and I am even a little hard pressed to identify their parents, too. It seems sometimes that I am losing touch not only with the generation that came before but the one that has come after as well. That bothers me a little.

I want to know these younger people, and I think it's a shame that most of them have not had the great privilege to grow up personally knowing the names I hold as famous: Ira, Kate, Della, Myrtle, Lyman, Lee, Perry and more. The wistful attention that I paid to the stories they told of Poly, Eileen, Hannah and Alexander years ago is what motivates me to tell stories like this one today.

Her name was Myrtle Elizabeth Marquis Jordan, although we always called her Myrtie. She was the third sister among Hannah's surviving daughters, and I still marvel at how close she, Kate and Della were. For a long time, they did not let a day go by without visiting one another in their homes, and they even worked together in the laundry at the Old People's Home.

Myrtie lived on Oak Street, too. In fact, she lived at three different addresses on Oak. She and her husband Frank, daughters Gerry and Elaine and sons Paul and Joe lived with the Huffstutlers at 153 during World War II. After the war, they lived across Raymond Street in what we came to know as "Mrs. Purdy's house." Finally, after Frank had died and her children had grown up and left home, she lived across and a few doors up the street with her friend "Aunt" Martha Huber.

Martha was no relation to us, but we called her "Aunt" just the same. She was very sweet but given to sudden lapses in comprehension that somehow always managed to devolve into spirited diatribes on the exemplary character of her parakeet, Buddy. (Truth be told, while she had the dedication necessary to own several parakeets over the years she had imagination enough for only one name: Buddy.)

Myrtie was such a frequent visitor at 153 Oak that she had her own bed there in Kate's room. When it was available, it's where I slept when visiting. If it was not, I ended up on the roll-away. One night, when the house was full to overflowing, Kate made me a bed in the bathtub. More comfortable than Myrtie's bed, which had a pillow that doubled as a sandbag (or vice versa), it became my instant favorite, and I gave Kate ample reason to regret her ingenuity for years to come. (Looking back, Kate may have been trying to safeguard my 7 year old pride during an extended bout with bladder problems and bedwetting--ingenious indeed.)

Myrtie was very sweet, always singing or whistling, eager to talk and laugh. She always shared gum--something no other adult did in my recollection--but she had a habit of sticking it under the table when she was finished with it and no one was looking. None of us ever dared to say a word about it (till now). She also wore clip-on sunglasses over her prescription glasses. It always struck me as so modern and stylish--as if she were a character out of The Great Gatsby--that it still fascinates me to this day.

At some point in her life, Myrtie had developed severe hip problems. I remember how she struggled to walk and how she lurched from room to room. It's only recently (thanks to my own hip problems) that I have realized just how much pain she must have been in--and yet she never complained. Instead, she always smiled, laughed and sang hymns ("The Old Rugged Cross" was always her favorite). She was at peace with her pain. In fact, she always seemed to have that "perfect peace" for which Kate, Della and Ira were so well known.

That's not to say that things didn't affect her. After she moved to the modern high-rise public housing apartment building on State Street, I spent the night there with my cousin (her grandson) Jordie. Space was tight in the tiny apartment, and Myrtie slept on a foldaway couch (how that must have added to her pain!). Jordie and I had the floor and we were fidgety and wound up (probably full of sugar) as 12 year old boys often are. Ten minutes of that and Aunt Myrtle laid down the law: be quiet, go to sleep OR ELSE. The next day, Myrtie was back to her old, happy self.

Myrtie and I had a special bond because we shared the same birthday. Growing up, we shared many birthday parties and cakes at Oak Street as well. She always made a point of singling me out for affection but, like Kate and Della, she also made a point of reaching out to all of my cousins. Between the three of them, they created a strong, wide web of love and affection that helped keep our growing, gangly family close and warm. Theirs was a high standard of family parenting--one to which I hope we can all continue to aspire.

Ave Maria

The group lived in Powell's Valley, Tenn. for a short time.

It is an alarming story. However, there are so many gaps in the narrative that one cannot report the course of events with complete conviction and authority. It isn't just a question of time and distance. Basic human decency, morality and raw survival instinct all converge to weave a patchwork story that contradicts itself and beggars explanation. It is a story so painful that one is left searching for a redemptive thread--a lifeline that, for all its insubstantial nature is still strong enough when flung in faith to rescue even the most lost of souls.

She could not have been more than 12 when they took her from her father's home. Maria Davidson was likely out in the fields, playing with her friend Susan Wood, when the two men snatched them and fled to North Carolina. The men--Micajah and Wiley Harpe, posing as brothers but rumored to be cousins--already had somewhat of a reputation for this sort of thing and were said to be part of a Tory rape gang terrorizing patriot families who supported the War of Independence. The men took their prizes to the wilderness of Tennessee where they joined the renegade Chickamauga Cherokee community of Nickajack. Years passed there, and the men honed an inexplicable, evil delight in rape, murder and violence. Micajah, for one, was said to be convinced that he was called by God to execute judgment on certain men but Micajah was not from God. He was a murderer from the beginning and, like his father the devil, he was a liar.

The small group left Nickajack shortly before it was raided and destroyed by U.S. troops after years of criminal activity and attacks on nearby settlements. However, it wasn't the impending destruction that spurred them to move elsewhere. It was the savage murder of their companion, Doss, that made them unwelcome. Doss had complained about the brothers' savage treatment of the women and was rumored to have more than a passing interest in their welfare. The brothers brutally murdered Doss, dumped his body off the main trail, and headed to Powell's Valley near Knoxville.

Life in a frontier settlement, however, proved difficult for the men and they resorted to stealing livestock and supplies which they then resold to other members of the community. Throughout the course of their association, the Harpes had presented the women as their wives. However, the dynamic within the group became somewhat skewed when Micajah legally married Susan and Wiley wooed and married a local Methodist minister's daughter, Sally Rice. It is perhaps at this point that Maria, with the alarming sobriquet of "supplementary wife", became "Betsey Roberts" and was regarded as Susan's sister despite the fact they looked nothing alike.

About a year after Wiley and Sally's marriage, the group met up with John Langford at an inn near Rockcastle River in Lincoln County, Kentucky. Langford befriended the group and, seeing that they were destitute (and that all three of the women were pregnant), bought the group breakfast and joined them on their journey along the Wilderness Road. It proved to be a fatal mistake. Days later, the Harpes emerged from the woods leading Langford's riderless horse. Langford's body was later found not far from the road.

The group was arrested and put in the Lincoln County jail on Christmas Day, 1798. After two months of plotting, the Harpe men escaped and left the women behind--not surprising as all three were heavily pregnant and it would have been nearly impossible to travel with them in the dead of winter. During the course of the women's 100-day confinement, all three gave birth. Betsey had a son. Susan and Sally each had a girl.

All three women were put on trial for murder. Susan was found guilty. Sally was acquitted. Only Betsey was found not guilty. Because the same evidence was presented against each of the women, the judge offered Susan a new trial. However, after four days, the Attorney General declined to re-try her. Having convinced the local townspeople of their innocence and their desire to have nothing further to do with the Harpe men, the women were released and sent on their way. As an act of charity, the townspeople took up a collection, gave the women a horse and outfitted them for the journey home to Tennessee.

What should have been a celebration of release from both the prospect of jail and the years of squalor and abuse at the hands of the Harpe brothers quickly took an inexplicable turn that defies explanation. The three women and children traded the horse for a boat and headed for Henderson County to rejoin the men.

Why? What possible reason could they have had for willfully going back to such a wretched life? Looking more closely at the circumstances of their situation, one can perhaps begin to understand. First, it cannot have been an easy decision to make. Surely, the three women felt themselves to be between a rock and a hard place--Betsey especially so. While Susan and Sally had the benefit of legal marriage, Betsey had no official designation other than the contemptible "supplemental wife." To complicate matters, she could not have been more than 17 at the time. She had no real family, no standing in the community, an infant son born out of wedlock and no advocate. The women were supposed to be heading "back to Tennessee" but where? They were driven out of Powell's Valley when the men were discovered to be stealing livestock, and Nickajack had long since been destroyed. The prospect of returning to North Carolina--even if she could recall where it was she had lived--must have been too daunting to Betsey. What family could have welcomed an unwed mother and rape victim after years of living amongst thieves, scoundrels and murderers?

Returning to the Harpes did not improve their lot. In fact, it made it far worse for the brothers, wanted with a $300 bounty on their heads, had gone from bad to worse by teaming up with an enterprising band of Ohio River pirates operating out of Cave-in-Rock in what would later become Illinois. The association, however, was short lived. The Harpe group was asked to leave after Micajah and Wiley had driven a man and a horse off the bluff onto the rocks below for their own private entertainment.

The departure from Cave-in-Rock established a momentum that fueled the Harpes' destruction and left a trail of bloodshed in their wake. After a spree that claimed the lives of nearly 40 people, Micajah was finally shot, captured, killed and beheaded. Susan, to her disgrace and horror, was forced to carry the head back to Russellville, Kentucky where it was placed on a pike for all to see. Wiley, having fled, abandoned Sally and made his way to Natchez, Mississippi and was eventually captured and executed.

Again, the three women found themselves incarcerated, examined and eventually exonerated. For a time, the three remained in the Russellville area. Sally later moved back to her father's home in Tennessee where she married a respectable gentleman and raised a family. Susan, too, was said to have returned to Tennessee where she later died. Betsey stayed in Russellville until--in 1803--something curious and unique happened: she met a man who drew her out of the darkness of her past and into the light.

Given that the facts are incomplete, I believe I'm entitled to take creative license as I turn to the matter of one John Huffstutler, a second generation Swiss-American immigrant from North Carolina who, I like to believe, had been looking for his missing childhood friend, Maria Davidson.

John's marriage to Betsey stands as a testament to her innocence and her redemption from the hell on earth in which the Harpe brothers had imprisoned her. Not only did they raise a large family (at least five children) over the course of their 60-year marriage, they also moved to Illinois and helped settle Hamilton County in the 1820s. Their son, George Washington Huffstutler (G.W. to the family) continued their legacy by marrying Susan Stelle (a cousin of one of Illinois' early governors) and raising a family of 10 children.

As a family story, Maria's history was never known until my cousin Becky and I stumbled across it while researching our family's line. Understandably, we were both horrified by what we found. "What kind of legacy does this leave us?" she asked. Having dug a little deeper beneath the surface, I would like to believe it is a legacy of hope and a testament to the power of faith and redemption. It's a legacy that speaks to the fact that no one is so lost that God's love and power cannot reach them. A legacy that stands on the old scripture "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9)

Don't Tell Me About Your Lifestyle

Kathleen and Jim with Cheryll, 1970.

Most of my memories of my cousin Kathleen revolve around the small, private war she fought against her parents and the other older adults in our family. As a baby boomer, I think she was the first of our generation to experience what it was like to have different life expectations than our parents.

It cannot have been easy growing up in a family of steadfast, unchanging Christian values against the backdrop of one of the most tumultuous periods in American history. There must have been times when she felt caught between a rock and a hard place. Her friends had so many things--color televisions, life-size dolls, closets full of store-bought clothes--while she (and the rest of us) had only black-and-white screens, rag dolls and home-sewn jumpers. It didn't help that our family had no money or that illness and circumstance demanded frugality from all of us. She could have become bitter about our lack but instead she became inventive and inspired--a crusading Auntie Mame of our very own who led us on a seemingly never-ending series of adventures.

Perhaps it is a little ironic that, perceiving a lack of "fun" in our lives that Kathleen introduced us to freedoms and activities that are unavailable to kids today. I saw my first drive-in movie (Live and Let Die) with my sisters Susan and Donna, cousins Becky and Colleen along with Kathleen, her husband Jim and daughter Cheryll. Eight people in one car must have been bad enough but Kathleen (surely silently screaming "Live! Live!") made sure each of us was liberally supplied with popcorn, candy and soda. I shudder today to recall that Jim calmly allowed a few of us to watch the adventures of James Bond while perched on the roof of his beloved, fire-engine red Charger.

Jim was always Kathleen's silent partner in crime (which, incidentally, is a shame because he happens to be wickedly funny). With his help, Kathleen simultaneously horrified our parents and delighted us by giving us our first lessons in driving (I was 12), taking us bowling (rented shoes!) and making that most pernicious of childhood dangers--candy--freely available (tooth decay!).

Strangely enough, Kathleen and my father were cohorts of a sort. Both regarded "bored" as a four-letter word, and both constantly pointed to the myriad of activities available to us that could be undertaken without parents. Fireworks, for example, were best watched from the roof (although they did require a certain hushed secrecy and ready access to a ladder). If a parent absolutely had to be present, then he or she was expected to chauffeur us from one suburban display to the next, chasing the bright explosions across the county until we were too tired to "ooh," ah" and "oh."

However, whereas Dad had a tendency to counsel caution for fear of inevitable lifechanging ínjury, Kathleen urged abandon for the sake of joy. Challenged by authority, her response was a call to arms, "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!" and she preached a message of curiosity, exploration and wonder. Thanks in large part to her, my cousins and I share a love of laughter, board games and good chocolate. Hers is a legacy I fondly remember.

So much of what we experienced as kids has been lost over the years. There were times when we could roam literally for miles on foot without causing our parents any concern. We could chat with people we hardly knew or didn't know at all without fear of being compromised in any way. We could build houses in alien trees, cavort with strange dogs and ignite ill-gained cherry bombs without any adult supervision whatsoever. The world is a darker place today with a dearth of open spaces and a surplus of fear. It's not safe for children any more, and we have to accept that. At least that's the way it seems until I hear those immortal words in my head: "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!"

Time After Time

While time may not be on my side, it is certainly on my mind. It seems to flow at different rates lately depending on my level of interest, access to distraction and depth of ambition. Sometime it runs away from me. Other times, it lingers pensively, studiously contemplating the pot upon the stove to legislate that, no, it shall not boil.

We think of time as a progression, a pointed movement along a singular, firmly rooted, linear track that deviates neither to the left nor right but instead rolls sonorously off towards a horizon we can only describe by its opposition to our current location. The past--presumably fixed behind us--is then. This, beneath our feet, is now. And there? There we shield our eyes from the light of the setting sun and nod to tomorrow.

Time, however, is an illusion. It's an elaborate system that we--spiritual beings caught in corporeal frames that fade and fail--employ in a vain effort to control the circumstances of our lives. Time, in a very real sense, isn't real at all.

This is why God is able to tell Jeremiah, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” (Jer 1:5) Because God was, is and always shall be, He exists completely always. Because He did not become God over time but instead is the same yesterday, today and forever more, we know that God does not--indeed, cannot--change.

Therefore, because God exists at all points and at all times, He has complete knowledge of us. We have free will to make our own choices, but He already knows what those choices are and will be. He already knows all outcomes, and He seeks to reassure us that He is always there, always accessible and always the same--yesterday, today and forever more.

Suddenly, time no longer seems so pressing.

Out the Back Porch

Della, Eileen and Frank on the front porch at 153 Oak.

It made a sound like a rifle, but it was not a rifle. It was a simple, wooden screen door that Ira had outfitted with a heavy-duty steel spring mechanism that snapped it shut with a resounding CRACK! every time we barreled through. That sudden report was very telling, and it immediately identified the unseen visitor by name and reputation. If the sound were loud, convulsive and echoing, for example, one immediately knew that it was Susan, running at top speed through the kitchen, out the door and down the steps to the garden beyond. If there was a hesitancy to the point of a softer, double knock, it was Donna, stepping out on the back porch to evaluate Susan's activities and decide whether or not she wished to participate. If, having been held open as far as possible and then let go until the door slapped shut with a noise like a cannon, it was me--just for the sake of pure cussedness.

The door wasn't always disruptive of the neighborhood, however. There were lazy days of summer when--two houses down--you could hear it open and shut with a sense of quiet satisfaction that merged with the rising song of the cicadas in the backyard mulberry tree. It was a good bet, then, that whoever had walked through that door did so with a cold glass of lemonade or, even more enticing, an oversize cone of ice cream. We heard--and responded to--that siren call better than any plaintive shouting of our names.

Summer's heat was kept at bay in other ways as well. Kathleen had birthday parties in the backyard with a small, inflatable pool and a handful of swimsuit-clad friends. Better yet, we ran through the hose, spraying each other and shrieking until Dad--aggravated with the sound and lacking conversation with Kate, Ira and Della--came out to warn us that excitability (that most childlike of emotional experiences) led rapidly down a darkening path to "somebody" getting hurt.

Our forays into the yard on summer Saturdays were curtailed by the line of wash stretched across the backyard. A sturdy cotton rope sailed from the back porch to a pole set in the ground.The long, lazy sections--heavy with sparkling white linens--were propped up with gray, weathered lumber Ira had specifically cut for the purpose. Too short for laundry folding duty, we were tasked with policing the clothesline and ensuring that Kate's pristine wash didn't touch the ground and that the summer winds, which lifted the maples with sudden soaring sighs, didn't carry away her sheets.

It was the tiniest of yards and yet, to a child, it was the largest of worlds with plenty of opportunity for adventure and exploration. A mysterious old well, filled in with a century of trash and dirt, beckoned to the archaeologist in me, and I happily dug and scrabbled in the dirt for hours on end. I was fascinated with the shiny, soft pieces of jet I found, not caring that they were actually humble chips of coal intended for the home's original heating system. Susan, Donna, Becky and Colleen almost always played in the garden, picking flowers and weaving them into strands so they could play "wedding" or some other game specifically designed to proceed without male accompaniment (hence my fascination with coal).

In summer, rainy days were filled with storm, and Kate, Ira and Della were keen to keep us occupied and away from the windows where, we were sternly assured, we could draw the lightning cast down from above. Those were the afternoons when we huddled around the dining room table and collaborated on one of Della's many puzzles. She would assign each of us a particular section, reserving the expert challenge of a cloudless blue sky for herself if only to keep us children from becoming frustrated.

Nights were sometimes stifling in summer's open window heat and humidity, and yet they were always magical in the safety and security they provided. There was never any fear of the dark or longing for Mom and Dad in the middle of the night--just the soft, warm, enveloping sense of home and the promise of a bright tomorrow.

The Facts of Faith

Kate, Helen and Susan at Oak Street, 1960.

Faith, we are told, is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. And while it may seem ephemeral to some, real faith is a thing of fact--not possibility. At least it was that way for my grandmother Kate.

Few people have impressed me more in the course of my life than she did with her steady, firm walk with God and her distinct, clear viewpoint that continually weighed matters in God's terms. Her personal strength and unimpeachable character were second only to her unswerving faith, and she continues to serve as an example of right living to me and the rest of my family.

Things were never gray with Kate. Either they were pleasing to God or they were not. And yet, she wasn't rigid or unbending. She was experienced enough in life and wise enough about people to only feel compassion for those around her and an urgent need to do what was necessary to improve their condition.

Once, I am told, she stood before the Elgin Bible Church congregation after the Sunday morning service offering had been taken to announce she would be at the back of the church with the Pastor to take a second offering to send to the Petersons, longtime missionaries who were headed back to their posting in Taiwan. Short of funds, clothing and supplies, they were stuck in California. As family friend Betty Rommel recalls, "Kate said she knew we had money left in our pockets."

Later, at the evening service, it was announced that enough money had been collected and wired to the Petersons to pay their passage and to outfit the entire family. "It took a lot of courage to do what she did," said Betty.

Courage, in fact, was one of Kate's many traits. She was also bold, intelligent, determined and generous to a fault. In the mid 1930s, after she and her children had returned to Elgin from the family farm, her home became a neighborhood ministry of sorts to the homeless drifters that ranged up and down the nearby rail lines. "Hobos," as she called them, would come to the back door asking for food. Kate would sit them down on the back steps while she fixed them a generous plate. While they ate, she would hand them an inspirational tract and talk to them about Christ and the transformative power He offered for their lives.

While Kate's cooking earned their gratitude, her message held their interest because she spoke to them from her own personal experience. She knew the pain and constraints of poverty. She, too, had experienced inexplicable loss and grief. She, too, knew the struggle of doing what was best rather than what was easiest. How many of those men sought God in response to her sharing I don't know. However, I do know that she held them responsible for the message she'd imparted, and I know that, having planted the seed, she was certain that God would do the harvesting.

Faith was the backbone of Kate's life, and it grew out of the facts of her personal experience. It's hard, sometimes, to equate my own personal struggles with hers because they pale in comparison. Hers was, at times, a hardscrabble life and yet, looking back, I am hard pressed to recall the evidence of it. Good food, laughter, fellowship and prayer overflowed in her home. To my eyes and my recollection, there was never any lack--only an abundance of blessings from God and the concrete evidence of things unseen.

Ira's Perfect Peace

Donald Murray and Ira at Oak Street.

Mother's Day is fast approaching, and I find it curious that it's my grandfather who is most on my mind. A modest, quiet man of short stature, he looms very large over my childhood and still remains as an exceptional example of a Christian man. In my mind, he also serves to give me a well deserved kick in the pants. This past year or so of unemployment has not been easy, and I have skirmished with depression from time to time. Self pity drops by occasionally and that's when Ira pays a visit, too.

My grandfather had, by all accounts, a harsh life. Orphaned at the age of three (both of his parents died of tuberculosis), he was passed around from cousin to cousin until he found a home with the Sneed family outside McLeansboro, IL. However, in actuality, it was not a home but a place of employment as the Sneeds had hired Ira to help work their family farm. It was there he met and fell in love with my grandmother Kate. Soon after they began their romance, however, Ira was sent to Europe to fight in World War I. If memory serves, he was wounded and sent back home where he and Kate decided to make a go of farming and raise a family.

Over the next several decades, Ira and Kate endured some of the most difficult circumstances anyone could ever face. Thanks to their strong Christian faith, they survived the tragic deaths of their first and last born sons, endured years of separation during the Great Depression, gave up their farm, bought a house and raised three children to adulthood--all on Ira's meager salary. By today's terms of success, he did not measure up. And yet, looking at him, one could only admire the man for his quiet joy and overwhelming sense of peace.

I think the secret to Ira's true success is the fact that faith and belief were the foundation on which their home was built. They were a given. In short, they knew no other way of living. They didn't concern themselves with a lot of material things (they had no appeal), and they were certainly not interested in trying to impress anyone. They knew that God would provide for them and they lived with that certain knowledge every day.

It's why Ira used to laugh so much at Buck Owens and Roy Clark on "Hee Haw" when they sang, "Doom, despair and agony on me. Deep, dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Doom, despair and agony on me."

I can still hear Ira laughing every time self pity drops by for a visit. He reminds me that it's an exercise in futility and that I need to stop fussing and let God do the driving. Kate, of course, was very familiar with this concept of surrender. She made it a centerpiece of her home when she asked Alice Schaefer--my mother's best friend and one of the many missionaries Kate and Ira supported--to make a painting of her favorite Bible verse. For over a decade Isaiah 26:3 prominently hung in her dining room, and it still stands as a legacy from both my grandparents.

Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee. (Isaiah 26:3)

A Phone Call from India

A Facebook friend recently shared a story about her cousin, a young college girl named Devya who died tragically last month in the coastal city of Goa, India after being struck by a hit-and-run driver.

Like many twentysomethings, Devya's life revolved around her phone. She even worked as a customer service rep for ATT Wireless in one of India's many call centers. She and her boyfriend Rajan were considered by their friends to be soul mates, in part because they spent so much of their free time talking on the phone (Rajan lived several hundred miles away in Mumbai). Friends said they never saw her without her phone and constantly asked her advice on which phone to buy and which service provider to use.

Given that Devya spent so many hours on the phone, she urged Rajan and her friends to use ATT (her carrier) so they could all be on the same network and save money. In fact, she was so passionate about her phone that she made her friends and family promise that, if the unthinkable were to ever happen, they would cremate her with her phone.

After Devya's untimely death, her body was prepared for ritual cremation. However, the attendants were surprised to find that they could not lift the body when it came time to transport the body to the ghats. Even when several members of the family volunteered to help, they could not lift the bier. Being highly superstitious, the family decided to consult a local Brahmin in hopes of communicating with the dead girl's spirit and sorting out the situation.

The Brahmin arrived with a great deal of pomp and circumstance not the least because the whole neighborhood was eagerly watching the unfolding spectacle. After burning incense, chanting mantras and invoking Hanuman (and Ganesh just to be safe) he picked up a stick and called to the dead girl's soul.

After a few minutes, the Brahmin lifted his face to the hushed crowd and said, "This girl is missing something." As the neighbors and other onlookers set up a murmuring buzz, her friends pushed their way to the front of the crowd where they told the Brahmin about Devya's fervent wish that she be cremated with her phone--a desire that, until now, had been entirely overlooked and forgotten. A cousin or a niece was sent running to the house to retrieve it--SIM card and all--and it was placed into the dead girl's hand after which the attendants easily lifted the bier and carried her to the ghats.

It was a spectacular pyre--everyone insisted it was the best of the season--with high, spiraling flames of red and green. Surely, they said, Devya's soul had been successfully released from this world and speedily sent on its journey to its next incarnation. The circumstances surrounding Devya's death and cremation were so unusual that the entire neighborhood talked about it for weeks, and yet no one remembered to contact Rajan and inform him of his beloved's death.

Two weeks later, however, Rajan called Devya's mother.

"Aunty," said Rajan. "I'm coming home later today. Please cook something nice for me, but don't tell Devya that I'm coming home. I want it to be a surprise."

Devya's mother, startled at the realization that Rajan was still unaware of Devya's death (and kicking herself for it), stammered, "You just come straight here when you get home. We want to talk to you about something very important."

When Rajan arrived, Devya's parents sat him down and immediately told him about the accident in which Devya had been killed. Rajan, however, was convinced that it was all a joke. He laughed and laughed, "I know you're trying to fool me! She's not dead. Stop it now. Tell Devya to come out from wherever she's hiding. I brought a gift for her all the way from Mumbai."

Shocked and a little uncomfortable, Devya's parents pressed their case by presenting Rajan with Devya's death certificate and showing him the pictures of the funeral pyre they'd taken with their ATT phones. Rajan, subdued and sweating now, murmured, "No, no, It's not true. It can't be true. We just spoke yesterday. She's been calling me everyday."

Rajan was shaking his head back and forth when his phone suddenly rang. Everyone jumped and Rajan gasped. "See! This call--it's from Devya! Look! Look for yourselves!"

He held the phone out to the family so they could each see the familiar number on the display.

"Answer!" said Devya's mother eagerly. "Answer!"

"Hello? Hello?"

"Rajan!" Devya's voice responded loud and strong. "It's Devya! When are you coming home? I want to see you!"

Horrified, Rajan dropped the phone and lost the connection.

"It was her!" said Devya's mother. "It was her! How is that possible?! We burned her phone!"

"The SIM card!" shouted Rajan. "Someone has her SIM card!"

"No! No!" said the mother. "The Brahmin insisted that we leave the SIM card in her phone. We burned that with her, too!"

"Call the Brahmin!" insisted Devya's father. "He fixed this the first time. Maybe he can fix this, too."

Once again a call was made for the Brahmin and once again word of what happened spread like wildfire through the neighborhood until hundreds of people crowded around the house watching and waiting to see what would happen. The Brahmin, nervous about the crowd, brought along his master to advise him on what was becoming an increasingly complex situation.

Together the two Brahmins burned incense, invoked the entire Hindu pantheon (including Kali, just to be safe), picked up sticks and called to the dead girl's soul. The pair hunched over their sticks, rocked back and forth and chanted for hours as they struggled to pierce the veil between the worlds and connect with Devya's spirit.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Rajan loudly blurted "Well? Have you contacted her? Was it really her that called? Is she calling from beyond the grave?"

"We're not sure," sighed the older Brahmin. "We keep getting sent straight to voice mail."

Note: This story is based on a joke making the rounds on Facebook.

It's a Dog's Life

My (late) best friend Blake.

I am convinced that Christians are dogs. Before you get upset, please understand that's a good thing because I am equally convinced that God is a passionate dog lover. Not only that, but God is a dog walker. He doesn't just open the back door and expect us all to hang out in the back yard (even if it is fenced).

Instead, he patiently snaps on a lead and takes us out into the world on a nice, long walk--just the thing we need to stay active and healthy.

Being dogs, we tend to get distracted easily. We find something to sniff and we can get all caught up in that moment of success and bliss. If it's really something extraordinary, we'll want to roll around in it a bit. We may even plop right down and say, "This is good. In fact, it's great. Thank you God!" and we'll fully expect to stay right there. But God isn't done. He pulls on the lead.

"C'mon, that's enough now, time to go."

"Go? But I want to stay here. This is perfect. This is what I've been looking for, I'm very happy right here, thank you."

We dig our heels in and pull back on the lead, determined to stay right there. No way, no how are we going to budge.

Like dogs, we can be happy in that extended moment--satisfied, even. But God has bigger plans. He wants to take us all the way around the block, past the park and back again. He knows that there are an infinite number of interesting, happy, successful smells all along the way. There are other dogs to meet and sniff and play with, too. What's more, he knows that rest and refreshment are waiting at home. Those who do as he asks along the way will get a nice, long belly scratch at the end. There's even the strong likelihood of a long nap by his side.

So the next time I get satisfied with myself and my situation, I'm going to try very hard to listen a little more closely to God's commands. After all, who doesn't like a nice, long belly scratch?

Just a Closer Walk With Thee

Susan and Donna with Cheryll, 1970.

The older I get, the more skeptical I become about the veracity of my memory. Everyone has a pocket full of stories they tell over and over until they become etched in stone. Time, however, tends to wear away that stone until the stories lack detail and focus. So, please continue to indulge me as I write these things down before they're completely wiped from my memory.

Years and years ago (okay, it was 1970) I was at Oak Street when my cousin Kathleen brought her daughter Cheryll over for a visit. Cheryll had recently started to walk and Kathleen wanted to share that milestone with our grandmother, Kate.

Having lost her first child as an infant, Kate could sometimes exhibit an overprotective nature when it came to others' children. In other words, sometimes she meddled. Just a bit.

We were sitting in the living room playing with Cheryll and Kate was watching her with a critical eye as she pulled herself up, took a step and fell flat on her face. After this had happened three or four times, Kate felt compelled to give her opinion.

"Kathleen, there's something wrong with that child," she said.

"What do you mean?" asked Kathleen.

"Well, just look at her. She can't walk."

"Well, grandma," Kathleen chuckled, "she only just started walking last week."

"No, no, LOOK at her. She's not moving her legs. She's not taking steps. She just stands up and falls. Something's wrong with her hip. See that? She's dragging her right leg. You need to get this child to a doctor. NOW."

"Well, I don't know about that but," Kathleen sniffed the air and made a face. "Whoo! One thing's definitely sure. She needs changing."

"I'll do it," said Kate as she looked through the diaper bag. "Where's her rubber pants?"

"She's wearing them," said Kathleen. "I put them on her this morning."

Kate took Cheryll to the other room when, about a minute later, we heard a squawk and a sharp peal of laughter.

"Of all things..." Kate called out as she carried Cheryll back in. "No wonder she can't walk! The last time you changed her, you put both of her legs through the same hole in her rubber pants!"

Hail to the Bus

We may look sweet, but Dad knew better!

I do not deny it. We were terrible children, and I share this fact with my nieces and nephews quite often. My father, were he alive today, would be equally adamant on that point. True, we spent a great deal of time in school--away from the house. But come summer, we were home to roost.

When I was six or seven, the children in our neighborhood traveled in packs, roaming from one backyard to the next sampling the different swing-sets (they may be old hat today but when we were kids, they were the bomb). We'd shimmy up the brightly painted poles or slither down the short (and lightning hot) metal slide or stretch our toes out at the clouds while swaying to and fro on the swings.

After swing-sets, we moved on to bicycles and ramps, kites, four-square or a game of tennis in the street. We also made a habit of harassing the city bus driver every time he passed through the neighborhood. We'd hide in the bushes until the bus was two or three doors away and then run pell mell to the curb where we would pretend to be ignorant savages. We'd drop to our knees, throw our arms up in the air and press our foreheads to the ground, bowing repeatedly and screaming, "Hail to the bus! Hail to the bus!"

In short, it seemed we always found something to do. That's a really good thing because while idle hands are the devil's workplace, an idle child is Satan's theme park. Whether we found trouble or trouble found us is irrelevant. The fact is, we were synonymous with it. Like, for example, the time I locked myself in the trunk of my grandfather's car--with the keys. Or the time I thought it would be fun to play in the clothes dryer as it tumbled a load of bedsheets. Or the time when my sister and I lost our brand new tennis shoes when we took them off to wade across nearby Tyler Creek. Or the time we piled into my father's new car and someone kicked the gear shift out of park and we went rolling down the driveway into the street where we left it.

However, on one particularly lazy, sweltering day we found ourselves bored cold. Enervated and listless, we were eager for change. Change was quick to come. To the north of us a wail rose up even as, to the south of us, the cry of "FIRE!" went up to meet it. The open field behind our house was ablaze. Now, what kid doesn't love a good fire?

We rushed out to the fire's leading edge and watched as the neighbors battled the blaze with water, brooms, boards, feet--anything to stem the flow of flame. We all joined the fight with abandon, shouting words of warning or encouragement and even contributing a stomping foot or two for the cause of community service. Unfortunately, children and fire--a heady, exciting mix on paper--don't actually mix well so it should have come as no surprise when we suddenly found ourselves alone and trapped on a small peninsula in Tyler Creek with steep banks.

Believe it or not, we didn't panic. Instead, we exulted. We'd pined for excitement and here it was! Racing up and down along the line of fire we probed for weaknesses, joined hands and then dashed through the smallest area of flame to safety. Running three feet through flames three or four inches high may be no great feat but we were exhilarated with our daring and thrilled with our accomplishment. That is until we were scooped up by three hysterical mothers who, while screaming themselves hoarse reciting our names, had already devised a series of punishments for our sense of adventure.

And then, of course, there were the nights.

There are so many things we did as kids back then that would horrify us if our kids did them today. Some people would say that the world has changed too much, but we weren't really allowed to do those things in the first place.

Summer nights were full of forbidden delights. The games began just after dinner when the neighborhood gang would gather on my front stoop and vote on the night's agenda. Sometimes we would converge on the dirt "fort" we'd built in the open fields behind our house and ride our bikes up and down the hills of dirt that had been dumped there. Other times we would tempt fate by spying on the older, teenage boys from the neighborhood who could be found drinking cheap beer and smoking cigarettes around small fires they'd made under the trees. They caught us once and locked us inside a storage shed for several hours in what was a simultaneously terrifying and thrilling adventure.

Always we begged for "10 minutes more!" when our mothers called. If we'd been seemingly well behaved enough, we would be allowed to sleep outside in a tent or in sleeping bags on someone's driveway. At two or three in the morning--long after our parents had fallen asleep--we'd walk about a mile up the street to the 7-11 on McLean Boulevard where we would wander up and down the aisles stocking up on candy bars and Twinkies.

Once back home to our designated tent or driveway, we would sit in a circle and tell dirty jokes or ghost stories or both since none of us knew many. The deep darkness was also perfect for hushed games of hide-and-seek, kick-the-can and tag. And, of course, spying on the neighbors. We spent a great deal of time laughing at ourselves and poking fun at one another while guessing at the constellations in the early morning sky. Tired at last, we crawled back to our makeshift beds for a few hours of sleep to ensure we'd be ready for another summer day.

A great deal of my childhood was spent unsupervised. I can't imagine what impact the presence of a parent would have had on all the things we did. All things considered, it was a pretty good childhood, and we got away with murder. It's a wonder we all survived it. I just hope my nieces and nephews can say the same 20 years from now.

Driving Miss Della

Great Aunt Della with Dean, 1938.

Shortly after I graduated from college in the summer of 1984, Mom and Dad sent me to live with my Uncle Dean on Hastings Street in Elgin. The idea was to give me a base of operations from which to job hunt in Chicago. Unfortunately, my sense of timing was off, and I had the unfortunate circumstance of graduating in the midst of a recession.

However, being unemployed amongst family allowed me to spend time with my great uncles and aunts, including my most favorite, Great Aunt Della. As Della's designated escort, I chauffeured her to a variety of activities--family birthday parties, Sunday services at Elgin Bible Church and weekly shopping at Gromer's Supermarket. Our itinerary also included her brother Lymand's funeral in September 1984.

Anyone who knew Della knew how playful she could be and, on occasion, self-deprecating. She was also a little alarmist when it came to her health. That's not to say she was a hypochondriac. Rather, that she was not one to hide how she felt. Bert, as my grandmother Kate called her, had a weak stomach, a condition for which---much like the Eskimos and snow--Bert had a seemingly endless vocabulary of moans and groans.

"Oh, honey," she would confide with a strangled gasp, "Ah'm dyin'."

Over the years it became a game between us with established dialog. Back and forth we would tease one another. Throughout it all, however, I refused to be mean to her and point out that changing her diet might do wonders for her disposition. After all, she routinely snacked on liberally salted, raw cabbage, salted apples and copious amounts of Skippy peanut butter.

During the drive from Lymand's funeral service to the gravesite I was curious to find myself engaged in a different conversation with Della for a change. This time, she was genuinely upset about her dress.

"I hate this dress," she snapped, smoothing the dark wool fabric over her knees.

"What are you talking about?" I said. "It's a nice dress. You look good in it."

"It's an old dress," she countered. "I haven't had a new dress in years."

"You could get a new dress," I conceded.

"With what?" she countered again. "I can't afford a new dress. Social Security barely covers things as it is."

"So what's wrong with this dress?" I asked. "It's a perfectly nice dress. It still looks new."

"But everybody's seen me in this dress! I've been to every wedding in this dress--every funeral in this dress! Gonna be my funeral soon."

"Now, now," I said, warming up to my usual side of the conversation. "You look good and you're in great health. You're going to live forever and bury every single one of us."

"Well, if I do," she drawled slyly, "it will be in this same, old dress!"

I miss Della, and I think of her often. I wonder about all sorts of things, such as was she lonely? Had she ever been in love? Did she miss not having any children? Did she regret leaving her husband, setting aside a life and a decision that those around her insisted was not in her best interests?

She didn't talk with us about Fred, the man with whom she had eloped to Oklahoma when she was 20, but she did confide in my mother, Helen, towards the end of her life. From what Della had shared, the family had taken the correct measure of Fred, for he had threatened Della's life if she ever asked for a divorce. The opportunity to do so came and went some years later when she met a widower named Elroy Schultz with three children whose wife had died in childbirth. Della and the children were very fond of one another, and she probably would have eventually married him had he not become gravely ill with kidney disease and died.

On the surface, her failure to marry him looks like a lost opportunity when in fact it proved to be a major turning point. Years after the man's death, she told Helen that it was better for her that they never married because he had no interest in spiritual things. She felt she would never have come into close fellowship with the Lord if she had married him.

Della's life after Elroy Schultz was one of service to others. She was a founding member of Grace Evangelical Church where our family worshipped. She headed a weekly Bible study for women and actively supported the church's missionary efforts overseas. Children were her special charge, and she was extremely active with youth outreach through the church's AWANA, Sunday School and Vacation Bible School programs. She even volunteered at a local community center where everyone knew and loved her as "Miss Della."

Della also touched her family's lives with love, warmth and beauty. She was an artisan with a sewing needle, and her gifts of handmade dolls, quilts and Christmas ornaments are still prized (and fought over) by our extended family today. Her greatest gift, however, was herself. She was the undisputed expert on family lore, the family's reigning Scrabble champion and the undeniable favorite Great Aunt to us all.

I miss her deeply. But when I think of her and ask those questions--was she lonely? had she ever been in love? did she miss not having children?--I'm quick to remind myself that, although her first marriage failed and she declined to enter into a second, she had a very fulfilling life. She surrounded herself with family and enriched the lives of hundreds of children with her affection, guidance and love for God. She made a choice for spiritual things and was rewarded with riches on earth and in heaven above. Could any of us, I wonder, want for more?