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?

In Like A Lion

When I was a kid, my kindergarten teacher taught us about the seasons. She shared a number of little sayings about the passage of the months, but the only one I can ever remember is the one she had for March. "In like a lion, out like a lamb," she said.

Yesterday's severe weather across the midwest brought that saying to mind last night along with a storm memory of my own and a cautionary tale from my grandparents Kate and Ira's beloved Hamilton County.

In 1999, my mother Helen wrote about living on the farm outside McLeansboro during the Great Depression. In the course of describing the place, she made an oblique reference to severe weather.

"The farm had three big barns, a chicken house and a smokehouse. Below the smokehouse was a fruit cellar where we took cover if a really threatening storm were brewing. One of our neighbor families (who Uncle Perry dubbed "the John Rabbits"--I don't even remember their real name) used the storm cellar more often than we did. They had lived through a cyclone or tornado, and just the sight of a dark cloud sent all of them hustling down the road to ask if they might take cover in our cellar. No one had basements, and the underground cellars--like Dorothy's in The Wizard of Oz--were our storm refuges."

DeSoto, IL after the 1925 Tri-State Tornado.

I chuckle, albeit nervously, when I read this for two reasons. First, I immediately think of my cousin Kathleen Layne and the time we rode out a tornado in Elgin (more on this later). Second, I am surprised that my mother wasn't aware that the "Tri-State Tornado"--the single deadliest and most severe (F5) tornado in recorded U.S. history--passed right by Ira's farm in 1925.

Granted, Helen was only six years old when they lived on the farm in 1930, and the family had moved to Elgin shortly after her brother Dean was born in 1922. Still, the event was very fresh in people's minds (as evidenced by the haste in which the John Rabbits went to ground). The storm started in Missouri and ended in Indiana, lasted three and a half hours and killed 695 people. Winds were up to 300 mph, and the storm maintained a forward average speed of 62 mph as it raced across the county. It obliterated Braden, the small hamlet just south of Ira's farm where Kate's sister Della had been born and killed 60 people in rural Hamilton County alone. Frankly, I find it a wonder that the neighbors didn't live in the storm shelter year round.

It is thanks to this storm that we have an Early Warning System (EWS) administered by the National Weather Service. In 1925, no such system existed and radio broadcasters were forbidden to use the word "tornado" for fear of causing widespread panic. Nearly 700 people died because they had no warning of what was coming. With a forward speed estimated as high as 70 mph, death, at least, came quickly.

Yesterday evening, I received a terse text message asking friends and family to pray for my niece, Kate, who, at that moment, was taking shelter as tornado sirens roared in Nashville. I immediately offered up a plea and turned on the television news to watch the storm unfold from a distance even as she, up close and in its midst, ran to ground and safety. The storm passed over, no less furious for not stepping down to earth, and set its course for places further east. While I was grateful for Kate's safety, I couldn't help be mindful of the less fortunate 30 people who lost their lives in Indiana and Kentucky.

Some time in the early 1970s, my sister Donna, my neighbor friend Craig Lieberman and I had run out of things to do. Bored and looking for adventure, we decided to sit at the end of the driveway and enjoy the thunderstorm rolling in from the south. Donna, seated between myself and Craig, held an open umbrella to shield all three of us from the anticipated rain. Across the street, our neighbor Mr. McDonald was working on one of his cars in the driveway. I looked up and marveled at how the sky, nearly black a moment ago, was now the most intense glass green as if one were looking at the world through a bottle of 7-Up.

Three things then happened at the same precise moment: "RUN!" yelled Mr. McDonald; "GET IN THE HOUSE!" screamed my mother from the open front door; "BAM!" the wind slammed into us like a wall of water. The three of us struggled to turn around and make our way up the driveway to the house, pushing against the wind like Sisyphus and his rock. I turned my face up to a loud, whirring sound and watched in disbelief as the next door neighbor's kiddie pool sailed like a frisbee over our heads and soared over the rooftops behind us. Donna, still between myself and Craig, struggled with the umbrella until she inadvertently tilted it back. The wind caught it and suddenly Donna was lifted into the air like Mary Poppins. Mom shrieked as Craig and I scrambled to grab her. The umbrella, overburdened with her weight, collapsed and set her down. Arm in arm, we made it into the garage where Mom hustled us inside and down to the basement where Kathleen--storm savvy and focused on survival--had long been firmly situated beneath the stairs.

To her credit, Kathleen did not say, "I told you so." She had been in the basement for hours before the storm hit. She didn't mess around with tornado warnings. Once a tornado watch was announced, she headed for the stairs. She was a veteran of scary weather, and she knew enough to pack a bag full of snacks and games to distract everyone--including herself--from what was happening above our heads. She understood what was involved and had the patience required to wait out the life of the storm--not just its peak.

In my mind, there were so many people in the basement that day. We played Battleship, Scrabble, Uno and Flinch. Something tells me that that memory has to be an amalgamation of all the times we hid ourselves away from the wrath of God and nature. I can recall glimpses of huddling downstairs in the dark without power hiding from a storm so severe and so longlasting that we brought down the mattresses off our beds. But whatever the specific instance or occasion, what made all of us feel safe was the fact that we were with our family and those we loved the most, focused on prayer and waiting on the Lord.