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

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.

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)

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!"

Tell Me Why

"But why, Murray, why?"

As a kid, I dreaded those words--usually because they had been preceded by some sort of failure on my part (whether moral or otherwise). The variation on that particular theme, of course, was "Why not, Murray, why not?" That query was often made when I steadfastly proclaimed a lack of desire to move or act in a certain manner or direction. Kids don't have logical, thought-out arguments as to the why of their lives. My father could never get his head wrapped around that. That really bugged me. So you can imagine my horror today when I find myself wondering why my parents, grandparents and others did certain things years ago. At least as a kid my reasons were apparent to the casual adult observer. I'm racking my brain today trying to figure out who did what and why concerning events that took place between 75 and 100 years ago.

Perhaps it's the complexity of why that challenges me the most. Kids are fairly straightforward. For them, why usually boils down to boredom, hunger, fatigue or a perverse delight in being downright evil while maintaining the look of an angel. Adults, on the other hand, are duplicitous, conniving, subtle scoundrels who have the ability to act with multiple motives to achieve exponential goals. Selfish or magnanimous, their motivations run much deeper and their aspirations aim much higher.

So what's the why? As Hamlet (the king of why) would say, "Aye, there's the rub."

Kate, Ira and family on the farm.

In 1930, the Great Depression made a significant impact on my mother's family, specifically my grandparents Kate and Ira. In fact, it separated them--not emotionally, but physically. Ira sent Kate and their four children south to the family farm outside McLeansboro while he remained up north in Elgin where he worked at "The Old People's Home" (now Oak Crest Residence). Kate's brother, Perry, went with them to work the land. Ira, in turn, stayed with Kate's parents and their family. This arrangement lasted about four years during which Kate and Ira probably saw one another maybe a half dozen times at the most.

The magnitude of that particular sacrifice is, to me, staggering. I think I am too selfish, too focused on my own needs and wants to match it. Perhaps that's why I admire a relationship so solid in its foundations that its participants could be apart for that long and, when reunited, continue to flourish and grow in one another like Kate and Ira did. Not only did their relationship survive the Great Depression, it also rose over the deaths of their first child (Burt Eugene died in infancy) and their last (Robert Ira was killed by a drunk driver at 18) and endured for over 50 years. Look around today and you'll be hard pressed to find a similar relationship. It seems like everywhere you look, marriages--and families--are in pieces because one partner, the other or both reached outside themselves and their commitment to grasp at something they perceived would fill a need.

So, bewildered (and extremely impressed), I have to ask, "Why?" Or, more importantly, "How?" Why did Kate and Ira risk everything--their relationship, their family and themselves--and how did they make it work?

The why is, I suppose, the most obvious riddle to solve. Put simply, their family was under threat and action was necessary. Removing the family to the farm would (and did) remove their children from the more obvious signs of their economic need. They would have a secure home, a pastoral routine, steady meals--a dull, normal life such as any rural child enjoyed. They wouldn't see the bread lines or the homeless on the street. They wouldn't walk past the soup kitchens with the endless rows of empty faces devoid of hope and future. They wouldn't be inadvertent witnesses to whispered, midnight conversations regarding financial need at the kitchen table.

There were other reasons for the move. It would allow Ira to focus on his job and on making sure that Kate's parents--Alex and Hannah--and her younger brothers and sister--Lee, Lyman and Della--were equally secure, provided for and well fed. Perhaps most of all, they made the move because prayer led them both to the conclusion that it was what God wanted them to do, for Kate and Ira did nothing without prayer.

I have to believe that prayer answers the "how" as well. As a devout Christian, Kate had two powerful allies: the Word and prayer. She used the Bible like a tool--the hammer of God--to tear down what wasn't needed and build what was. She used prayer to claim the promises she found within its pages along with guidance, solace and instruction. She was bold in her choices, plans and stratagems, and she was confident that, as long as she walked as God led, she had nothing to fear. To his credit, Ira supported and followed her every step of the way. He, too, knew he had nothing to fear. Their faith and their conviction were exemplary, and I admire them for the quality and example of their lives which, lived so fully and so openly, leave little question as to how and why.

Note: if you haven't already done so, please visit my cousin Daniel Robbins' genealogy site which contains a wealth of exceptional stories, anecdotes and information regarding the family.

House of Worship

Grandma Kate and Kathleen at Oak Street.

Home has been on my mind of late. Sometimes home is a physical place that's still maintained and kept safe for your return by those you love. Sometimes home is a moment in the past that offers no return but is unchanging and steadfast in recollection. For many in my extended family, Oak Street will always be home and yet it will never be home again. The house still stands, but my connection--our connection--to it has been shifted to another plane, another place, another time.

As a child, I spent many nights at Oak Street, usually in the summer. My grandpa, Ira, usually went to bed first. He slept in mother's old bedroom on the first floor. My grandma, Kate, went to bed next or at least started her nighttime routine next. Though she always seemed to go to bed early she was always the last to lie down. I always stayed up with great Aunt Della to watch the news, not caring what I heard or saw, only reveling in the thought of how late I was being allowed to stay up. She sat in her appointed chair and sewed or embroidered, or she would fix a tray for herself with a snack of apples, salt, peanut butter and cheese. Her routine was the most interesting to watch and was one of the reasons I made a point of staying up at night.

Kate was secretive about her nocturnal doings and, being a modest woman, used a lighted closet for a dressing room. Ira dressed in the small room tucked above the kitchen and behind the bathroom, the room we called the attic. You could tell it was his because it was just like him: modest, quiet and straightforward with a soft memory of Aqua Velva in the air.

Della was more robust and open about her bedtime preparations. You could hear her groan when she removed her corset and girdle. I secretly marveled at what appeared to be yards and yards of lacing and elastic and wondered how big she might really look without them. She donned men's flannel pajamas--large and shapeless--and wound whole rolls of toilet paper around her head and topped it all with a pink hairnet all to preserve the curl of her hair. We called her "The Sultan" and teased her often about her "turban."

Not one of the three old people was without some measure of bridgework which, at night, were removed and left in various locations about the house, most often in the kitchen to my horror. Kate would sometimes leave hard candy or loose change in a convenient coffee mug on the kitchen hutch and I, hoping to pilfer something worthwhile, would more often than not be rewarded with someone's teeth instead. Della had the most complete set of dentures and would be a striking sight when she emerged from the bathroom at night. The bathroom door would squeak open and the Sultan would step out onto the creaking floorboards in full regalia. Her pink turban rose high above her head with wisps of snow white hair peeping out. Her flannel peejays flowed about her and her pink robe hung to her knees like a grocery sack. Her terrycloth, rubber-soled slippers each sported a full-blown embroidered rose at each peep toe. Since her teeth spent the night in another room with two effervescent tablets, her jowls hung loose and low--not unlike a turkey.

Kate, by contrast, didn't worry about such things. She slept with no thought for her hair in a long, plain nightgown that often failed to hide the varicose veins in her legs. I always slept in her room in a bed reserved for her sister Myrtle. I had tried sleeping downstairs in Ira's room but his snoring had given me ample reason for staying upstairs, as I'm sure it did Kate.

She would bring a glass of water into the room and set it on the nightstand between the two beds. I would squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep, watching her the entire time. When she was younger, she would kneel by the side of the bed to pray but when her knees would no longer obey her in this she would lie in bed stiff and straight as a board as she pressed her Bible to her chest and filled the room with prayer. I listened and learned as she remembered each of us by name, every child, grandchild, niece and nephew, every friend and neighbor old and new. She offered up our problems, our hopes and even fears. Sometimes she read a Psalm or a lengthy passage, holding the Book up to the shaft of blue streetlight that spilled across her bed. Once done with her devotion, she lay on her side and slept, rarely rising until the next morning. Last to bed, first to rise, she was the quiet, steady life of the house and of the family. Filled with a deep abiding faith and unswerving love of God, she was the foundation of a home she made into a living house of worship.

On the Corner of Oak and Ryerson

The irrepressible and irreplaceable Della Gruthoff.

In my last blog entry, I revisited the front porch of 153 Oak Street (just down the street from Juby's Pharmacy) and called to mind one of a thousand warm summer nights I spent with Ira, Kate, Della and, on occasion, Myrtle.

I'm back again so why not find yourself a seat (there's room here on the glider) and join me for another of Della's stories (told my way). This particular tale asks the age old question, "Where's My Big Toe?"

* * * * *

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived with his mother and his dog, Buster, in a little house at the edge of town. He was an average, everyday boy much like you or me. He had an everyday face, everyday clothes and everyday friends. And just like you or me, he liked to watch TV, play with his dog, have adventures and go exploring. Why, sometimes he would spend whole days climbing trees and building forts or digging in the yard and searching for interesting things. He had whole shoeboxes full of rocks, pebbles and bits of string for his ever growing collections.

One day, the little boy (let's call him Pete) was digging in the back yard at the very edge of the fence that separated Pete's yard from the sad little cemetery next door. He'd been playing in the rich black dirt for about an hour when he found what looked like a big white marble but flat on top and flat on the bottom. He had just started to rub the dirt off and take a closer look at it when his mother called him to come in for dinner.

"Pete! Supper time!" she called. "Bring the dog in with you!"

"OK, Mom," he yelled as he shoved his newest find in his pocket and pulled Buster inside by his collar.

Pete and his mother were rather poor so dinner was a very simple affair--just a bowl of boiled cabbage and a bologna sandwich. Some day soon, Pete hoped, they would have enough money saved up to share a hamburger; maybe they would even have a few scraps left over for Buster!

After dinner, Pete and his mother curled up with Buster on the sofa and watched their favorite TV shows until it was time for bed. Outside, the wind picked up and the sky clouded over. In the distance, lightning played along the horizon.

Despite the rising breeze, the night was still warm so Pete's mother left the windows open after she put Buster outside for the night. As his mother tucked him in, the swaying curtains caught Pete's imagination and attention and he was soon lulled to sleep.

A few hours later--just after midnight in fact--Pete was woken by a loud thump. The wind had risen further and the flapping window curtains had knocked over a lamp. Pete took a moment to let his racing heart slow and was just about to get up to shut the window when he heard a low moan.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," said a low, guttural voice. "Ohhhhhhhh nooooooooooo. Gone, gone, gone. Gone, gone, gone!"

Pete quickly climbed back into bed and drew the covers over his head. "Who is it?" he called.

"Ohhhhhhhh," said the voice. "Ohhhhhhhhh nooooooo. Wheeeeeeeeeeeere's mah big toe? Wheeeeeeeeere's mah big toe?"

"I said who is it?" Pete called. "Who's out there?"

(Although he was an average, everyday boy much like you or me with everyday fears you have to admit he was also pretty brave!)

"Ohhhhhhhh," said the voice, nearer now. "Wheeeeeeeeeeeere's mah big toe?"

"Now you answer me, ya hear?" called Pete, his voice starting to quiver. "Who's out there?"

"Ohhhhhhhh," said the voice, louder and even nearer now. "Wheeeeeeeeeeeere's mah big toe?"

"I got me a baseball bat, ya hear?" yelled Pete. "I ain't afraid to use it! Don't come no nearer!"

"Ohhhhhhhh," said the voice, even louder and much nearer now. "Wheeeeeeeeeeeere's mah big toe?"

"I said I got me a baseball bat!" shrieked Pete when suddenly a body jumped up on top him, pinned him to the bed and began sniffing him.

"Git offa me! Git offa me!" screamed Pete as he threw back the covers and jumped out of bed to find Buster gnawing away on his new, big white marble.

"Relax kid," said Buster. "I was just lookin' for my bone. Check with me first next time before you go diggin', huh?"

153 Tales of Oak Street

Kathleen with Grandpa Ira
in front of 153 Oak St.

Like me, many members of my extended family consider the old house on the corner of Oak and Ryerson to be one of the most important buildings in our collective history. Of course, it was never really about the house itself but the people inside it: Ira, Kate, Della and, quite often, Myrtle--my grandfather, grandmother and two great aunts.

Say the word "summer" to me, and I will recall warm, dark nights spent on the sweeping wrap-around porch listening to the cicadas singing in the trees and waiting for the stories to begin. While many of these stories are well known, they were told in a manner that made them unique in their own right. I hope my re-tellings do them justice. This particular story is about "The Crooked Mouth Family."

* * * * *

Once upon a time in a little town not very far away there lived a crooked family. That's not to say that they were corrupt or criminals. No, they just happened to be oddly shaped. This one had a crooked back and that one had a crooked arm. They even had a crooked dog whose crooked tail looked like a crooked stick. They were all crooked in many different crooked ways, but they were also all crooked in the same way for they all had crooked mouths. They lived a simple life in a simple house with a wood stove for heat, a hand pump for water and a single white candle for their evening's light.

There was a daughter in the family (we'll call her Persephone, which is not the easiest name to say when you have a crooked mouth) and she was fixing to marry a young man who'd caught her fancy. One winter evening, she invited him to dinner and introduced him to the family. By the end of the meal, the young man had made quite an impression on the girl's family, and they readily gave the couple their blessing to get married.

Just before it came time for the young man to leave, a winter storm swept through the neighborhood and blocked the roads so the family insisted he stay with them until the storm had passed. One by one they each snuggled into their separate beds until the mother realized they hadn't put out the candle.

"Pa," called Ma out of the right corner of her crooked mouth, "can you put out the candle?"

"I can," said Pa out of the left corner of his crooked mouth. But when he got up and went to blow out the candle, he could only make a small puffing sound like this: "Pff. Pff. Pff. Pff."

"No, Ma," said Pa. "I can't put the candle out."

"Per-feff-o-nee," called Ma (for remember, it's not the easiest name to say when you have a crooked mouth), "can you put out the candle?"

"I can," said Persephone out of the top corner of her crooked mouth. But when she went to blow out the candle, she only made a long whispery sound like this: "Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh."

"No, Ma," said Persephone. "I can't put the candle out. Can you?"

"I can," said Ma out of the right corner of her crooked mouth. But when she went to blow out the candle, she only made a shrill hissing sound like this: "Zee! Zee! Zee! Zee!"

"No," she said. "I can't put the candle out."

"Let's try to do it together," suggested Persephone, and the three of them bent to blow out the candle in unison.

"Pff. Pff. Shhh. Shhh. Zee! Zee!" Over and over they tried but still they couldn't blow out the candle. After an hour of trying, they looked up to see the young man standing in the doorway.

He shook his head, licked his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the flame saying, "If I'm going to be a part this family you're going to have to get electricity."

Next time: "Where's My Big Toe?"

Digging Through The Past

Family weighs on my mind lately. Not in a bad way you understand. It's good. You see, I've returned to the pursuit of my family's history and flushed a few cousins out of the bushes and reconnected with people I love in the process.

Genealogy can be fun but it can also be frustrating. Think of all the John Smiths in the phone book and then imagine some future curious relative trying to identify which one of them was his or her long lost uncle. Then, of course, there's what I like to call the "Cleopatra Syndrome." The most well researched names and lines are those descended from kings and other people of importance. So it's easy (and fun) to take a few shortcuts, accept someone else's research at face value and declare yourself the 11th descendant of the Thane of Cawdor. After all, it sounds a lot better than being descended from Murray the Floor Scrubber.

Duncan and Christina were wed at Kilchrist Kirk.

One of the most rewarding parts to all this comes from gaining insight into family you've never met. For example, my great great grandparents Duncan Macdonald and Christine Campbell were married on the Isle of Skye in 1825 in a country church--but what a church! Kilchrist Kirk (Christ Church) is now a famous romantic, spooky, weather-torn ruin. Originally built after the Reformation in the early 1500s, it replaced an earlier, medieval Catholic Church on the same grounds. A new church was built in nearby Broadford in 1840 and Kilchrist was apparently abandoned to ruin.

This kind of stuff really gets me going. Dates and place names are all very dry but when you combine them with a picture of a person or a place you're inspired to keep digging and filled with the hope of finding more. What's truly rewarding is when "more" brings new relationships (such as with my newfound cousin Graham and his wife Holly on my father's side) and reinvigorates old relationships (such as with my sisters Susan and Donna, Uncle Dean and Marquis cousins on my mother's side). Genealogy gives you something to talk about together and allows family to bind over the subject of family. Sure, we toss around religion, politics and other hot potatoes from time to time and drive each other crazy but we're always pulled back to earth by what we have in common--like a simple country church.

All That Glitters Is Not A Nickel

Alexander and Hannah Marquis.

Once upon a time in a land called "The Knobs" there was a girl named Hannah and a boy named Al who found themselves--somewhere between church picnics and fall harvests--smitten with one another. So, things being what they were (and still often are), he asked her to marry him and she eagerly accepted. Al was quite a catch after all. Everyone spoke well of him; he was kind, funny, hard-working and sincerely in love with her. On the other hand, he was poor and couldn't afford much fanfare much less a proper wedding ring. Hannah didn't care. She loved him anyway and so she walked down the aisle in a simple, modest dress and tended their home with a graceful, unadorned hand.

Over the years, many things changed and yet many things did not. They still loved one another a great deal (as evidenced by their ten children), yet they were still poor (again, as evidenced by their ten children). And though he may have wanted to, Al still could not afford to give Hannah the shining gold ring she deserved. Instead, he did the best he could by presenting her with a simple, thin band that he cut from an equally simple, modest nickel.

Years later their children began to fall in love and build their own families; not all of them, however, met with success. Eva, in particular, struggled with her heart's desire. Although she loved her father, she also loved her freedom and she was convinced (wrongly) that she had to choose between them in order to be happy. She left one night on the back of a motorcycle, fleeing The Knobs for the flats of Oklahoma where the man she loved presented her with what had eluded her mother for so long: a shining band of gold.

In the morning, her finger turned a figurative green. Eva's man already had another wife--or so they said. Soon, she was chasing the road back home where her family waited to welcome her and usher him to the door at the end of a pitchfork. Her family didn't judge her (well, not that much), and she soon became her own worst critic and she began to despair. Sadly, her shining band of gold became something she viewed as unearned and undeserved. But after thought and prayer and contemplation, she found an elegant solution that would resolve her public humiliation, her father's private wish and her mother's secret dream: she traded it for a simple, modest nickel.

***

You may find my story to be a little corny, naive even but, aside from a few embellishments, it is a true tale. My great-grandfather Alexander Marquis married Hannah Pennell in the late 1800s and they raised a large family in "The Knobs" of southern Illinois. Their daughter Della Evalee--a "flapper"--eloped on the back of a motorcycle during the Roaring '20s only to have the family run off her duplicitous beau upon their return. She exchanged rings with her mother because, as I was told, she felt badly that her mother--so richly married--should wear a nickel while she--so poorly matched--bore a ring of gold.

When Hannah died in 1944, Della took back her ring while the nickel ring--and the story behind it--became lost. Or so one would think. I found the nickel ring among Della's things during her final illness and gained the story from my mother. Things being what they were (and still often are), the ring disappeared soon after. Or so one would think.

I found the ring again not too long ago among my own things, and I've been wearing it ever since. Unfortunately, my stewardship has not been that kind, and the soft-metal ring is now misshapen and it has lost the markings that identified it as a one-time coin. But the story remains, and that's what's most important. So, this weekend, I am passing the torch, so to speak, and placing the ring in the care of my niece, Eloise. It's my hope that this ring--however cheap and unassuming it may appear--will convey a wealth of meaning to her and the other young women within my extended family as they one day start their own lives and families years from now. Alex and Hannah's ring will, I hope, be eagerly and actively embraced and traded amongst them as "something old" or "something borrowed" when it comes time for them to follow their hearts down the aisle.

Have You Hugged Your Grandma Today?

Memorial Day is coming up, and while I am very fortunate to have not lost any family service members since the civil war, I do use the occasion to remember those family members I have lost. Memorial Day was a big deal for my mother's parents, aunts and uncles (my "grands and greats" for the sake of brevity). The whole family trekked out to the family plot at Bluff City Cemetery where we weeded, planted and even mowed to ensure that the final rests of our loved ones were worthy of the flags placed by the local VFW.

The closest--and best--family relationships I had growing up were with my "grands and greats." They were so down-to-earth, loving and simple. I say simple in the sense that they lived frugally without making a big deal about it or appearing poor in any regard. They may have been on modest, fixed incomes, but they were the most generous and freely giving people I have ever known. They spent a great deal of their time helping other family members, friends and even complete strangers. They volunteered at church, taught Sunday School, did laundry at "The Old People's Home" (an old style assisted living facility) and served in The Salvation Army.

They were deeply religious with strong, solid convictions. When my mother's youngest brother Bob was killed at 18 by a drunk driver, my grandmother spent a great deal of time counseling the driver and talking to him about his life and his choices. She explained how the God she knew and the faith she held could help him, too, and heal the emotional hurt he'd caused himself.

My "grands and greats" weren't a bunch of priests and nuns, however. They loved to laugh and poke fun at one another. They had wicked senses of humor and told great jokes. They loved games; my grandmother Kate was a mean "Flinch" player and we often accused her of cheating; Della was a whiz at Scrabble, and the Dictionary was kept right next to the family Bible. They were also full of wonderful stories. Some of my best memories are sitting on the big front porch at 153 Oak Street on hot summer nights listening to them tell all sorts of stories.

When the evening had grown pitch black we gathered to hear ghost stories like "Where's My Big Toe?" and Della's version (below) of a stanza from James Whitcomb's "Little Orphan Annie" poem.

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and then one night he went away up stairs, his mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him call, but when they pulled the kivvers back, he wasn't there at all!

They seeked him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press and even up the chimney flu and everywhere, I guess, but all they ever found of him was his pants and round-abouts so you know the goblins will getcha if you don't watch out!


I spent a lot of time at 153 Oak Street. It holds my most vivid childhood memories--both good and bad. One of the most traumatic experiences of my life happened in that house. My sister Donna and I were staying overnight on the roll-away bed upstairs when my grandfather, Ira, had a massive stroke during the night.

Donna woke me around 7 a.m. full of fear and close to tears. "I think the house is on fire," she said. I looked out the window to the street below--full of emergency vehicles. We walked hand in hand to the head of the stairs in time to see the hallway below filled with firemen trying to move grandpa out the front door to the waiting ambulance. But Ira didn't want to go. His left hand held a staircase baluster and they couldn't pry his iron grip open to release it. And he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming "NO! NO! NO!" because he didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to leave Kate. For the rest of his life, his left hand was curled as if still holding on to that baluster.

After a few months at home, his needs outstripped Kate's strength and he was moved to a nursing facility. The night Ira died, Dad took me and my sisters to the Howard Johnson's to use their pool (the manager was a client of Dad's). As usual, we did something to tick Dad off and he lashed out with a bombshell: "Your mother is sitting at your grandfather's deathbed RIGHT NOW and you can't behave for one hour! You are the most ungrateful, spoiled children I've ever met!" (Dad was always saying things like that.)

Then, only my grandmother, Kate, and my Aunt Della remained at 153 Oak Street. I loved Della dearly because we were kindred spirits. She was so unabashedly colorful--like Auntie Mame, but with an unmatched talent for embroidery. Della was a "flapper" back in the Roaring '20s, and she became the black sheep of the family when she eloped to Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. When she returned, Ira ran her new husband off with a very large rake.

A few years after Ira's death, Kate was standing in front of the kitchen window washing dishes when someone outside in the dark back yard took a shot at her. She wasn't hurt, but it left a small hole in the window and a larger, metaphorical hole in her mind. First fidgeting, then nervous, then forgetful, she descended into Alzheimer's and dementia and lost her grasp of reality. Lost in time, she unconsciously chose to relive the life she'd known in the 1950s. But she became paranoid and violent and could not be left alone.

She moved in with my family for a short time, but she became increasingly unmanageable and a danger to herself. Despite the fact that I had been born in 1961, she always recognized, trusted and relied upon me. I was the only one who could reach through the fog and comfort her, calm her and make her feel safe. But my efforts couldn't stop her growing confusion and we eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.

When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to live at Oak Street so I could help them with the things they couldn't do themselves. When Ira had his stroke, I begged my mother to take what little savings I had ($37.50) and use it to help them. But kids grow up. And when you're a teenager about to graduate high school, you're eager to kick off the shackles of family and run towards freedom and adulthood. You work very hard to push away the guilt you feel at leaving your aging, fading "grands and greats" behind.

I passed her nursing home almost every day, but I only stopped by once a month at best. I never visited her often enough. It hurt too much to see her doped with rope burns on her wrists from being tied down in a lazy attempt to keep her safe during the occasional epileptic seizure. Thorazine, Haldol and other generously administered neuroleptics ensured that her fog never lifted. And yet she always knew me. She was just five minutes away from my home, but I never took the opportunity to say good-bye. It is my life's one regret.

My "grands and greats" taught me so many life lessons; not by lecture, but by example. Their lives--lived quietly, fully and joyfully--showed what it truly meant to be a Christian. They didn't picket funerals. They didn't stand on street corners waving placards and shaming people who were different. They didn't presume to know the mind of God and predict his actions or pass judgment on others. They simply lived.

Ira taught me that a man can be strong, sensitive, shy, loving and quiet.

Kate taught me that everyone deserves love, no matter how much they may have hurt you.

Della taught me that joy is a gift from God and it must be expressed and shared with everyone in every way possible.

Myrtle taught me that physical pain doesn't define you, limit you or prevent you from being who you are or doing what you want.

Lyman taught me that material things don't define us and that a simple, time-worn coffee cup can hold a wealth of memories.

Perry taught me at the age of 5 how to bow my head and pray.

Eileen died before I was born, but she taught me that a life well lived is a legacy. All my "grands and greats" spoke lovingly of her and kept her widowed husband, Harry, close.

Lee taught me that volunteering not only helps others, it builds self-respect and generates self-fulfillment.

William taught me that the secret to a long life is to always have someone to care for and love.

I'll be thinking of each of my "grand and greats" this weekend with love. I hope you'll think of yours as well.