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.

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.

Browsing Through Time--100 Years With Dad

If you've been a regular reader, you know that today is an important day for my family. It's my father's 100th birthday. And while it's true that Dad has been gone for a long time (in fact, he died 21 years ago tomorrow), I find the date no less significant and no less worth celebrating.

Arthur Macdonald Ferreira

The relationship between parent and child is probably the most important, iconic and lifechanging relationship any of us will ever have. We look to our parents as role models, protectors, heros and teachers. They provide for us, turn our eyes to God and set the tone for the course of our natural lives. Sometimes the relationship is smooth, sometimes it's not; but regardless of its quality, it's the fact of its existence that forms the central axis of our lives.

My father is an enigma to me. Not because I didn't know him, but because I am constantly learning new things about him. His continuing presence is very real, and he continues to influence my life and decisions through the history of his own. I believe that every father is his son's conscience and that my father is no less mine.

It is my joy and privilege today to celebrate the best aspects of my father--those attributes he expressed through his ties to his children. My father loved kids. Sure, we drove him crazy. We made him nervous. We even frightened him, but that's because he saw our wayward feet and, from his own past experience, had a very real sense of the sad and dangerous places those feet could and would lead us.

Dad loved to laugh, and he loved to play. He could be a bit of an extrovert, singing to Sinatra or maybe Tony Orlando and Dawn on the hi-fi (whoa TIE a yella ribbon round the old whoak tree!), but he was also a private person who--like a child on his first day of school--would shyly share a small fact or hobby with each of us in hopes of building a connection.

I can laugh about it today, but sometimes our efforts at bonding went horribly astray. He took me fishing once. I was used to walking off through the empty fields behind our house to Tyler Creek where I would just sit on the bank with friends catching (and tossing back) bluegills. Fishing--in and of itself--was not the point. It was the camaraderie and fellowship we sought. Dad, on the other hand, took me to what I can only describe as a "fish park." No trees, no gently flowing creek. Just small ponds--like submerged tanks--that, after two hours, proved to be devoid of fish. We struggled to talk with one another but could only commiserate over what was clearly a disappointment. I think that, over the years, the only thing we ever truly bonded over was our failure to bond!

Swimming with Dad in "the Dells," 1968.

Like my siblings, my best memories--the bittersweet ones--are from my early childhood where he would romp and roughhouse with us. I loved summer vacations in the Wisconsin Dells where he taught all of us to swim in motel pools where he would pick us up and launch us into the air--so high it seemed!--and throw us into deep water. We had no fear at all because he was always right there, ready to pull us out of danger and keep us safe. It is a time I greatly miss and will always cherish.

In honor of Dad's 100th birthday, I've invited my brothers and sisters to share their memories of Dad, too. It is my honor and my privilege to share them here with you. If you knew our Dad and would like to share a memory of your own, please feel free to use the comments field below. Please be aware that your comment may take up to an hour to appear.

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My Thoughts of Dad
By Donna Ferreira McNutt


When I think of my father, I think of so many things.

Jay-Jay and Dad, Christmas 1963.

On Christmas mornings, he would sit in his desk chair with a yellow legal pad and Cross pen and scribble down the gifts, the givers, and the receivers in his distinct handwriting to ensure that we gave proper thanks later.

Every day, after work, he would sit at his desk with his propped up mirror and tweezers, looking for those pesky whiskers that had to come out.

In my mind, I can hear him at the piano playing and singing, "I love coffee, I love tea, I love the girls and the girls love me."

Watching football with him on the couch, my view would be obstructed because, as an exciting play was unfolding, he would slowly raise his crossed leg and shout, "Go boy, go all the way!"

I remember being embarrassed when he would go back into the bakery at Gromer's like he owned the place because there were no sugar cookies on the shelf, or take his meal back to the kitchen at the Milk Pail, or stop traffic on Lyle Avenue so I could pull out of the driveway. And I recall running away from him as he chased us around the ping pong table with his belt in hand ready to whip us.

An insurance salesman, a car salesman, an accountant for a friend, a night school student, a banker, a soap dispenser assembler for a friend, he was also a perfectionist who had the most beautiful lawn on the block.

I was so glad that he was 69 when I graduated from high school and not 70!

We took trips to Wisconsin in the summer months to find his dream house. How I hated it then! But now, driving around the countryside is one of my favorite things to do.

I can see him kneeling on the ground trying to show my 3-year-old Johnny the art of pulling a weed, reading him an entire fairy tale book and then honoring Johnny's request to "show him everything downstairs."

I was at a loss for words when he bought me a bicycle at age 19 when I wanted him to co-sign a loan for me so I could buy a car. And I was equally speechless on the day he was forced to retire when he stood in our kitchen holding a television set and said, "This is all I have to show for 50 years of hard work."

I remember his love for eggnog, his love for golf, his work ethic, the provisions he made for his family and--above all--his love for all of us.

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Echoes of Dad
By Robert Ferreira


Rob and Dad, 1940s.

I have two very vivid memories of my father when I was quite young. The first, which was when I must have been two or three in New York although I can't remember if it was the Plandome or Manhasset house. I was laying down in my crib in my bedroom upstairs. The bedroom door was, from my point of view, on the right side of the room with the narrower end of my crib closest to it along the same wall. I think Dad had been traveling and had just gotten home or perhaps it was that he and my mother had just gotten back from shopping. They were both standing in my doorway, smiling with love and affection, and Dad was holding a little rubber squeaky toy. Memory seems to dictate that it was Bugs Bunny, but it's likely best you don't hold me to this. Dad was squeezing the rabbit in and out, making it squeal and squeak, and I remember standing up in my crib so I could reach it when he brought it to me. I still can hear that squeaky noise clearly in my mind.

The second memory is my favorite because it was an ongoing ritual that lasted until my father separated from my mother. I was somewhat older, attending local elementary school, and we lived in Hinsdale, Illinois in a grand, old, two-story house built in the late 1860s. Dad would be relaxing on the striped sofa in the living room that faced the door, and I would be coming in from outside through the kitchen door. I would see him, he would see me, and we would both break out in a joyous smile. I would then hurriedly run over to him and hop on the portion of his leg between his knee and his ankle. Dad always had his legs crossed--right over left, usually--and once I landed on the top leg and held onto his knee with my hands, he would jiggle me up and down while I hollered "Horsie!" over and over again. My exclamations still echo in the chambers of my memory to this very day.

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My Life With Father
By Susan Ferreira Rodgers

My earliest memories of Dad are musical, recalling our large living room hi-fi playing his collection of Sinatra, Jackie Gleason, Broadway musicals and, of course, my favorites, Rock-A-Bye Your Baby and Mack the Knife. Many a Saturday or Sunday afternoon was spent loading the spindle with those classics. I never saw him dance with Mom, but I do remember him picking me or Donna up and dancing with us as toddlers. Dad also loved watching the musical variety shows: Bob Hope, Dean Martin and, especially, the tap dancing on Lawrence Welk.


Susan and Dad, 1961.

Dad also influenced my television habits. He always loved detective shows: Perry Mason, 77 Sunset Strip, The FBI, Mannix, Hawaii 5-0, Cannon, Barnaby Jones, etc. How else can I account for knowing the theme song from Peter Gunn at the age of two?

My interest in sports was fostered by him as well. He worked on swimming and diving with us kids on our summer vacations, securing us a pool membership at the local Howard Johnson's. Dad bought me my first tennis racquet--a Pancho Gonzalez--and spent time instructing me on the courts. When one of my friends introduced me to skiing at Buffalo Park in Algonquin, Dad insisted that we go out and buy all the equipment after that solo venture so that I could become proficient. Since then, I've enjoyed skiing the Wasatch Mountains and even introduced the sport to my own family. And of course he bought me a baseball mitt and played endless hours of catch and batting practice in the front yard with all of us neighbor kids and the cousins (yes, I took the "hit" for Rebecca in those days!).

Dad also taught me about hard work and perseverance. His own father's early death must have made a great impression on him about the importance of providing for your family, and that became his main focus with us. He liked to work hard and keep busy, whether at a desk job or working in our yard, and he wasn't afraid to reinvent himself for a new venture.

I guess my favorite aspect of my father is his New England and Scottish heritage. Dad was quite the alien in the Midwest. He cut a unique figure with his Brooks Brothers attire and East Coast manners. None of my friends' fathers were like him. I loved listening to his Bostonian accent and pronunciation of certain words--"Mah-mer" for mama, calling Mom "mummy" and, every time I walked into a room, his salutation to his "Susan Van Doozen".

Dad unwittingly transferred to me his love for all things Scottish. His predilections for butterscotch, oatmeal, orange marmalade, black angus cattle, and golf went largely unnoticed by me until my first visit to Scotland in 1997. I immediately felt at home in that wonderful country and fell in love with its landscape, people, customs and food. It was then that I realized how much the MacDonalds had won out over the Ferreira side of the family.

I appreciate Dad's centennial as the opportunity to think back on his legacy, sanguine that our family is all for the better by virtue of his enduring influence on all of us.

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Donald the "Divil"
Excerpted from a letter written August 14, 1916 from my grandfather Arthur Ferreira to his brother-in-law Isaac Murray MacDonald.


Nettie has said every day that she must write to you, but you know how it is with four kids to take care of. The baby is fine now, and Donald is a holy terror. I must tell you a stunt he pulled the other night. 

Nettie and her children: Catherine Louise,
Robert Alexander (with tie), George Stuart
(in Nettie's lap) and the divil himself,
Arthur Macdonald, 1916.

We had a fire in the fireplace as it was a little chilly and we were all at supper except Donald who was in the den. After supper we went into the den and I noticed that the front of the fireplace was wet. I immediately asked Donald if he had peed in the fire and he denied it, but after a long while he admitted it. He did it again the next day and Nettie took him down in the coal cellar and locked him in the coal bin. Your mother says we're too hard on him, but he certainly is a divil.

French Lessons

Elgin's fabulous Fountain Square, circa 1890.

It had been a month since Percival had been home and he was anxious to return. Sure, Elgin's bright lights and big city nights had been thrilling (oh that Fountain Square Plaza!) but thoughts of McLeansboro--and his beloved, Bernice--kept calling him back. As he stepped down with a flourish from the battered Greyhound bus, he took a deep breath of the dust-choked air and promptly entered into a fit of coughing and sneezing.

"Home!" he gagged. "Home!"

"Wassat?" said the driver. "Home? I told you boy this is far's I go. I ain't no lim-o-zeen driver!"

"No, monsieur," croaked Percival as he wiped the grime from his lips with a perfumed handkerchief. "I just meant that..."

"Yo crazy is what you is. Yo a little light in the shoes, too," he quipped as he snapped the bus door closed like a pocketbook, slammed the gear shift home and took off down the hill with a shrill grinding of gears.

"Wait!" yelled Percival, choking again in the growing cloud of dust and gravel. "My suitcase!"

But either the driver didn't hear him (that was Percival's rationalization) or he just really didn't care (that was Percival's realization).

"No matter," he said in his best Pollyanna voice as he brushed off his jacket and straightened his tie. "Maman will sort it out. C'est la vie!"

He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time and paused to gaze at Bernice's photo which he had pasted inside the watch cover like a lover's locket.

"I'm coming, ma chère! I'm coming!" he murmured as he started down the dirt track to his mother's estate, Kildare.

Estate, however, may be an overgenerous description of what had once been an expansive and successful family farm. Percival's grandfather--Big Percy, they called him--had staked his claim and cleared the land 75 years before. Short on suitable timber and cash, Big Percy built his house out of sod against the highest hill on his parcel of 200 acres. It was warm in the winter, cool in the summer and he found it pleasant to sit on the sod roof and catch the gentle breezes at the close of a hard day's work. The home was low maintenance, too. Daily grazing by his milk cow and small herd of goats kept the sod roof neat and trim. It was everything Big Percy had hoped for, and he fondly named it Kildare after the local country doctor (the doctor was nonplussed).

It took a few years for Big Percy to get his farm up and running but once he did he was determined to marry. One day, he put on his best Sunday suit and took the train to Elgin where he attended a lavish reception for the local dairy barons and their families at the famous Old People's Home. The reception was followed by a concert across the street in Central Park where the Elgin National Watch Company Band presented "Souza-palooza: An Evening With John Phillip."

At first, Big Percy was a little overwhelmed by the experience. He was unaccustomed to the luxurious life that Elginites so clearly enjoyed. He was dazzled by the two-seater outhouses (His and Hers with last year's Sears-Roebuck catalog!), easy access to comfort food (six hobos, one fire, no waiting!), and high style (overalls with stripes!). There were so many available, healthy women to choose from and he was a little awed by their poise and stunning beauty--some still had their own teeth!

He considered turning tail and heading home in the face of such superiority until he glimpsed a woman in the band. Her name was Roseanne Zinzin and she was the daughter of a highly respected French watchmaker (Monsieur Jean Vachement Zinzin) who had put Elgin watches on the map. Roseanne was also employed at the watch factory and she played a mean tuba in the company's world-renowned band.

Big Percy was completely smitten with her. He loved the way her dull, auburn hair swallowed the failing evening light. He adored the way her face purpled to rival the setting sun when she sustained a note. He swooned over the deft manner in which she emptied her spit valve on her shoe. Even the way she chewed gum (like a cud) between numbers captured his heart. He had to have her.

Roseanne, for her part, was bored out of her mind with her life. She resented her father for taking her away from her beloved Saint-Ouen just outside Paris to live amongst the bourgeois Americans, and she dreamed daily of escape.

She was smart enough to know that she was too lazy to do it on her own and that it would take all her feminine wiles to ensnare a man she could control. She had made an exhaustive and critical review of her assets along with a careful study of American men. Her best strategy, she knew, would be to play to her strengths. In other words, she would play stupid.

Big Percy, meanwhile, was flying blind. Being unfamiliar with the intricacies of Elgin high society, he boldly asked the next man he saw for assistance. As it turned out, the man happened to be one of the "right" people and Big Percy soon gained an introduction to Monsieur Zinzin who, due to his poor English and Big Percy's nonexistent French, found himself impressed with the young, rich chevalier from the fabled American South.

A brief, whirlwind romance followed, and both Big Percy and Roseanne were privately thrilled with their respective good luck. Big Percy was amazed that Roseanne so obviously loved him despite his humble origins and lack of assets while Roseanne was ecstatic that an hour or two of giggling and fawning had bagged her an American millionaire whose rustic ways were undoubtedly compensated for by his vast land holdings and palatial plantation home.

They both pushed aside their unease over the language barrier (Roseanne was too lazy to learn English, Big Percy too stupid to learn French) and rushed to the altar with different futures. She envisaged mint juleps, hoop skirts and festive cotillions while he pictured strong coffee, overalls and fall harvests.

The journey to Kildare was different for each of them as well. Big Percy, eager for home, felt that it took forever while Roseanne, eager to escape Elgin, felt that it didn't take long enough. She found the distance suspect. While she was ignorant of American geography, she thought the stately columned homes of Dixie were much further south, and when Big Percy borrowed an asthmatic mule and a dirty vegetable cart to deliver them from the station she was smart enough to know that something was amiss.

"Où sommes-nous?" she asked.

"What's that? Ooh?" said Big Percy, totally confused. "Oooh? Oh! You think it's pretty, yes? Wee? Oooh?"

Roseanne stared at him blankly, equally confused.

The wagon ride home would have been uneventful had it not been for the mule. Overburdened by Roseanne's prolific trousseau, the mule expired three quarters of the way home with a loud "Weeee HAW!" Big Percy was forced to pull the smelly cart himself while Roseanne walked beside him in growing terror.

When they stopped at what Roseanne believed to be a mud hut for livestock and Big Percy moved to carry her over the threshold she promptly burst into tears. "Merde!" she screamed and punched him in the face.

It is said that there are five stages of grief but, for Roseanne, there could only be one (anger) and she made it her life's work to visit that anger on Big Percy every chance she got for the remainder of his life.

Big Percy, for his part, tried to make the best of things (and to shut her up) by giving her the things she wanted. He bought a team of horses and a smart little surrey, and he planted wildflowers on the sod home's roof. Eventually, he built her the finest house in all of Hamilton County. In return, she bore him one child, a daughter. Finally, he gave her the one thing she wished for most of all: he died.

Over the years, Roseanne groomed (spoiled) and molded her daughter Alice into a younger version of herself. Like Roseanne, Alice, too, longed for escape but, like Roseanne, she was too lazy to go any further than the sod house roof where she would spend hours looking out over the surrounding fields and picking wildflowers.

After Big Percy died, Roseanne hired two or three local men to work the fields but, being lazy themselves and only hired help, Kildare began to decline long before it had reached its zenith. With a rapidly deteriorating inheritance, Roseanne worried over what Alice's future prospects might be.

She was smart enough to know that Alice was too lazy to secure a future for herself and astute enough to know that it was left to her to find Alice a husband. Being lazy herself, she confined her search to the hired help.

One sunny afternoon, Roseanne walked down to the barn where her three hired hands--Ray, Bert and Jack--were idly watching a pair of coon dogs sunning themselves in the yard. One of the dogs, Rufus by name, was diligently licking himself while the men watched with rapt attention.

"I wish ah cud do that," sighed Bert.

"You do that an' that dog'll baht you," said Jack.

Roseanne quickly turned her attention to Ray, the least of the three evils.

"Pardon monsieur, puis-je parler avec vous?" asked Roseanne.

Ray simply stared.

"Oh, never mind," muttered Roseanne (she'd finally learned English), "just come with me."

From that point forward Roseanne saw to it that Ray and Alice spent a great deal of time together--alone. When Alice finally announced she was pregnant one morning over breakfast, Roseanne immediately and nonchalantly produced a loaded shotgun and a minister who pronounced the couple man and wife in time for lunch.

Alice and Ray were happy enough to have two children: Charlie and Percy (as he grew older he preferred Percival). Ray, now master of Kildare if only in name, doted on Charlie who was everything a man could want in a son--tall, strong and handsome. Percy, on the other hand, was Roseanne's favorite and she taught him French, schooled him in etiquette and enthralled him with tales of all things "fantastique."

After Ray and Roseanne's tragic deaths (they were gored to death by a herd of male goats the pair mistakenly tried to milk one foggy morning), Alice was left alone to raise her sons. Charlie was increasingly dismissive of Percival and his "fancy" ways and Alice felt increasingly protective of him until he reached the age of 30 and she supposed that Percival might benefit from a trip to the outside world.

"Toughen him up!" insisted Charlie, and so she sent him on a Petit Tour to the fabled city of Elgin. Percival, reluctant at first, acquiesced by kissing his best girl Bernice good-bye, packing his suitcase and hiking into McLeansboro to catch the next train north.

Percival spent four glorious weeks following in his grandfather's footsteps and touring the great sites of Elgin: Woodruff and Edwards, Juby's Pharmacy, Al's Café--the fabulous Douglas Hotel! Now Percival had come home again and he was hard pressed to decide whom he missed more: his mother, Alice, or his sweetheart, Bernice. It was Charlie, however, who met him at the door.

"Hullo, Percy," he said with just a touch of derision.

"It's Percival," huffed Percy. "Hello, Charles. How are you?"

"I'm fine," said Charlie. "How was your trip?"

"It was wonderful--magnifique! But first I simply must see Bernice. I've missed her so! Tell me, where is she?"

"She's dead."

"What? How? How?! What's happened?" cried Percy. "Quel horreur! Oh, my heart! My love is gone! Cruel world!"

"Um, hey, Perce, you do know Bernice is a milk cow, right?" asked Charlie with genuine concern.

"Of course I know!" snapped Percy. "That doesn't make her any less special! How did it happen?"

"She wandered off one day and stepped in front of a thresher down at the Hayter place. Tore her to shreds. We had barbecue for a week."

Percy could manage nothing less than a strangled shriek in reply.

"You doin' ok there, Percy?" asked Charlie.

"How can you be so cruel? How can you just blurt out something as horrific as that?"

"Well, Percy, I don't have your education and what you call refinements. I'm a pretty simple, straightforward man and I calls it as I sees it."

"You should have softened the blow and taken my feelings into consideration." insisted Percy. "You should have let me down easy!"

"How, Percy?"

"Well, you remember how Bernice used to go up on the roof of the sod house to eat the early daisies?"

"Yup, I remember."

"And do you remember how, sometimes, she refused to come down and I would spend hours making daisy chains and placing them around her neck?"

"Yup, I remember."

"You could have told me that Bernice is on the roof--Bernice est sur le toit."

"Bernice est sur le toit," repeated Charlie.

"You're not pronouncing that right. Your accent is horrible. Try again Charles. Bernice est sur le toit."

"Bernice est sur le toit," repeated Charlie testily.

"No, no," Percy said, clapping his hands like a schoolmaster. "Bernice est sur le toit. Sur. Le. Toit."

"Bernice est sur le toit," said Charlie, this time louder and a little angry.

"No, don't be stupid," sniffed Percy. "Saying it loud and wrong only makes you look big and stupid. Try it one more time."

"Bernice est sur le toit," repeated Charlie.

"All right, that's passable. I'm sure it's the best you can do," he added acidly.

"Thank you," said Charlie, unfazed. "So, I should have told you Bernice is on the roof and then told you she stepped in front of a thresher, right?"

"Mon dieu, no!" said Percy. "Then you should have told me that Bernice caught cold up on the roof. Bernice a un rhume. Try that."

"Bernice a un rhume," repeated Charlie.

Percy cast his eyes heavenward with a dramatic flourish and shook his head in exasperation. Charlie simply stared at him.

"All right. So I should have said she's on the roof, she's got a cold and then told you she stepped in front of a thresher, right?"

"No, of course not!" Percy snapped. "Then you should have told me that she passed peacefully in her sleep. Bernice est décédé dans son sommeil. Can you say that?"

"Bernice est décédé dans son sommeil," said Charlie with a vastly improved accent.

"Oh," said Percy, noticeably impressed. "That was actually rather good. Well done Charles! Bravo!"

"Thank you," said Charlie with a little bow.

"Now," said Percy. "Where's mother?"

Charlie sighed deeply and said, "Maman est sur le toit."


Editor's note: this story is based on a joke told by Ronnie Corbin on his BBC show "The Two Ronnies" circa 1978.

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.