Professor Alexander Nazaryan, http://proof.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/30/the-tipsy-hero/, blogs in the New York Times about  Greek language, culture, literature, and philosophy. http://proof.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/30/the-tipsy-hero/ As I read his rich and erudite post, I thought of my father, Floyd Doud Shafer, who as a young man from rural Indiana attended Hanover College back in the 1930’s where he studied Classical languages, Greek and Latin. All of his adult life, well up past 85, he carried around small cards with Greek and Latin verb declensions or lists of adverb and adjective forms or vocabulary lists, which he studied diligently. If I needed a Latin phrase translated, I sent a letter, to which he gladly responded. Sadly, for him, and me, when I attempted Latin as a high school freshman, I hated it. I don’t think he ever forgave me.

At age 86, diagnosed with his final illness, he held my hand and asked me, “How does a philosopher come to die?” Since he had been an ordained Presbyterian minister for over six decades, I was startled momentarily by his question, until I thought about his life-long study of Greek philosophy, philosophers, and language. When the end came, he turned to his greatest love—Greek philosophy. How I wish he had been allowed the Greek tradition of sharing wine with friends. Instead, raised in a Calvinistic home, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvini, with a mother who was a devout member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WCTU, the pleasure of a draft of beer or a glass of wine with friends, came into his life later, in his middle years.

Mostly, though, I thought about my father’s love of literature, language, and Classical cultures, especially Greece and Rome, and how he passed that love of language and literature along to me and especially to his oldest grandson Jim, now a scholar of Tibetan and Sanskrit, and other Asian languages and cultures. Interestingly, the Doud in my father’s name came from his mother’s family, the Douds being early Puritan emigrants, arriving in the Colony of Connecticut about 1636. Their dour outlook was carried to the Midwest by my father’s grandfather Davis Rogers Doud in 1848 when he pioneered in Illinois with his family. Maybe dour is an unfair term; they were serious and somber, and devout Christians.

My father was a wonderful preacher and writer, filling his sermons and articles with the history of the Reformation, quotes from Shakespeare, and his vast knowledge of the Greek and Roman civilizations and cultures. Well, of course, there was the Christian aspect, too. But, even as a child, I realized his Christianity was broad; he saw the Universe as God’s creation and could not abide the Fundamentalist version of Christianity. His family, founders of the Seventh Day Baptist Church on one line and strong Mennonites on another, with lines of Brethren, along with the Presbyterians, has a fascinating religious history. He carried that with him, impoverished child of the rural Midwestern Depression, studying first at Hanover College, then the Louisville Presbyterian Seminary, and the Union Seminary in NYC. Through all those years of rather grim Christianity, his love of the Greeks and their culture danced in his heart. And, at the end, he chose to die with their philosophy as his guide.

I had an early and pronounced dislike of anything athletic—so, of course, I
had two athletic sons and eventually married a football player/high school
coach, who had become a high school principal. And attended endless athletic events and spent several years in weekly/daily phone calls with recruiting coaches…..blah.

Now that the athletic part of my life is over—and behind me by 20 years—
I hope to finally face the devils in my memories.

As a child, I hated activity games and competition–dodge ball, soft ball, even red-rover. While the other children were playing games, I was always wandering around the edge of the playground, lost in my imaginary scenarios. In junior high I was on a volleyball team…..and a complete dud. I never ever tried out for any teams in high school, though I fostered a secret dream to be a majorette and strut down the football field. But, I could not play a musical instrument and probably could not have marched in time anyway.

So, I had a son who early on loved sports, one of his first words being “ball.” He loved to compete. We would not allow him or his brother to play little league baseball, due to the behavior of the parents, which appalled me—a mistake on our parts. Finally we relented and let the boys play little league football, with me in the stands in terror of injuries. Jim, a wonderful runner, was a terrific end, scoring often. Dan did not like being shoved around by the other kids or getting his clothing dirty. In sixth grade, Jim went out for basketball, having spent several previous years shooting baskets in any available hoop. We were the kind of parents who reluctantly, finally
put up a basketball goal on the garage roof after realizing that our kid was really good at basketball. We did not put up a goal early and encourage him to shoot. He showed he loved to shoot, so we dragged ourselves along. We gave him so little advance help that I always wondered what would have happened if we the parents had set the goals instead of Jim.

Jim’s whole basketball career was like that. He set the goals and dreamed the
dreams—and his parents kind of grumbled along behind him, trying not to thwart him. We were not pushy sports parents. In fact, when Jim was a high school freshman and it was obvious that he was going to play varsity, I begged the coach to not play him for a semester. The week before the season started, the athletic director came to me and said, “Jeanne, Jim is going to play Varsity.” My heart sank and I requested that he not start at first. So, he was the first sub in at the first game of the year and for several games, until the coach told me, “Sorry, he’s earned the right to start.” In his first game, the score was close at the end and the opposing coach kept shouting, “Foul the freshman!” Jim marched up to the free throw line three times, each time scoring twice, and we won the game. I was amazed at how cool he was—-and quit pestering the coach to keep him
on the bench.

Jim was poetry in motion on the basketball court and he loved the game with a pure and whole-hearted devotion. He seemed oblivious to the spite and grumbles around him, wanting everyone to love the sport as he did—and dedicate the time he did. The summer between his freshman and sophomore years, he shot 10,000 free throws. His step-father-to-be, Max, the high school principal, would often go into the gym and retrieve balls for him. Of course, the other players were not that devoted. And, I finally had to put my foot down at Jim’s intensity—no more than six hours in the gym practicing, a day—and then he had to go do some other activity, such
as ride his bike around town or go fishing or do something besides basketball. As one of the coaches pointed out, he was about a half-step short, which eventually led to the end of his career. Not being quite fast enough is a killer in college basketball, though he did okay in high school. Jim was a wonderful shooter, with a graceful left hook. He set the school scoring record, which he still holds, and was on the top-ten in the state
free-throw list his senior year, week after week. He set 26 school records in all and was named an Indiana All-Star.

I didn’t love basketball and spent a couple of years when Jim was in middle school being coached in the techniques of the game by the high school athletic director, my friend Paul Scifres. I was so proud when, finally, after months of trying, I could discern a “moving pick.” “Picking corn”—I never did figure that out. I loved to watch Jim play, though I cringed at every mistake and was wounded at every nasty remark from the crowd. It took all my courage to endure it. Odd to think how horrible it was for me when so many parents would truly enjoy having a child who was a gifted athlete.

Dan, who was not as athletic as Jim, preferred sports like golf. His skill in managing developed in middle school and he was a manager for football and for basketball all four years of high school. In his freshman year at IU, he was a student manager for the Men’s Varsity Basketball team, under the direction of Coach Bob Knight. Dan’s business skills were obvious and useful, early on in his life. Of course, I went to the games to watch him “manage,” a tradition of support in my family. When he was at IU, I was delighted to watch him on TV, rushing out to wipe a spill on the floor or handing a towel to a player. Reliablility, another skill recognized early, caused him to be often sent on road trips to film and later edit games of opponents.It was time consuming tasks like that which led him to give up being a team manager after his freshman year.

Both of my sons eventually learned that sports can consume one’s life and that there might be other interesting things in the world to do. Athletics, starting in Jim’s sixth grade and proceeding through college, took 10 years of my life. I learned a lot of lessons about life and people, but I never stopped wishing that my sons were competing in the world of ballet or opera. They scoffed at such silly ideas, so I endured athletics as best I could, but I never found it an ennobling experience. It was something I endured because I loved them, but those were dark and hard years in my life.

Max and I are safely home after a week’s “adventure” at Jewish Hospital in Louisville, KY. On Wednesday afternoon, March 5, Max drove himself to our local hospital with chest pains—-he seems to always drive himself to the ER. When nothing showed up on the EKG, our local internist insisted on “aggressive measures,” so Max was sent to Jewish, in Louisville, a nationally ranked heart and lung facility. Since he refused to go in an ambulance, I drove him down there, arriving after dark. We wandered around until we found the ER, and finally he got to his room, which was full of SIX people from another family. Good Lord! The next day he had a heart catherization, or at least they tried. When the probe would not go through, the cardiologist sent him for a CAT scan, which revealed a massive abdominal aorta aneurism. The cardiologist came out into the waiting room, grabbed my hands, and pulled me over to a seat, saying we had “big trouble.” I didn’t quite grasp what was wrong at first—I though he had a brain aneurism. The cardiologist kept saying, “None of us have ever seen anything this big!!” Oh…my! Since we were in a nationally known heart & lung center, I realized we had a big problem. 

Finally, the cardiologist took me back to see Max, who was already full of tubes and quite upset, as they really were not sure he could live through the night. Dr. Stokivoc, the cardiologist, was very blunt and had also told Max he was in “big trouble.” Surprisingly, I appreciated their bluntness — better to know exactly where you are in a crisis. The family arrived late in the afternoon and we were allowed to see him in the critical care unit several times, each time progressively sadder and more frightening as our awareness of the seriousness grew. In Critical Care, two nurses hovered over him and a huge array of machines blinked on and off. Numerous IV pouches hung on the rods and he had tubes everywhere. A sense of crisis hovered in the air as we all knew that he might not live through the night or through the surgery. He was already bleeding internally and the aneurism could “blow” at any minute. The time of surgery was changed several times—from “this evening” to Saturday and then to Friday morning. The family was teary—there was that awful sense of no time left to say all the things that needed to be said. A squeeze of the hand and “I love you!” had to express all we wanted to say. 

As I drove home on the dark and silent roads late that night, I was determined to send him to surgery with a spiritual focus. When we gathered in the Critical Care Waiting Room on Friday, our pastor, Sara, joined us. We were allowed to see him before surgery in small groups. When grandson Ethan and I were alone with him, we held his hands and the three of us repeated the 23rd Psalm and The Lord’s Prayer. After that, the family came in together, with Sara, who led us in a beautiful litany. When the others left, I stayed with Max as he waited to go to surgery. I held his hand, and he and I repeated The Jesus Prayer together, again and again. Finally about 11:15 am, the surgery team arrived and I went with him in the elevator to the door of surgery. I kissed him good-by and good-luck—and went off to join the others in the waiting room for a very long afternoon of waiting. The ladies who run the surgery and critical care waiting rooms are tough—and we were assigned seats in order for the doctor to find us quickly. The surgery to repair the aneurism took four-five hours. The surgeons had a mix-up and neither came out to talk to us, so we had to wait for Dr. Rumisek to finish another surgery. Then Max popped the stitches fighting the ventilator as he came out of anesthesia and was rushed back to the OR for three more hours of surgery to repair the graft and completely re-close the wound. The very weary surgeon told us at 10:30 pm that he had ordered Max to be “completely out” all night. Max was in surgery from 11:30 am until after 10:30 pm. In the midst of all this, Louisville had a blizzard Friday night, so I was trapped down there a couple of nights—got low on cash, clothing, etc., as everything in the city ground to a halt.

Saturday and Sunday in ICU were just awful; the more anti-agitation medicine they gave him, the more agitated he became. He kept pulling out his tubes, driving the nurses nuts. He removed the ventilator tube on Saturday morning and the stomach tube on Sunday morning, way ahead of schedule. The nurses have terms for removing-tubes- without-approval, and shook their heads angrily about Max. Sunday, he was even more restless, and kept moving from bed to chair–and then back again–which is quite a chore with tubes running everywhere. No sooner would we get him settled in bed then he would insist on moving to the chair. Sunday afternoon, I thought he was going to pull out the swan clamp in his jugular vein, and I was beside myself. This clamp is a 8-9 inch tube surgically inserted into the jugular vein and then used to inject meds directly into the blood stream. The nurses took me into the hall and explain that if he pulled it out–and blood spurted—they would be there in 30 seconds with pressure pads to “save” him. The image of that possibility was not comforting. Finally, late Sunday afternoon, Dr. Rumisek, the surgeon, was called. He came in and after examining Max, ordered the clamp removed. Then, Max became even more upset and told off the nurse, refused to lie down, and kept trying to escape. The nurse finally called security. Suddenly, four burly security guards arrived in the room. Max, shifting into principal mode and his
authoritarian principal voice, kept telling them he had to go down the hall and fix a problem. He really was not rational at all. The nurse said his condition is called ICU psychosis and the doctor later said it was drug induced– [Refuse to take Adavant!] –and exacerbated by the noise and lights of ICU. 

Finally, Dee and I were sent home and his lights were turned off, the thought being that no-stimulation would calm him down….Wrong! As soon as I got home, the phone rang, with the nurse supervisor on the line, saying Max was more agitated than ever. I called several family members for advice and then I called the nurse back and requested that he be allowed to walk around some to calm him down, telling her I was sending Master Sergeant Rick Smith, our son-in-law. I knew that if Max could walk, and regain a sense that he was in control of his body, that he would settle down. The doctor agreed and our son-in-law and our grandson walked him around the ICU, taking about fifteen laps. After that, Max agreed to lie down again. This ICU was for patients on respirators—-someone up and fighting like Max was not in their protocol. Fortunately, that night he had a male nurse who calmed him down—the female nurses tended to be bossy, which set him off. He went to sleep and slept for 22 straight hours. In the midst of that, the doctor sent him to a private room, with an executive decor, saying he wanted to remove Max from the distraction of noise and lights in ICU. That move helped, too. They asked me to stay with him Monday night and brought in a recliner for me, so everything calmed down. When he awakened on Tuesday at 4 a.m., he was himself again.

By Wednesday, he was up walking around and recovering rapidly. The doctor sent us home two days earlier than expected—and it is so nice to be home again. When I stood in the living room the night before the surgery, I wondered if he would ever come home again. 

When we asked the surgeon to describe the aneurism, he gestured with his hands—-
the whole length of the aorta was the size of an orange in width. They also had to remove the spleen as its aorta was also greatly enlarged. Dr. Rumisek, a man of few words, said, “He beat the odds!” Later he told us “The aneurysm was the size of a football.” No wonder the surgeon and cardiologist got so excited and told me Max was the luckiest man alive, in that they caught it in the nick of time. They were astonished that he had survived. I teased Max, saying the operating room video will probably make all the thoracic/vascular conferences. Max’s scar is a good 14 inches; this was quite
a surgery—none of that LAP stuff. They cut him wide open and removed his internal
organs to get to the aneurism.

We were on many prayer lists. Our family, our friends, and especially our church family
have been beyond wonderful. We felt we were carried along during the ordeal by their
prayers and love.

My mother, Carol Jeanne Parsons Shafer, was a member of this congregation from 1960-1968. While she was here, she was a wife, a mother of three including two teens, a homemaker, a “minister’s wife,” an occasional organist, the director of the Children’s Choir, a university student working on her teaching certification and later her master’s degree, and an elementary teacher, among other duties. The word “multi-tasker” describes her life; she was busy. She was an equal partner with my father in all of her duties. When I read the following scripture, I think of my mother and the devoted care she gave to her family, her church, and her students.

Just as we know from the Parable of the Good Samaritan that everyone we encounter is our neighbor, we also know that we are all mothers and fathers to each other, husbands and wives to those we love and to the institutions we serve. I invite you to listen to this ancient scripture— those who are mothers, those who mother others, and those who have been mothered—and to think of how these ancient words describe a woman who is the CEO of her home and family, the administrator and manager of her life and the lives of her extended family—- a woman, single, married, divorced, or widowed—any woman who uses her skills to be the creative source within her home and her world, watching over, nourishing, protecting, caring, and mothering those who come within her realm.

Proverbs 31: Verses 10-31 are an acrostic poem, each verse beginning with the successive letters of the Hebrew alphabet.

Proverbs 31:10-31

“A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands.
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark; and provides food
for her family and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable; and her lamp does not go out at night. 
In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. 
When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. 
She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom and dignity, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.
‘Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.’
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. 
Give her the reward she has earned and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”
“This is the Word of the Lord”

The Proverbs 31 woman is charitable, entrepreneurial, fashionable, financially astute, healthy, industrious, loving, managerial, productive, prudent, resourceful, responsible, reverent, self-confident, skilled, trustworthy, virtuous, wise, praiseworthy as a wife and mother. She represents the essence of womanliness and is the mother to us all.

The hospital was sending him to either Jewish or Nortons, depending on bed availability. We waited, and waited. The doctor came by and signed off on allowing me to drive him to the Louisville hospital, after Max was adamant about no ambulance. Finally about 5:45, I chatted with the front desk again, mentioning that neither of us had eaten much lunch [I had not eaten any lunch]. I asked if I could take him home to rest and have a meal—-they could call us when the bed became available.

No dice—he had to wait there, but they suggested I go get food. So, I went home and made sandwiches, and called Dee and Rick. By the time I returned, about 6:30, Jewish had called with a bed. We ate our sandwiches in the ER and finally about 7:00, all the arrangements were made and we were allowed to leave.

Max went out, got in his car, and drove it home. No use to argue on that one…. We packed a few things and drove to Louisville. When we got to Jewish, it was dark—and I could not see the parking signs, forcing us to circle the block. The testy one was really irked. On the second try, I saw the faint sign and made the correct turn. We parked up in the garage with no problem and rode the elevator down with an employee in scrubs who told us where to go next. We had to walk through the outpatient building, across a bricked open area [like a town square] and into another building. When we got to Registration, no one was there, so we went to the ER, where
we asked a sheriff deputy where we should go. Turns out, we had arrived at registration, after a trudge of several blocks……good thing Max was not really ill.

The registration person went through a pre-registration process, even though Max had the bed number and nurses’ name. Finally another register person set her straight, she got it all done, and escorted us up to 4-East. We arrived at the room, to find confusion. A very elderly, and very ill, man was being admitted, and his bed made, while SIX members of his family hovered in the room, giving advice—and stinking to high heaven with fragrance. I said to the nurse, “I cannot go in there, too much perfume.” She said, “Too many people!” So, we stood in the hall, talking to the nurse, and waiting for
the confusion to die down. Max was visibly tired. Eventually they got the old man in bed and could draw the curtain. Max then went into the bathroom and changed into a hospital gown, while the nurse took me to the station and went over his papers. By the time we finished, two of the other family had left, leaving only four, plus the patient, plus the aide, on that side of the very small room. Another aide got Max into bed, took his temp and his blood pressure, which to no surprise, had gone up over 10 points. 

Well–really–world class hospital and medical care, indeed. There we were……standing in the hallway, waiting to share a room with another patient and four of his next of kin. And, the room was no bigger than the one at WCMH that Max had to share with a former student the night his hip came apart several summers ago. On the other hand, at Ortho Indy last year, Max had a room bigger than our house.

I had thought I would stay with him, but the nurse informed me that since the other patient was male, only a male family member could stay. Oh…well….I would have had to sit in a straight chair all night and physically move myself and the chair every time Max needed to get up. I was glad to go home. 

When I left, I discovered that the entrance we came in was closed. I had to leave through the ER, walk down a dark alley and across the plaza again, back through outpatient, to the garage, where, fortunately, I had remembered the correct floor. I was really turned around, because I thought I would exit going East and turn North. But, I found myself crossing 2nd Street, going west to 3rd Street. Good grief!!—going west in downtown Louisville at 10:00 p.m.—-my worst nightmare—being alone in the city at night. So, I drove down 3rd Street to Chestnut, circled back, and got on I-65 north. Good thing I grew up in Louisville and know my way around downtown. Once I was across the Kennedy Bridge, the ride home though the dark roads was uneventful.

An ash blond, now going gray, with green eyes, I look best in the soft summer colors. I know that, having attended a “color” session, where I learned that the oranges, yellows, and reds I wore in my 20’s and 30’s are not my thing. Blues, greens, and violets are my colors. At the moment, red and black are the winter colors that have dominated merchandise offerings in my size—-and beige. I refuse to wear black near my face, though I do wear black slacks and skirts. Beige makes me “disappear,” as if I am not there, while red makes me look, and feel, violent. Whoever designs/selects colors for large sized women ignores the proper color schemes so carefully worked out by color “therapists,” instead providing a endless selection of blacks. I suppose many fat women like black because it makes them feel more slender; it makes me feel ready to attend a funeral.

Cotton is my fabric of choice, followed by linen, silk, and rayon. Polyester makes me uncomfortable–too harsh on the skin–while acrylics cause some breathing problems–all those little loose threads which are inhaled. Cotton knit is my favorite garb. Of course, it is neither elegant nor formal. It is not particularly easy to care for, either, as it must be steam pressed to look decent, though one only looks decent as far as the car before the wrinkling starts. Same problem with linen. Generally, even with my grumbling efforts to press my clothing, I look like I slept in whatever I have on in about five minutes, at best.

Texture is important. I have some polyester slacks that slide all over me and make me slide all over chairs. I hate them. I like the feel of cotton knit; it gives and one does not slide all over furniture. My skin is very tender, part of the Fibromyalgia problem, so soft clothing is a must. My favorite daily clothing is worn out t-shirts and cotton pants, which I wear until they are literally rags. The more ragged, the more comfortable. My family is used to my ragged clothing, which I only wear around my home, but it occasionally shocks visitors. I make an effort, well, a slight effort, to be more presentable in public.

Not much choice in fabric design is available for large ladies. I’ve learned not to wear large prints, which make me look startling. While I like small flowered prints, they are not flattering. What looks best and what I like to wear are slacks and tops in contrasting or blending colors. What is available for fat ladies are tacky printed tops which are not long enough to cover all the offending parts, like hips and pot bellies. 

In an effort to placate large women, merchandisers such as Talbot’s or Land’s End or even Lane Bryant present clothing in the same styles as those for slender women. Of course, slender women are not desperately trying to cover hips, fat arms, and pot bellies with yards of tent-like fabric. Clothing designed for the slender types often looks dreadful on large women. If one has a pot belly, a neat little sweater that boxes off at the waist is NOT just-the-thing. Often, style advisers tell large women to use long lines to “fool the eye.” And, where are these long line garments to be found? Beats me. I have not found many, though Lands End and Junonia sell cotton tunic tops for large ladies, which I purchase by the dozens. 

Shoes present a different problem. Comfortable shoes, like men wear, are not fashionable for women. They are hardly available for women, though I have resorted to purchasing some men’s Rockport’s, which are so-so in comfort level. The trouble with men’s shoes is that they are heavy. High heels, pointed toes, slick soles are the lot of women. When I was slender, I loved wearing fashionable shoes; they did not hurt my feet back then. But, even then, I wondered why modern, well-educated women persist in wearing uncomfortable shoes in which they can neither run nor even walk well. Now, having also given up the hated panty hose, I like to wear open-heel, slip-on shoes, with socks; the kind of shoe that has a running shoe bottom. This style requires slacks, as it looks unbelievably awful with dresses. It does not look “correct” with dress clothing either, but I have discovered that I can walk in these shoes and that they provide a broad, flat base on which to stand—very nice when one is rather unsteady. 

Anyone reading this far, realizes, of course, that my style is called “frumpy.” The problem is that I no longer care. I admire my friends who look elegant and sleek, who can wear exotic clothing with panache, who unerringly select styles that flatter them and look chic at the same time. I am hanging on to “frumpy” because I think “fishwife” is the next step on my way down to the bottom of the fashion cellar.

Women’s dress clothing is a trap. We pride ourselves on being emancipated and we look with horror on past restrictions such as ancient Chinese foot-binding. Fashion dictates that women wear bras, girdles, pointed toe shoes, high heels, panty hose, tight jackets which restrict the arms, clunky jewelry, not to mention hairstyles and make-up that require a lot of fuss. We have not come a long way….baby.

According to my Grandfather Parsons, my Grandmother Hazel [Dee Dee] was a wonderful cook. Her bean soup was great, but I have no other memories of a wonderful meal at her home—and I spent a lot of time with her as a child. My grandfather was a positive and optimistic person; since my memories clash with his statements, I wonder how many of his statements were just PR. Dee Dee’s two daughters were not cooks, either. My mother was a dreadful cook. She prepared pancakes that were burned on the outside and runny on the inside; I have never figured out how she did that. She was also famous for making “cottage cheese” from spoiled milk; of course, no one in the family would eat it. Somehow, we always had a lot of spoiled milk. She could fry steak into hockey pucks. Her worst concoction was something made with asparagus and cheese? and covered with cracker crumbs. It looked like vomit and tasted worse; she served it in the dining room on Sunday meal occasions. But, she was brave. She persisted in providing dreadful meals and inviting friends over to eat, year after year. Once their children were grown, she and my father “ate out” the last thirty years of their lives, to everyone’s relief.

My grandmother and I cooked together when I was a child, mostly treats—cookies, pies, and cakes. I do not have any memories of our fixing vegetables or meat dishes together. When I married at 18 and went off to study at Purdue, I had to learn to cook. We were poor and I ruined a lot of food, which we ate anyway. I only had one small cookbook and I faithfully read and tried the recipes. In my junior year, we both had classes near the Union late in the afternoon and were happy to eat our evening meal there. Unfortunately, my cooking never improved much. It certainly got no better as I had children and juggled college classes with raising babies and small boys. Later, when I started teaching, we had many restaurant meals; I just did not have the energy to cook. The truth is that cooking is something I remember about 5:00 in the evening, if then. Oh…..the-kids-are-hungry-and-what-am-I-going-to-do-now? My mind is on other things. Over the years, I have gathered four shelves of cookbooks, boxes of recipes I clipped from newspapers, as well as boxes of recipes my mother, grandmother, and former mother-in-law clipped from newspapers. Nothing helps. I will never rise above the level of adequate. 

Strangely, though, in spite of the mediocre meals, the dining room table has always been a gathering place for my family. Sitting around the table laughing and telling stories was a tradition that encompassed the three generations I know, as well as the ancestral family groups my grandparents remembered. My grandparent’s home was the gathering place for many meals. With my parents, we had many meals over the years in our homes or at restaurants in which we sat and talked on and on. My sons and I have continued the tradition, sitting for hours around the table in my home, telling the old stories and laughing until we cry. This week, as son Jim and wife Shinobu blew in on an Alberta clipper, we once more enjoyed the pleasures of mediocre food and wonderful talk and laughter. One of the aspects of our talks is that we mostly argue about politics and religion—the forbidden topics of polite conversation. Between my husband and me, and my two sons, and my daughter-in-law, we pretty much hit the ends of several spectrums in politics and religion. We argue and discuss—and we laugh. We tell the old stories and the new stories—and laugh until we cannot breathe and tears run down our cheeks. It is often four-five hours later before we leave the table–refreshed and restored from the food of family love—true comfort food.. Family meals—one of life’s most precious treasures.

She was also a minister’s wife, and a gracious lady; therefore, she had rules about an orderly house, proper behavior in various rooms, suitable times for meals, proper clothing to be worn, how to behave in church, and such. Being a minister’s family required that the living room always be presentable for callers and guests. In practice, that meant we children could only walk through, not sit there, and walk at a suitable pace, no running. It also meant that the family never used the living room. We lived in large old church manses, so we children had rooms of our own to use; occasionally we had homes with dens or family rooms, which we children could use. The kitchen was the room in which the family most often gathered if the house had no den. When I was a teen, we lived in a smallish house in Knoxville, not as big as the larger manses we were used to. My father used the living room as his place to write and no noisy children were allowed. Later, when we lived in a lovely old house in Salem, he claimed the back parlor as his study and we children, by then two of us rambunctious teens, were relegated to the large, enclosed, side porch. I don’t think my mother thought through the ramifications of this “off limits” living room concept until it was too late. A family that has no place to gather, has no place to be a family. Finally, by the time my parents bought the condo in Columbus where they lived for the last thirty years of their lives, the family was allowed to sit in the living room—a little late, but nice.

I carried on the same silly formal living room concept when I had small children. I say silly, because my husband and I did not entertain formally and had no reason to not use the largest room in our home. But, we were both raised on the formal living room concept—and could not let it go. I did let the boys spread their toys out to play in the living room, but they were not allowed to climb or sit on the furniture. I did not realize how this offended my children until one son retaliated by taking that much-loved [by me] furniture to college, where it was soon trashed. We solved that “no place to be” dilemma by building a large family room where we had room to breathe–and enough recliners and sofas for everyone.

Some rules I broke recently, that I can mention in public, include moving the TV into the living room, putting a recliner in the living room, putting pictures [instead of portraits---who has those now days??] into the living room. Obviously, Mother’s rules about a formal living room were straight out of the Victorian era and British manor houses—and straight out of her mother’s home, where the formal living room concept also prevailed. The formal living room, an unused living room, in our house is gone, replaced by family room casual; now I am just trying to find enough seats for all the big men in the family. The six-footers look extremely uncomfortable in Aunt Francie’s dainty apricot velvet occasional chairs which are basically made for people 5′2”—knees on chin sort of thing. Our living room is rather small, but I am looking for some real men chairs somewhere—what with five six+ footers and two other good-sized men to seat.

Mother-the-rule-maker’s children, an uncooperative lot, resisted all the rules, although all three of us succeeded in rule-dominated occupations–teaching and nursing. Even so, learning to break those rules has been difficult. In countless decisions, some daily, others not, I have to think myself over the hurdle of breaking mother’s rules. It’s sixty years later and I am making some progress.

In the summer of 1928, the family moved to Thayer, Indiana, in Newton County, where Grandfather became the “supply” preacher of the Thayer Presbyterian Church, a small white-frame church, built in the frame & steeple style so familiar to the Midwest. He was also the mail carrier, a job which required him, morning and evening, to put the outgoing mail in a sack and attach it to the “pickoff frame” to be snatched into the Monon train as it sped by. He carried the sacks of mail thrown off the train to the post office, a room in someone’s home. It was early in the Depression and times were harsh.

The little house in Thayer was purchased for about $1500. This is my father’s description:

“I recall one of our trips to Thayer. The road crossed the Kankakee River about three miles north of Thayer. Going into town from the north, our house was the first one on the right. It was a cute little house with five rooms, a front and rear porch, and a white picket fence. There were five maple trees in the front yard lined up behind the picket fence. In the side yard and back yard there were a cherry tree, a gooseberry bush, a peach tree, and a small patch of raspberries. Off to the side and next to a small garage was the outdoor toilet, the first and last we ever had [ he means they had never lived in homes without indoor plumbing]. For water we had a small pump at the sink in the kitchen. It was after I left for college that a neighbor friend of mine put in an electric pump.” [unpublished memoirs of the Reverend Floyd Doud Shafer].

As I read my father’s recollections of the little house, I was saddened again to read of the decline in family fortunes. Both of my grandparents were well-educated for their time. My grandfather was a graduate of Oakland City College and McCormick Seminary in Chicago; my grandmother, a former teacher, graduated from Bloomington Normal School, now the Illinois State University. My grandfather had successful pastorates at several fairly large churches. Oil had been discovered on his family’s land in Pike and Gibson counties; that lead to speculation, land deals, and who knows what. When the dust settled, he had lost everything, telling my father, who was a small boy, “I’m ruined.” My father was born when Grandfather was 48, so this was probably about 1921-22. To support his family, Grandfather took a position as a circuit minister, traveling to preach at numerous small churches. It was during this time in the early 1920’s that his leg was injured. Then he moved his family to northern Indiana, Lake County, where he had the small church near Lowell and then the small church near Thayer. Clearly, they barely eked out a living. The little white house was not nearly as large or grand as pictures of their previous homes, nor of the homes of their parents—all large two-three story gothic design houses common to the Midwest in the late 1800’s.

My memories of the little white house are fragmented, but vivid. We visited when I was a child—a long drive from Louisville, Kentucky to Northern Indiana on the old highways. The visit when I was 8 -10, around 1952-54, is my clearest recollection. The little house sat near the road in the manner common to horse and buggy days. The living room was on the right as one entered. It seemed dark, full of heavy old furniture. An oil stove, the heat system for the entire house, dominated the living room. The wallpaper was a grayish flower design; the room had a definite Victorian feel—bric-a-brack, lace pieces. There must have been some electricity, but I remember oil lamps in use, too.Two pieces from that room, the Edison phonograph and the oak library table now reside in my sunporch, having journeyed to Louisville, Kentucky; Knoxville, Tennessee; Salem, Indiana; Yale, Michigan; Columbus, Ohio; and finally back to Salem. Everything was neat and organized efficiently.

The bedroom was behind the living room and included the staircase to the two small bedrooms upstairs under the eves. The upstairs bedrooms had slanted walls, linoleum floors, and white iron bedsteads—simple, clean, and neat. The kitchen I remember as light-filled with a number of windows. I was fascinated by the kitchen pump at the large sink, which Grandmother showed me how to use. There was also a pump in the back yard. As my father noted, the house had no indoor plumbing. Chamber pots were used in the bedrooms at night and in cold weather. Grandmother showed me how to use one and then carefully cover the pot, sliding it back under the bed. These had to be carried to the outhouse to be emptied, a trip which required walking down the path in the garden. That visit was in the summer, because I remember the spiders in the outhouse—quite inhibiting. Corn cobs and the Sears catalog were the “toilet” paper. For a city child like me, this cleaning apparatus was indeed a shock, though any child growing up in the Midwest in the mid-20th Century was familiar with outhouses, which were used in parks and rural areas, even today. When I started teaching in Salem in 1977, the view from my classroom windows was east across the football field to the back of a city street, the one I live on, called Water Street. I could see the old outhouses in the backs of the yards from my classroom.

Grandmother, like Grandfather, was a skillful gardener. She showed me her compost. I was astonished that one gathered coffee grounds, egg shells, food scraps, and buried them in the garden. The yard was lush, full of flowers, bushes, and trees, and the large vegetable garden. I do not remember neighboring houses, just fields at the edge of the yard.

I thought the house and yard absolutely delightful. In my mind, it is the ideal, a house where I would want to end my days—a simple white house, surrounded by trees and flowers—warm, cozy, old-fashioned. Of course, I would prefer indoor plumbing and air conditioning. Grandmother lived in Thayer, on and off, for thirty years. After she moved to the Presbyterian Home, the house was sold. Sadly, it burned a few years later.

Following church, we visited with friends in the church parlor for a while and then had coffee at home before setting out for Backroads, a local steak restaurant. Grandson Rod, Michelle, and baby Emily [8 months] were waiting when we arrived and grandson Ethan, with Erica, and their family, Rhett [5], Riley [3], and Bailey [19 months] soon arrived. The children were seated across from Grandpa Great, where their antics and conversation entertained him and the rest of us. When Rhett was distracted for a moment, younger brother Riley grabbed Rhett’s cheeseburger and ate a few bites. The Greats were really quite well behaved in the cheerful, messy way of small children.

Soon, we piled back into our cars and drove home for ice cream and cake. The cake was decorated with balloons naming each great-grandchild, six in all. Rhett and Riley were excited to point to the balloons with their names. After Grandpa-Great managed to blow out a symbolic seven candles, Dee, Michelle, and Erica cut the cake and dipped up the ice cream. We settled the children at the living room coffee table to eat, though as soon as they could, the boys ran upstairs to play with blocks and matchbox cars. Bailey toddled around while Emily lolled on the floor. Grandpa Great held court from his SHS chair and the room shook with talk and laughter.

I felt someone tugging at my sleeve. I turned and saw that Rhett had brought down the plastic background, about the size of a placemat, that came with the plastic play animals.

“Grandmother, I found a map! We’re going on a treasure hunt.”

At first, I was dumb and said he had the sheet that went with the play animals, but he said, “No, it’s a treasure map!” So, I caught on and got into the game. Right there in the crowd in the living room, we went on the treasure hunt. He pointed to places on the map and we zigged here and zagged there.

“Oh…there’s the treasure,” he pointed. And there it was, Hershey’s candies in the dish.

“Take the red one,” I said.

He sneaked forward and grabbed the treasure—and scampered off. Imaginative children are so delightful. 

All too soon it was time to take the family group picture, gather children, find shoes, pick up the scattered blocks, put on coats and hats, and go home. One minute the house is full of talk and laughter—-and then, it is still and quiet. Rather taken aback at the transformation, we sat down to rest, Max basking in a glow of happiness. So far, he’s only said dozens of times, “What a wonderful day!”