Giving thanks

A friend of mine underwent prolonged radiation therapy and when he heard that I was facing the same he called and offered his support. He asked what I was going to do when under the radiation unit, lying still for 15 minutes every day for 6 weeks, did I believe in prayer and I replied “no” not prayers of supplication but prayers or expressions of gratitude for what has been my good fortune to receive.

The effects of brain surgery, medications, insomnia, and a nightly visit from God’s assistant who asks troublesome questions has put my mind on spin cycle with an unbalanced load setting off the alarms and no one available to pull the plug. At my friends suggestion I thought I should give thanks to all who wittingly or unwittingly by commission or omission guided me through my childhood.

We were observant Catholics although were born into a mixed marriage- Dad was Lutheran. At Sunday mass Father McConnell would mount the pulpit and thunder at us about this and that. Mainly, he reported that we weren’t contributing enough and that Rome and the Holy See no longer considered us missionary territory and we would have to support the church better. He was also concerned about the lack of Sanctity, a theological concept, that quickly bored grade-school aged boys.

One Sunday Fr. McConnell lit our pilot lights and launched us on a quest for the holy grail of knowledge. He rose in the pulpit, dazzling in his purple rainment, and with a grand gesture swept his goldrimmed glasses off his face. Color rose in his neck and face to match his vestments, he pointed at his flock and began warning of the dangers of carnal knowledge. The pews began to shake as the dads clenched their jaws, and held their sides, the kids looked up and down the pews and whispered loudly, “what’s that?” Grandmothers and mothers clucked and hissed, twisted a few ears, a pinch here and there trying to reestablish order. This was big! Jimmy Froelich grabbed a collection envelope and wrote it down. We’d look it up when we got home. Unfortunately, “carnival”did not capture the sentiment that electrified the church that Sunday. But we had other sources-the Catholic high school boys-they were wise and experienced. Every Friday afternoon at 3pm the Catholic gradeschool kids were walked over to the church for weekly confession and we mingled with the upper classmen. We were lowlifes and barely tolerated by the high school boys and had to endure the shoving, shoulder punches and trash talk that clarified our position in the pecking order. Efforts to expand the concept of “carnal knowledge” were greeted with taunts of “homo”, “pervert”, “dirt bag” “dusch bag”, but gradually the larger concept began to take shape and our pilot lights flared to full flame as we began to appreciate the deliciousness of the possibilities.

There were other moments in the confessional line. One day Margo, in gradeschool, beautiful, fair and innocent got sandwiched between a two groups of highschool boys. A rose among the brambles; the juxtaposition just invited speculation, didn’t Sister Fabiola see this? Do something. Finally Margo came out of the confessional and one of her classmates quickly asked her, “what did you get?” Meaning what was your penance? “Two Hail Marys she replied.” “ Aw what did you do give your sister a shove came the chorus from the older boys?”

Bobby Sturdevant came out of the confessional next. The usual inquiries. “What did you get?” Four stations of the cross, four novenas, ten Our Fathers, and ten Hail Mary’s. Wow! that was a big sentence from Fr. Harris who was known to be kind and lenient. Jack Daugherty the local high school strong man and not to be fooled with opined that Sturdevant had probably touched himself. A throng of sixth grade freckled white faces with open mouths swung around to the source of that knowledge and someone croaked out a feeble “what?” Daugherty snarled at us ”would you perverts get out of my face?” and gave someone a shove that sent a bunch of us sprawling. The quest for ultimate knowledge again stoked. What the Daugherty boys knew would soon be ours.

The Jesuits must have been concerned in the 1950s because the litany of sins revealed each Friday by the boys, at least, never changed. This was because each boy searched his conscience about the sins of the past week and though everyone promised to sin no more the confessional line was planning central for the high school boys who prepared to confess the sins originating from last weeks kegger at the same time they were working on the details of this weekends’ parties. We listened, got pummeled, and learned. Mom pulled us out of the Catholic Madras and sent us to the public high school. When the nuns got wind of this they shook their fingers at us and warned us that they smoked marijuana out there and ostracized us from subsequent school activities. The friends who stayed Catholic the rest of the way through high school did fine as did those of us who defected.

Our dad was a depression -WWII participant like all the dads at that time and couldn’t stop emphasizing the value of a job. He had the usual maxims: “many hands make the work light”, “a sharp tool is a job half done”, “don’t go in the house empty-handed’, and he considered himself lucky that during the depression he got a job that paid 50 cents a day. He also worried about being in debt and lay awake at night worrying about his $15,000 - 3.56% interest home mortgage. We asked him what he did when his dog sled broke down on the way to school in rural Minnesota to get a rise out of him. He didn’t bite or spit the hook.

He always got us good summer jobs and I imagined it went like this. He was a dentist and some fellow would come to the office and after pleasantries were exchanged dad would wash his hands, say “open wide”, put his dental drill on max speed, place thin sharp instruments under the guy’s nose and inquire “you wouldn’t have any jobs for high school boys on the hay crew this year would you?” Dad opened a lot of doors for us all over Montana, the National Parks and as far as Alaska. We learned.

One magical place that took up a lot of our time was the Swan valley Northwest of Missoula. There was a dude ranch called the Diamond L bar ranch there. They had horses for the guests, back mountain travelers and big game hunters. If you had horses one needed wranglers. I loved these guys. The lived life to excess,cussed, chewed, rolled there own cigarettes and dispensed life’s secrets to young boys who were patient and hung around at the right time. They had real names. Not Frank, Richard, or Fred. They were: Smitty, Riley, Whisky Dick. Smokey Joe and Assout Jones. The latter moniker resulted when Jones departed company from a bronco and on his way back to earth slid along a barbed wire fence that sliced his Levis in a way that left part of him hanging out. There was an outhouse behind the corals. It was special because it was a four holer. The wranglers would collect there early on Saturday and Sunday mornings to get the horses ready and take care of business. As the guys sat there they rolled their cigs, rubbed their temples and took oaths that this was definitely their last hangover. Sometimes the hoped that they hadn’t caught something last night. Some stories got farfetched or defied credibility and Riley would say’ “that’s a pile of horse feathers.” That one stuck with me. One time one of the rickety toilet seats was askew and created a minor sanitation concern. Smitty gave it a kick with his cowboy boot but wasn’t satisfied with the outcome, got a hatchet and gave it a couple of additional whacks. The next user was surprised by the sharp end of an exposed nail. There was salty language, recriminations, and only the hangover headaches prevented the guys form getting real rambunctious. One of the guys leaned forward and said “sometimes better is the enemy of good enough.”

There was a dance at the Seeley Lake grange hall every Saturday night. People came out of the woods well lubricated before the dance started. One Sunday morning one of the wranglers said “wuz zat you at the grange last night?” I said “yeah.” “You remember that cute little filly fluttering her eyelashes at you from that dance floor? “ ”Yeah.” “ Just remember this kid. Behind everyone of those is a jealous lodgepole savage who picks his teeth with a 2x4 and doesn’t consider Saturday night any fun unless he breaks someone. Watch your step!” Yessir! Fist fights were part of every Grange dance. Sometimes a knife was flashed, but real men took care of business without need of guns.

Our mothers considered these men bankrupt in every sense of the word but I loved them and took every opportunity to be at their sides. Thanks, fellas for the education.

In 1962 my parents delivered me to the University of Portland - another try at a Catholic education. I walked into the admission office and they couldn’t find my application and said they had no record of me. Fr. Horton, the dean of students, looked me over and asked me what kind of grades I got. About a ‘B’ I said. I didn’t tell him that Miss Bioleau gave me an ‘F’ in Spanish which crushed my mother as her vision of educated boys began to dim. It didn’t seem like a good time to bring up the ‘F’. My mother was brought into the discussions since dad had surrendered at the time of their marriage all matters dealing with Catholic education. Fr. Horton explained the situation again. Mom played the alumni card. Dale Brown in Missoula ran the local hardware store and had graduated from the University of Portland in 1948 and spoke highly of his education. Horton ran his fingers over the admission numbers and supposed they could find a spot for me, but the freshman dorm was full and I’d have to room with a senior. Not a problem since the Missoula Catholic high boys and wranglers had pretty much covered the important stuff already.

I didn’t know how to study and muddled along. Father Ambrose Wheeler csc took me under his arm and was my mentor. He taught us biology and while we dissected frogs and prepared chick embryos for examination he would crank his stereo up to full volume and boom out the 1812 or Emperor symphonies. He was modest, kind, funny, a friend and comfortable with the vows he took to be a priest. Like my parents he considered it a mortal sin to be given an opportunity and pass it up. He talked about studying in Europe and thought the University should have such a program. Would we be interested in going? Was he kidding. This was the era of nickle beers and free love. Oregon was a blue nose state and we were missing out. Europe sounded like a mecca. In August of 1964 the university inaugurated its Salzburg, Austria program and a small group of us headed by Fr Wheeler spent the next year in heaven. Imagine being 19, single, male, studying art, history, language, hitchhiking, Europe on $5 a day, and the fact that Austria alone, never mind Germany or Czechoslovakia had over 200 breweries that had to be investigated. We ranged from Istanbul to Moscow, Gibraltar to Edinburgh. A year in heaven.

Fr. Wheeler helped me get into medical school and has been a lifelong friend. After he returned to the University of Portland his order assigned him to run an orphanage in Bangladesh for 17 years. They took homeless boys off the streets and taught them to read and write. Five times daily these boys bowed toward Mecca and prayed. One of his charges became the Bangladesh ambassador to the UN.

Mom and Dad, thanks for teaching us to seize any opportunity and to doubt but not be ruled by self doubt. Father McConnell, you lit the flame that started my interest in biology and eventually medicine. Loyola high school boys, wranglers, thanks for the tips and advise and all the rest of you that got me home safely on Saturday nights, thanks.

Fr. Wheeler, you opened up worlds for us and our lives have been rich. Thank you for that gift. You have a special place in my heart. May God extend your years.