INTERNATIONAL HOLOCAUST REMEMBERANCE DAY -

 The United Nations General Assembly designated January 27—the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau—as International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

On this annual day of commemoration, the UN urges every member state to honor the six million Jewish victims of the Holocaust and millions of other victims of Nazism and to develop educational programs to help prevent future genocides.

 

 

This is an excerpt from a chapter I wrote in an unpublished manuscript called A Change Gonna Come. It’s a coming-of-age story of Tom O’Brien as he faces the challenges and joys of going to a Catholic school in NW Indiana during the 1967-68 school year. Among his very best friends are Carl and Giselle Black, his across-the-street elderly, immigrant, neighbors. This is a part where she reveals her geschichte—her story, to Tom.

 

 

 

Chapter 19 – Please Remember, My Friend

 

Wednesday, November 29, 1967

The robins had left, settling into a warmer climate during the frigid northern Indiana winter. The Canada geese, in their jagged V formations, had been leaving since October. You could hear them honking and carrying on a mile away. The remaining birds were hearty.

The stubborn crows somehow managed to find food just about anywhere. Tom saw them eating roadkill along 57^th Avenue and out of the trashcans at Saints Peter and Paul. The bright red cardinals and gregarious blue jays were a common sight on Giselle’s feeders. Tom was grateful for their color on these dreary days. Sparrows and finches and black-capped chickadees hunted for seeds in the remains of people’s gardens. Tufted titmice, small gray birds with tiny sprouts of feathers on the backs of their heads, cracked seeds and ate at the feeders. White-breasted nuthatches have long narrow beaks that allow them to find bugs under bark. These birds descend trees with their heads downward.

Once, when Tom and Carl were looking out the window at Giselle’s feeders, they watched a nuthatch on an oak tree. Carl, who was filling his pipe with tobacco, looked around to see if Giselle was within earshot. She wasn’t. “Thomas, do you know what bird experts are called?”

           “Sure,” Tom answered. “Ornithologists, right?”

“Ja, young sir. Do you know what ornithologists call that particular species? There was a twinkle in his eye.

“What do they call them, Mr. Black?”

“Well,” he looked over his shoulder. The coast was clear. “The scientific name is sitta carolinensis. But the common name is ass-up-a-tree.”

Tom grinned.

“But don’t mention that to Giselle!” he cautioned.

…………

Tom saw Carl and Giselle walking down their steps. They were bundled up. Carl wore a red cap Sarah Grace knitted for him, with a matching red scarf under a worn black overcoat. His beard bunched out over the scarf. A wizard in a blizzard, Tom thought.

Giselle also dressed warmly. But while Carl trudged slowly down the steps, Giselle seemed to glide down. He took careful steps, like a young child, holding the railing. His right foot came down, his left foot followed to the same step. Right foot down, left foot down the same.

Tom crossed the street and waved to his neighbors. “Guten Abend,”

“Guten Abend, Thomas” they replied in unison. Good evening.

“We were just talking about you,” Carl said as he carefully stepped onto the sidewalk and straightened. “How pleasant to become reacquainted with your friend Marilyn the other day. Same intellect, same feisty spirit as when she was little.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“It must have been lovely to have your sisters home for Thanksgiving.” Giselle eased her grip on Carl’s arm. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Sure,” said Tom. He laughed hard during those precious days. “But everyone’s changed.” Carl looked up the sidewalk towards West 55^th.

Giselle straightened her collar. “It’s the natural way of things, isn’t it?” They took their usual places: Giselle on the inside, holding gloved hands with Carl, Carl leaning heavily on his cane. Tom walked nearest the street.

“Change is expected,” Carl mumbled. They passed Zubecks on the right. Jack the Jack Russell terrier, barked shrilly from his perch on the couch. “But, that dog doesn’t change.”

“Tell us about your sisters, Thomas,” Giselle inquired.

“Catherine was happy to see us, but she was ready to get back.”

“I remember such a feeling,” Carl said, “young and anxious to be on my own.”

Tom continued, “She talked to her boyfriend half the day on the phone.”

They passed the empty lot where the gang played baseball, football and soccer. There was a FOR SALE sign staked into the ground. “Gracie’s getting great grades and loves school. She misses Sarah.”

 “They shared the same womb, the same crib, the same bedroom. Twins, like your Grace and Sarah, always had each other for built in best friends. I myself had a twin brother,” Giselle said.

“You did?” Tom was genuinely surprised. A twin?

“Yes. The bond between us was quite strong. And how is your lovely Sarah?” she asked.

 “She’s changed the most.”

“How so?” Carl probed, slowing as they approached their first corner. Tom wondered if Carl could finish the final three quarters of their walk.

“For one thing, she’s against the Vietnam War. She and my dad don’t see eye to eye about politics.”

 “Tension is to be expected when children leave and come back to the nest. The world looks different when you become independent,” Carl said.

“War is Hell,” said Giselle. She’d never cussed in front of Tom before.

“Sometimes it’s necessary, right?” Tom heard his parents and grandparents talk about World War Two.

“I suppose so,” said Carl. It was getting dark. Carl slowed, his feet barely left the ground.

“Giselle,” Carl said after a few quiet moments. “Perhaps it’s time to continue the conversation we began in the workshop. Thomas asked us how we met and I prattled on about my own story. But we never got to your history, your geschichte.”

They neared the streetlight marking the halfway point in their walk. Its amber light was an island.

Tom prompted, “Carl said sharing stories is sharing life.”

“Yes,” she answered softly, “and we are more than friends. But remember that some of my early story is unpleasant.” They stopped on the sidewalk. The streetlight shone around them in the darkness. She looked at Carl. He nodded.

Giselle put her gloves in her pockets and held out her hands. Tom placed his cold hands into her warm ones. In the cone of amber light, Giselle shared her geschichte.

“War is the death of innocence. Even soldiers are innocent victims of war. Soldiers on both sides are made to do what they are told. Most soldiers are frightened. I saw some of these scared young men who did not want to follow the orders of their commanders. People must be taught to fear and hate.

“My family members were victims of the Nazis during World War II. Your father was in the army wasn’t he, Thomas?”

“My father enlisted, along with his brothers and his friends.”

“In that he was brave,” Carl said. “He must have been not much more than a child.”

“He was nineteen,” said Tom. “The same age as Gracie and Sarah.”

Carl shook his head. The top of his red wool cap waggled back and forth.

Tom asked Giselle, “Are you from Germany?”

“My family is from Hungary, a city named Sighet, but we spoke fluent German. My parents were devout Jews, as was my twin brother Chayim. His name means ‘life.’ He and his lovely wife had two children, who I thought of as my own. I lived with them. Chayim’s wife, Naomi, was not just my sister-in-law. She was my schwester, my sister.

“My father was the finest tailor in the city. He was commissioned to make suits for the elites. He loved fabric as much as Carl loves wood. Like Carl, my father was an artist. I can see him now, running cloth through his fingers, touching it to his cheek.”

She looked down, gazing into her past. “Jews were a minority in Sighet, but we were all Hungarians. We laughed. We loved. We cried. We rejoiced.

“Do you remember the book I read this fall, Night, by Eliezer Weisel?”

Tom nodded. It was the same one Marilyn was reading when he saw her cry in the cafeteria.

“I knew Elie and his family. He was a serious one. We went to synagogue together. I knew his sisters Hilda, and Beatrice, and little Tzipora. Such lovely people,” she sighed.

“Then, the Nazis came. Jews were forced to leave our homes and live in ghettos. Our belongings were taken. We were forced to wear the yellow star on our clothes. Our leaders were arrested, as was my father. Thousands of Jews in such a small space. We thought it was temporary. How could the world watch and do nothing? We could not fathom what was happening.

“Then they took us. The Germans herded us in train cars like cattle. They threatened us, humiliated us, beat us. The doors to the train were nailed shut.”

Giselle whispered, “My family did not live to see the liberation of Auschwitz. We were told it was a work camp. It was only death.”

Giselle looked into Tom’s eyes. She took her gloves from her pocket and put them back on.

“I’m sorry,” Tom breathed. Carl reached up and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

Giselle continued, “Like Elie Wiesel, I lived to tell the story.”

Tom nodded.

“I am the blessed one who came to America after the liberation of the camp. I’m gifted with the love of this good man.” She squeezed Carl’s arm. “We have a beautiful home, friends, freedom.

“If I were to die this very night, I would be grateful for the life I have lived. Sixty-seven must seem quite old to you, but my grandmother died when she was one hundred and three.  To her, at the end of her life, sixty-seven must have seemed quite young.”

Tom sighed, his eyes brimming.

They walked home in silence. With the break in their circuit, Carl was able to shuffle the rest of the way, but he was noticeably breathless when they approached Black’s driveway.

“Giselle,” Tom said, for he thought the formality of ‘Mrs. Black’ was past, “Thanks for telling me your story.”

“You are my friend.” She paused as if considering something important, “Thomas, do you mind coming in for a moment?”

Tom put a steadying hand on Carl’s shoulder as he and Giselle helped Carl up the driveway.

“Hmph,” Carl said. “By what means of physics does this driveway become a steeper angle each day?”

“It’s a miracle, dear one,” Giselle said sweetly.

The Blacks hung up their coats. Giselle took something from the small handmade wooden box on the glass table near the picture window.

“First, I have something to show you. For we are friends, and sharing stories is sharing life.” She pushed up her right sleeve and held out her forearm. There was the number Tom glimpsed before. The number 4 in faded blue ink followed by 8788. The seven had a little hash mark across it the way Carl wrote his 7’s.

“This was the number the Nazis gave me when I was in Birkenau, the processing center for Auschwitz. I keep it hidden, for I am not this number. You know me now, Thomas, in a way you didn’t before tonight.”

He looked into her clear, dark eyes.

“Carl and I met at an advanced age so we didn’t have children. But know that in some ways we think of you as a son.”

Tom swallowed hard.

“And here is my gift to you.” She pulled a piece of fabric from her pocket and handed it to him.

“Before my father was dragged away, he pulled this from his sweater. He handed it to me the very last time we saw each other.” Loose threads remained around the edges. Two inverted triangles. A yellow star. The word Jude inscribed at its center.

“The Nazis made us wear these to make us feel inferior. Wearing the star reminded me clearly that I am a Jew. And I am proud. Now I give it to you.”

Tom was speechless.

“Bitte denkt daran, mein freund. Please remember, my friend.”

 

My Mother's Gifts

I wrote this piece a while back. Back when I was still teaching second grade. I miss my mom. She touched my life in so many beautiful ways. She was more than a mother. She was a best
friend.

If I am a literate guy, and I am not saying that I am all that literate, I owe it to my mom. The other day I asked my second graders to bring in some writing that is special to them, something they can read over and over, something that they would take with them to the proverbial deserted island. They brought in an incredible array of pieces from their current chapter books to the very first books they could read on their own, from cards and letters written to them by special people in their lives, to Calvin and Hobbes and Tom and Jerry collections. We ended up calling these “precious pieces”. 

After listening to the children share their precious pieces, we generated a list of what makes writing powerful, what makes it memorable and precious. I brought in a few precious pieces of my own to share and they were all connected to my mom. 

First there was Green Eggs and Ham. I had to include the first book I could read on my own. Now, I wasn’t one of those kids who could read anything at age three. I wasn’t reading chapter books by the time I got to first grade. My mom taught me to read the year before I went to school. She stayed home that year with my baby brother and me. 

I’m sure my teachers had something to do with my eventual literacy development (no doubt, the phonics overkill part). I remember my sister Ruthie reading to me as well. But it was my mom who gave me the gift of literacy. She treated books as precious gifts from as far back as I can remember. I still have several books she insisted I read just before she died.

Green Eggs and Ham was my breakthrough book.  I can’t recall the exact events but it has to do with my mom reading to me in bed. I think I was sick. My little brother Danny was a baby so he was probably asleep or in his playpen. Come to think of it, we spent a lot of time together in that playpen so, if I was sick, Danny probably was too. Green Eggs and Ham. She'd probably read that book to me a hundred times. 

I am Sam...     Sam I am  

She probably read it to me a few times that morning, but I remember saying, “Hey! I can read this!” 

Would you eat them in the rain?  Would you eat them on a train? 

“I mean I can REALLY read this. I can read these words!” 

Would you eat them in a box? Would you eat them with a fox? 

It was in her warm bed. Just the two of us. Green Eggs and Ham. Good old Dr. Seuss. How could she have known? 

Would you eat them in a house? Would you eat them with a mouse? 

I brought in other precious pieces to share as well. Some of her letters. I never did read any of those aloud. I wouldn't have made it through the without losing it. 

 When I was about 10 or 11, my mom gave me Of Mice and Men. How could she have known what that would do for me? And after I read it, my folks let me stay up late and watch the old black and white movie classic, the one with Burgess Merideth and Lon Chaney Jr. My mom watched with me. It was on the late show. My first late show. It didn’t even start until 10:30. When it came to the end, I cried. Right? I mean how could you not cry? 

George takes the German luger, the one they used to kill Candy’s loveable but stinky old dog. He takes that luger, and after it's perfectly clear that Lenny is going to get caught for killing that pretty little woman. That Lenny would go to prison—which he would never be able to take without going absolutely crazy. George takes that luger, and gets Lenny talking about their dream. You know the dream. They’d get themselves a ranch and raise rabbits and Lenny could pet the rabbits any old time he wanted to. George takes the luger, and gets Lenny to look out into the distance where he can actually see their ranch. And then he shoots Lenny when Lenny is waxing on about their dream. He shoots Lenny when he is at his happiest. And he shoots his best friend because he loves him, because he wants to protect him. How could you not cry, right? It was a gift, that book, that film, those tears. 

I still read that book from time to time. I still cry. I still give it to people I know who have not read it yet. Years later, when I was in college, my beloved professor, Jerry Harste, said, “If you can’t cry then you can’t read.” And I remember thinking, my mom taught me that a long time ago. It was Steinbeck. It was Of Mice and Men. It was clever and crafty George. It was lovable but dangerous old Lenny. Lenny, who needed to be saved from himself. It was George, brave enough to save him. But you know it was more than that. It was Green Eggs and Ham, and Danny and the Dinosaur, and The Hardy Boys, and Boy’s Life Magazine. It was Tom, and Huck, and Scout, and Atticus. My mom gave me all of that. And so much more. 

My mom was a woman of letters. While she was also a person of the internet age—she did email regularly, she knew the value of a handwritten letter. She didn't send cards with sayings or poetry someone else had written. She did not send the kind of things you buy and put your name on, somehow indicating that you took the effort to find just the right words. She wrote the right words. When I was in college, just out of the house, she wrote to me regularly. She'd make my little brother write too. I missed him the most. He never would have written if she didn't make him. 

I kept her letters. They are time capsules of my adult life. They're snapshots of her life with my dad, her sadness when he died. Her loneliness, her fears, her joy at finding new love. Otto’s kindness, and then big, tender Jim. They are her travels, her friends, her romance and disappointments. Hers are among the few real letters I ever received. And they mean more to me than any other personal possession. 

They are not cc’d to anyone, or listserved, or groupmailed. They are pen-in-hand, random paper, and licked envelopes. They are stamps and a post office. They are latenight and earlymorning; they are quiet homes with sleepy mates, after dinner and before breakfast. They are insomnia, and tears, and laughs. They are rambling, and shuffling, and loving, and funny, and intimate. They are silly and descriptive. They are kind, and reflective, and desperate. They reflect the seasons, the wildlife, and the seasons of life. 

My handwriting is so bad now – but I know you like written letters so I will try. 

I am sitting alone listening to Mozart’s C Major Concerto… 

He and I would remember the Huichol Indians who sat near the lake with their babies painting pieces of amatyl (bark) with colors like Mexican pink, blue and yellow… 

I am 82 – 3 of my children will soon be 60. My baby is 46. 

I wish Jack could have known your boys. What a happiness he missed! 

This is something I read and loved – “Forgive quickly, kiss slowly, laugh uncontrollably and never regret something that makes you smile.” 

I finished the book you gave me – there was a part I underlined. I will copy it when I get it back… 

I loved being the mom to so many different and wonderful children. That was my life. When I was a mom of a big family, I never seemed to have the time to think about making memories for my children. 

When I think back on what my mom gave me, the in between times that mean the most. It isn’t the birthday presents or family vacations or other big-ticket items that many people probably think of as constituting important family memories. The soft things are the most important; the late night conversations, the books and book talks, the letters, the questions about family, the requests for original tunes, the stories. It's the unconditional love that we expect from our mothers, that we may even take for granted. I think I am blessed more than most. My mom gave me something that only a few people can boast. 

She wasn't just a mother. She was a best friend.

For Jack

 

I'm not a guy who marks out dates to grieve. You may be someone who does. I mean no offense. But you know what I mean, right? There are folks who know the date a beloved died. They dread the approaching of that date. They're miserable on the date and have lingering sadness for days after. 

I AM sentimental. I tear up at embarrassingly small things. And I DO remember my loved ones—mainly my mom and dad. I think of them all the time. I dream about them still. 

But I don't dread the dates of their deaths. When I remember them, I smile. 

All that being said, I'm at a pretty weird place in my mind right now. I am the exact age of my father, Jack O'Keefe, when he died. I was 32. He was 64 1/2. The same age as I am right now. 

Almost to the day.

I have big feelings. Not boo hoo sad. But, God I miss that good man. 

When Jack died, I was teaching my first graduate class at U of SC. R670. Language Arts Methods for Elementary Teachers. Our first assignment together was to write a memoir. As in, "If you expect to teach children to write, you'd do it best if you thought of yourself as a writer." So, we all wrote. It was just a week after Jack's death. 

Mine was not exactly a memoir. More like a collection of small moments—a mosaic of images and memories. 

So here it is. Written exactly half my life ago. I miss that good guy. I always will.

For Jack

When we got to the hospital, my dad was in a coma. I heard the news before I left home that day, making my way to the Chicago hospital where he lay dying. I reached his room around 9:30. My mom and most of my brothers and sisters were already there and even some nieces and nephews, most of whom were too young to understand what was going on, that their grandpa was dying. I knew that he was going soon. It was inevitable. Soon.

In my mind I knew that a quick end would be better for him, and for my mom. and for all of us who loved him. In my heart I wanted to see him just one last time, to look into his eyes and make contact, to tell him just once more how much he meant to me. To tell him once again that I loved him. I hadn’t said that often enough.

As I pushed open the door of the hospital room, my family’s sadness hit me like a wave. I cried. The man I knew as my dad was no longer there, or if he was, he was so deep inside that communication wasn’t possible. I cried—more for myself than him. I cried. He was no longer in pain, no more aware of the body that had betrayed him after just a little more than 64 years. He’d never hear me say that I loved him ever again. I never told him that enough. I cried for all those times I never told him. I cried the selfish tears of one who realizes too late the power of words never spoken. I cried at the realization of how fleeting life is. I cried for opportunities lost, for conversations cut short, for him never seeing the family that Heidi would have some day.

I sat by his bed and my tears fell into the sheets. I stroked his soft brown hair, something I had never done before. I looked into his eyes that were open, but didn’t look back.

Memories emerged as they still do, all these years later. Images of my childhood and young adulthood. Pictures of my parents as the younger, energetic couple they were when I was a kid. I remembered.

My two older brothers and me wrestling with my dad on his warm Saturday morning bed. He was the biggest, strongest man in the world. If he could take us on, he could beat an army. Shrieks of laugher as one of the “Three Stooges” fell out of bed.

“You snore like a lion!”

“I’ve never heard myself snore.”

“How could you?”

My father driving the boat with my little brother Danny skiing behind. “Hang on, Danny!” Dan couldn’t have more than five or six that summer he learned to ski. He had the most incredible mixture of fear and joy on his face. That old yellow boat rode low in the water. My dad’s back and arms were hairy and freckled. Dan, whose nose was covered in summertime freckles did hang on. For miles. My dad beamed with pride. I was a little jealous.

My dad drove the boat like a crazy man at times. We loved it if someone else was skiing. We were a little afraid when we were the ones behind the boat. The sun sparkled on those Lake Michigan waves and the sun was hot on our feet on the beach. My dad’s sunglasses were horn-rimmed. The hair on his arms was golden, I remember. His hair was wavy when it was long. His hair was brown and never really turned gray. His eyes were pale, watery blue.

One summer when I was about 11 my father and I built a porch on that old summerhouse. It was pretty amazing. We used scraps of wood and some used windows he had scavenged somewhere. He could have asked my brothers to help. It would have made the project go much faster. But that didn’t bother us. He was on vacation and he was spending it with me building a porch on that old wet basement. We took plenty of breaks and drank cold root beer on those sweltering summer days. I pretended it was real beer like he used to drink. He made me feel like a man doing a man's work.

That porch looked a little rough. None of the lines were straight and the angles were far from ninety degrees but it was functional and when we painted it, the little walled off porch didn’t look half bad. It was my dad’s vacation project and I was proud that he had spent so much time with me. I should have told him how I felt about that time; how happy I was and how much I enjoyed laughing with him and watching him measure and draw lines with the flat red carpenter’s pencil. I should have told him that it was the best part of that summer for me. But I never did. Maybe when he thought back on that time, he remembered it the way I did and wished that he had told me how much it meant to him.

When I was in junior high, my family gave my dad a beat up Model A Ford for his birthday. We thought that restoring that it would make another nice project for him. He seemed pleased with the car and began restoring it right away. We hauled it to the summerhouse and stored it in the garage. That old timey garage was too small to hold a real car anyway. It had a wooden floor and I was always a bit afraid that the car would fall through. It never did.

I remember going with my dad to pick up an engine that someone had rebuilt. He paid the man $35 for it. My dad pinched the bills as he plucked them from his wallet. He always did that to make sure that there weren’t any bills stuck together. He never did get around to completely finishing the Model A project. We kept it for a few years but he did finally get it to run. I don’t think I ever saw him more pleased than when he finally got it going. It sputtered, backfired and shook as he drove it around the block. I can still see him in a grungy old t-shirt, gray-blue smoke billowing out the back, that big old Irish grin on his ruddy face, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

One time I went on a business trip with my father when I was a junior in high school. It was during my spring break. My dad did a lot of driving for his job. He was really good at it. He was a representative for a big steel mill in northwest Indiana, Inland Steel Company. He made lot of calls to deal with concerns about the steel. When I was younger I thought my dad drove for a living. In a way I guess he did. He had the most amazing sense of direction. He rarely looked at a map and seemed to feel his way around new places. He was one of those guys who never asked for directions, even if it was probably just the right thing to do. A matter of pride I suppose.

We were on a dusty Indiana country road in LaPort County when my dad recognized the area. I’m not sure why we were country roading, surely there was a more direct way home. Maybe he just wanted to spend more time with me. I like to think that’s what it was. I was bored from riding in the car all day. But it had been fun – just the two of us. He took me out to lunch at some greasy spoon out in the country. I felt very adult, very special. As we left the restaurant, he put some dinner mints in his pocket for my brothers. He often did that.

I perked up a little and looked away from my book when I saw him becoming enthusiastic. “Somewhere around here,” he mumbled as we drove by farmhouses in the hazy Indiana evening. “There!” he said with excitement. “I knew I’d been here before. That’s where my father was born. This is the farm where he grew up!”

I didn’t realize at the time just how important that moment was. I didn’t know all these years later that I would remember that sunset, that dusty road, his ruddy face and wind blown hair. It was one of the few times he ever talked about his family. But he did talk that evening. It was as if a door to some part of him had been opened. He told me about his grandfather who was killed on that farm, kicked in the head by a mule. He told me about going there when he was a kid. He hadn’t been that way for so many years that he couldn’t even remember. There was a light in his eyes, a sparkle. I wish I had tapped into his energy more, asked him more questions.

My father dropped me off at college my freshman year. I was exited about leaving home. And more than a little scared. One of my best friends from high school was living in the same dorm. So was my girlfriend. It was the independence I had dreamed of. But I was frightened as well. I grew up in a big family. Seven kids. There was always someone to hang around with, someone to tease. I was used to being surrounded by siblings and my boys from the neighborhood. It was scary to think of living hours away from home. To talk to my mom and my little brother it would be long distance. Long distance.

We talked about the old days on the four-hour trip. It’s funny how there could even be “old days” when you’re 18 and starting out on your own. I sensed that he was sad at seeing me leave home. I would be back of course. I planned on working in his steel mill the next summer, but this was the first real step toward my being on my own. He helped me move my few possessions to the sweaty dormitory room.

“You’ve got your meal ticket, right?”

“Sure,” I said, starting to get choked up.

“You’ve got some spending money?”

“A little. I don’t need much.” I was trying to act brave but on the inside I was falling apart. I was missing my dad already.

“Here.” He pinched out two twenties. “Don’t tell your mother I gave you this.” It was funny. My mom was by far the more generous one. “And call us if you need anything. Anything at all. Person-to-person for yourself and we’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I wasn’t going to cry in front of him. It was hard.

“C’mon, Bub,” he said. Then he hugged me. Tight. He wasn’t a very hugging guy. I didn’t ever remember him hugging me. Maybe that’s why it meant so much. Maybe that’s why I still remember it. I walked him back to his car. When his car turned the corner I cried.

A few months before he was diagnosed with cancer, my mom and dad visited the first grade classroom at R. Earle Davis Elementary in Cayce, SC where I taught. He was very sick and didn’t know it yet. His hips were sore and his appetite was down. He was looking thin but his color was good. “Just feeling my age,” he said, almost apologetically.

I can see him now, sitting in one of the tiny first grade chairs with the children gathered around my mom and him asking questions. “What kind of naughty things did Mr. O’Keefe do when he was little?”

“Mr. O’Keefe was a pretty good little boy,” my dad answered. “He’s a good son.” There were times I had not been such a good son, such a good little boy. I knew. By then we had grown to love each other in the quiet way that grown-ups do. In the way that fathers and sons do when they can forget the arguments and the angst, the disobedience and the lack of respect.

I am so thankful that he forgave me for my teenage transgressions. When I think of him in that little tiny chair, I am so proud of him. He had just retired from the mill and looking ahead to a long and happy retirement.

At Christmastime we knew that my dad had cancer. We knew that he didn’t have much more time with us. We knew that the end would not be pleasant. He came home from the hospital for Christmas. It might have been because my sister Ruthie would be there and that she was a doctor and could deal with the IV that he had to keep in the whole time. Or his doctor might just have had the good sense to see that what this man needed most was his last few days at home surrounded by his family. We played cards. We laughed precious laughs. We exchanged gifts. We looked into each other’s eyes.

He and I watched a movie together in his bedroom. Planes, Trains and Automobiles. And we laughed. My big brother Pat was asleep in my dad’s leather easy chair. He was snoring lightly. I was on the floor at the foot of the bed. My dad was in his bed, the IV on a pole next to the bed. We laughed. I’m glad that it was just the two of us awake. For a while, reality was suspended and we gave ourselves up to the movie. When it was over reality came crashing back over us. We didn’t have much time left.

That night I told my dad that I loved him. It was probably the first time since I was a little kid. I said that I was sorry for the ugly way I had treated him when I was younger and that he had to know how I felt. He said he was sorry for some things too. I think it was then that we admitted to ourselves that the end was close.

The evening before my dad went into the final coma I spoke with him on the phone. We talked of all the tests he had to have and he joked weakly about the awful hospital food. He had no appetite. My mom told me that he wasn’t eating. He sounded tired. The last thing I said to him before we hung up the phone was, “I really love you, Dad.”

“You too, Bub.”

I still picture him on that rickety old porch, a glass of wine in his hand. I remember sneaking into the house as a teenager and walking up the stairs in the dead of night. My father in his leather easy chair, asleep, snoring like a lion. Now when I look at my hands I see my father’s hands, and in the mirror—

my father’s eyes. I am so blessed to have known this big, gentle man. I hope that some of his goodness has been passed down to me.

He died with relative peace and dignity. His pain was blessedly short. Most of his family was at his side. He never gave up. He was a strong man.

My dad was a simple guy. I think he had realistic expectations for us. Though he never said them quite this way, I think they were these: Do the best you can with what you have. Be honest. Earn your pay. Be as happy as you can be. I hope that I have lived up to his expectations.

The Poor Letter X

 

The Poor Letter X

I wrote this piece a while ago. It reminds me of my mom who died several years ago. She loved this post. 

I feel a little sorry for the letter X. Of course it’s as well known as its more popular brothers and sisters, but poor old X just doesn’t have much of a home.

I was flipping through my mom’s dictionary the other day. She’s into this word game with her friend Joanne. It’s called Quiddler. It’s sort of like Scrabble, but you play with cards. Anyway, you declare words and lay down cards when you have them and your opponent can check your words to see if they indeed exist.

My mom said there is a word xi. Now my mom has taught me the art of speaking with authority as a way to convince someone of your accuracy (even when you could be bluffing). Because I am on to her game, I had to look up the word to be sure myself. Sure enough, xi is a real word. According to Webster’s, not only is xi the 14^th letter of the Greek alphabet (I should have known that I suppose but I was never in a fraternity), it is also an unstable element of the baryon family existing in negative and neutral charged states, with masses respectively 2585 and 2572 times the mass of an electron.

And that’s the thing about X, most of the words are so obscure that no one ever uses them. Oh sure, you’ve got x-ray and its derivatives (x-ray astronomy, x-ray diffraction, etc.) which account for 9 of the X words. And you’ve got your xylophone, the percussion instrument made of different sized wooden bars. It’s a very pretty sounding instrument, we had one when we were kids. But all of the rest of the X words are almost never really used in conversation – unless you’re some kind of scientist I suppose. But without x-ray and xylophone, what would we even be able to put on the picture alphabet cards in our early childhood classrooms? And when you read the definition of many of the X words, you have to look up even more words in those definitions to understand them. That's not really fair.

When was the last time you used xanthic in casual speech? It has a red squiggly line under it for goodness sakes. Doesn’t my Mac realize that xanthic means of, relating to, or tending toward a yellow color? Or how about xanthrochroi? (Another squiggly red line, by the way.) It’s a noun meaning white persons having light hair and fair skin. Could you possibly see xanthrochroi on an alphabet card in a Kindergarten classroom? Believe me, that is one of the only likely contenders for the ABC cards compared to the rest of the X’s.

I am not sure that X should even have regular letter status. It’s more like a letter-territory than a letter-state. Or maybe a letter-district, as in the District of Columbia. It is certainly there holding down the 24^th spot in the alphabet, but is it really a letter? I mean even Rhode Island has people in it. When I counted, X only started 84 different words and some of them are sort of cheating words like Xe (for the element Xenon – that’s an abbreviation, right?) and xing – marked with the letter X. Those are not even really definitions. And X-mas (probably the third most commonly used “word” for X) is only a lazy person’s (or non-Christian’s) way of writing Christmas. And Xerox is really a proper noun like Kleenex or Tampax (hey, 2 more words with x’s), but it had to make it into the dictionary because there just are so few X’s. They have to put something on those one-and-one-quarter pages.

So here’s a little quiz for you. I’ll give you 5 words with definitions. See how many you can match up.

(A) – xeric (B) – xiphosuran (C) – xylan

(D) - xylophagous (E) – xylotomous

1.!   1. feeding on or in wood

2.   2. a yellow gummy pentosan, abundantly present in plant cell walls

3.    3. any of an order of arthropods, comprising the horseshoe crabs and extinct related forms

4. 4. requiring only a small amount of moisture

5.   5. capable of boring or cutting wood.

I guess we’re so used to having those precious 26 that it would seem silly to demote poor old X just because it really doesn’t have many members. Thank goodness for xylophone and x-ray. But just think how cool it would be to have 25 REAL letters in the alphabet. 25 is a perfect square (5 x 5). It’s a quarter of a hundred. Everyone can remember 25. It’d be like having the 50 states. I’m just saying.

(A) = 4 (B) = 3 (C) = 2 (D) = 1 (E) = 5

Basic Skills - A Teacher's Story

In 1986 I moved to Columbia, SC from southern Indiana. I admit there was a bit of a culture shock. I had never really traveled south of Indiana before. I flew down to Columbia, SC to interview, flew back home, then drove down with all our stuff to live here. 

Since this is a teaching story, I feel compelled to say that it was NOT all goodness and light in Indiana. I worked with a principal who had lost track of what was important. My last year there I team-taught with a teacher who really seemed to hate teaching. 

There were some rough spots in my first job in SC. But, like all things related to teaching, it is the children who make teaching what it is. Not the administrators, not the teachers down the hall... the children. This is a story I wrote in remembrance of my first year here. 

 Part of being a non-fiction writer is like being a photographer. If it works, it is often because of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right equipment. Being a teacher for so many years makes me blessed. I was always at the right place to witness and share in the wonder and drama of living and learning with a bunch of wonderful people. 

 One of the amazing things about writing to me is that is helps one to recall. When I started this story, I didn't know how much would come back. It happened 35 years ago. During the process of writing this piece, Antwan and Bridget Mr. Litton, and others all came swimming back to me. I can recall Antwan's shining eyes like I saw them just yesterday. Bridget's radiant, crooked-toothed smile and her pony tail bouncing as she jumped when I turned the rope at recess - it's like these 35 years have vanished and I am there with them. They would be 47 or 48 years old now. I don't know if I would recognize them if I saw them walking down the street or in line at the grocery store. But those 11-year-old faces? I would recognize them in a heartbeat. 

For my first year teaching in South Carolina I was a Basic Skills Instructor. I worked with small groups of kids in two different schools. These were children who tested in the bottom quartile on the Basic Skills exam. These were typically kids who didn’t get their homework done, didn’t finish class work, often spent their recess time “on the hill” trying to complete workbook pages and handouts. These were the kids who never caught up. Often they were discipline problems. They were the ones sent to the office for behavior referrals. School for these children was a constant mountain of unfinished papers, tests they couldn’t pass, teachers they didn’t get along with, work that was too hard. They were the unmotivated, the outcasts, the disruptive, the students other teachers didn’t want to teach. It was my job to pull these kids out of the classroom and put them together in small groups for short periods each day. These were the Basic Skills kids, and these were my students for the year. 

I worked with groups of four to six kids for a half an hour at a time. Of course, I had to get them to and from their classes, so we only had about 25 minutes to work together each day. At first the children came with workbook pages they hadn’t finished in class. The teachers wanted me to be sure the work was finished. They wanted me to be their enforcer. 

I did this for a week or so, nagging them to do the kind of work I disagreed with. The kids were pretty harsh with me in return. They saw me as an extension of their own classrooms where many were already failing. They saw me as another authority figure trying to make them do tasks they saw as worthless, work they hated. They saw me as the enemy. 

The role didn't work for me either. I was used to writing curriculum and lessons with kids. Our time together should be interesting and worthwhile. Basic Skills time should be important. I couldn’t take being the “workbook dragon” day after day, insisting that kids fill in blanks on workbook pages or draw lines from questions to correct answers. The system wasn’t working for them. It was a waste of time for the students and for me. 

I went to John Litton, my new principal to see what could be done. When I entered his smoke-filled office (this was in 1986 – before smoking was banned from public buildings). I told him about my problem. I didn’t think I was serving the students very well by making them do worksheets and workbook pages. I said that my time would be used more appropriately if the students were doing real reading and writing and math projects. 

He listened carefully to my lengthy complaint. When I was finished my monologue he smiled broadly, his white beard yellowed from years of smoking. He smushed out his cigarette in a butt-filled ashtray and said, “Sure. No problem. Whatever. Only YOU get to tell the teachers about your new role.” 

 I took the coward’s way out. When the kids came to me with workbooks, I sent them back with the same unfinished work. I never told the teachers directly but soon they got the message that the Basic Skills kids were going to learn different kinds of basic skills. They didn’t know what yet, but the 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade teachers at R. Earle Davis Elementary became accustomed to not sending worksheets. They would have to trust me for my little half hour, three times a week. 

It took a while for the other teachers to get used to what we were doing. For one thing it wasn’t what you would called joyful school. It was dark in almost every sense of the word. The walls were dark. The carpets were filthy. It always smelled of cigarettes smoked by the office staff and the cigars smoked by the head custodian, Mr. Steverson. The windows were dirty, grudgingly allowing in dim and dusty daylight. 

Many teachers hollered constantly… “How many times do I have to tell you?… I said SIT DOWN!... What on earth is WRONG WITH YOU?” I don’t fault them. It was just their way. It was how they grew up as teachers, as though the only way to get through to kids was to bring the volume up, to speak sarcastically, and to threaten the students into doing their work. It may never have occurred to them that perhaps the kids weren’t working very hard because they saw no real reason for it. 

For most of the children, writing was a series of exercises: drawing lines from questions to answers, filling in a blank with a word from a word bank or answering comprehension questions about a story they couldn’t read. When they passed by our door the teachers would hear us laughing (sometimes hysterically), writing, and acting out plays, reading and writing responses to pen pal letters, listening to chapter books, videotaping plays we had written, etc. 

Ours was a motley crew. While these children were considered "low end” academically, they were quite bright. Most had never gotten along well in a pencil and paper system. Some were still struggling to read and do basic math, but many demonstrated great ability in other areas. 

One student, Antwan, was a child with an amazing sense of humor and a sunny disposition. He and his best friend Bridget usually came in giggling over some private joke. Eventually they warmed up to me. They got my jokes, shared my love of story and, although neither was a tremendous reader, they loved it when I read aloud. They were expressive and energetic kids. They invented unusual names for me including “O’Theif”, “O’Boy”, “O’Man” and “O’Teeth”. 

Antwan was hard for me to get to know at first. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when he spoke to me. He was a nice kid but I felt like I didn’t know him well. 

Once on the playground I was turning the jump rope for Bridget and others. “What’s up with Antwan?” I asked her. 

"What you mean?” 

“Why doesn’t he like me?” 

“It’s not that, O’Teeth. He just doesn’t trust you is all.” 

“Why?” 

“You don’t know much about Antwan, do you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You don’t know what happened to his family? 

“Why don’t you fill me in?” I said. 

She motioned for me to follow her away from the others. “He stays with his grandparents, right?” 

I said I’d heard that. It wasn’t uncommon for many of my students to live with family members other than their parents. 

“Do you know why he stays with them?” Her beautiful black eyes never left mine. 

“No, why?” 

“His daddy’s in jail. His mamma’s dead. His daddy killed her.” 

I didn’t know what to say. 

“You need to know that about him.” 

We went on with our routine and eventually Antwan began to open up to me as a friend and not just his teacher.

Pen pal letters were the favorite project of all the groups. My wife, Heidi, was an instructor at USC. At the time she was teaching undergraduates, mostly young women, how to teach reading and writing to elementary children. It was the perfect match. Heidi’s undergraduates exchanged letters with my Basic Skills kids once each week. The kids experienced a real purpose for writing. And they were getting to know some neat people through their letters. The USC students were coming to understand writing development for third through fifth grade students. They were also forming bonds with young people most of whom had never written a letter to anyone in their lives. It was what my wife called “Curricular Heaven”. 

Because our time was so short, I had the letters on the tables as the kids came in. The computers were on for kids who wanted to compose at the keyboard. The kids were unbelievably focused. They tore into their envelopes, helped each other to read, shared funny parts, laughed, and wrote. These were the days when my job was easy and gratifying. All I had to do was to put out the letters and writing supplies and get out of the way. 

By January we were in a comfortable routine. Wednesday was pen pal day and the Basic Skills kids were in their second set of USC friends for the year. We had only exchanged a couple of letters with the new group when Bridget’s group came in one cold day without Antwan. 

Bridget took me aside. There was no smile in those bright eyes. I had never seen them so solemn, so sad. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Where’s Antwan?” 

“He’s at home. So’s his sister. Their grandpa died yesterday.” 

“They were close, weren’t they?” 

“He loved his grandpa so hard, Mr. O. His grandparents took care of him, you know?” 

“I remember.” 

“When his mama died, his grandparents took Antwan and his sister to live with them,” she reminded me. “They was the ones raisin’ them. They was really old. Now he’s only got his grandma left.” 

“I’m so sorry, Bridget.” I knew Antwan and Bridget were best friends – not boyfriend and girlfriend – just best friends. They had been since they were little kids. In some ways they were closer than boyfriend/girlfriend. They were life friends. She was hurting too. “What can we do?” 

“How 'bout we save the pen pal letters for Antwan when he gets back?” That’s what we did. 

The day of the funeral the Basic Skills kids listened to me read a short story and we discussed it. Bridget was with her best friend in his time of sorrow and need. The group was subdued. There was no kidding around, little teasing and laughter. It wasn’t the same without Antwan and Bridget. We had friends who were hurting, and we were feeling some of their pain. 

The next day Antwan and Bridget came in with the rest of the group. I remember it like it was yesterday. In some ways it was a day that changed me as a teacher. Antwan had on his parka with the hood zipped up all the way. I couldn’t see his face. It was a cold day outside but rather warm in the room. I wanted to comfort Antwan, to tell him I was sorry for his loss. He wouldn’t look at me as he plopped himself into the usual chair. His arms were crossed. His head was down. Bridget looked at me expectantly. I told everyone that we saved the pen pal letters for today so Antwan and Bridget could be here. We all were a little jumpy and tense, but gradually busy noise filled the room. 

The usual kids chose to work at computers while the others plucked pens or pencils from the can in the center of the table. Antwan and Bridget sat side by side at the computer work stations. Bridget kept looking at Antwan. He hadn’t budged. Just over a week ago Antwan tore into his letter with delight. He'd received a photo of his pen pal, Monique, and she was a beauty. He had delighted in the ribbing he received from the others. Now his letter lay unopened on the table next to him. The Antwan I knew as a happy little cut up, who laughed easily and who teased me mercilessly was not there. The joking, smiling, laughing Antwan I knew was somewhere deep inside that parka. 

As I scooted my chair up to him tears fell from his hood. I put my arm around his shoulders, something I had never done before. “I’m so sorry about your grandpa, Antwan.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. His life had just changed in the saddest way imaginable. I couldn’t begin to understand his pain. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, still not letting me see his face. “He was a good guy.” More tears fell. There was an awkward silence as I thought of what to say, what to do for my sad little friend. 

“Do you want to write to Monique about it? I think she’d like to know what’s going on with you and your family.” 

He didn’t answer but instead picked up Monique’s letter, tore it open and began to read. I moved on to the other kids. I didn’t want to make Antwan any more self-conscious by hovering over him. I looked over from time to time. He was slowly composing his note, one letter at a time with his right index finger, his left hand in his lap except to capitalize. While I couldn’t see his face (his parka hood was still up) tears dripped into the keys of the computer. 

The children worked steadily for about 15 minutes. Antwan had barely shown his face all morning. He was hidden deep within his coat, deep within himself. 

When the period was over the kids handed me their letters on their way back to their classroom. Antwan printed his letter out on the old dot matrix printer and handed it to me without a word. 

Before he walked back to his classroom I reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Antwan.” 

He pulled his hood off and our eyes met. His were red and puffy; his cheeks wet with tears. “My grandmamma said that it was just his time, that he lived a good long life. He's with God now." He paused, and then, "He was a real good man, O’Keefe. Real good. Nothin's gonna be the same without him.” 

That moment is etched in my mind. The others were out the door. Antwan and I stood there, both of us sorrowful. Antwan would never look into the loving eyes of his grandpa; his protector, his guardian, his provider and friend. I was sad because he was being forced to grow up too fast. He already had a life filled with too much violence, too much grief. Now, at 11 years old, he would be the man of his little family. 

I asked him if I could copy his letter for his file. He said OK and turned away without another word. I had the next period free for planning. Antwan’s letter was left on the computer monitor. As I read his sweet, sincere note; my tears joined his as they fell into the keyboard. 

Dear Monique, 

It was good to get your letter. Did you have a nice time in Atlanta? I hope you feel better. I will dream about you. In my family my grandpa died. He took care of me. He was my best friend. Now I will not have no one to hug. No one to kiss. No one to TELL THINGS TO. No one to love and give things to. I will still go to see him but I will not dig him up because I am not that kind of guy. 

Love, Your friend, Antwan 

He'd never met Monique before. They had only exchanged a few letters. They had barely established their friendship before this tragedy hit Antwan’s family. Antwan bravely poured out his emotions to Monique although they were really only acquaintances. He used writing to explain feelings that spoken words could not. 

I had never truly realized the power and potential of writing. I knew that the pen pal correspondence was an important part of our time together. I understood it was an authentic reason to write. At the same time, it was not much more than a great project or activity. I knew that it was important to write to communicate to someone but I didn’t understand the true significance; the true potential. 

Antwan told Monique something he had never told me. That single, most powerful word was love. Writing allowed him to cross the barrier, to express himself in important clear ways, to be open and honest. It freed him from the boundaries of face-to-face communication. Through writing, Antwan was able to explain his complicated emotions; to let out some of the saddest feelings he’d ever had. He connected to Monique in his letter. I am still awed by his frankness, inspired by his honesty. 

Later that semester, after exchanging at least 15 letters the USC pen pals came to Davis Elementary to meet the Basic Skills kids. Like most of the others, Antwan was shy when he met Monique. His words were few and quiet. But his letters were always friendly, newsy and personal. 

He, and Bridget, and most of the other Basic Skills kids were dressed in their Sunday clothes. Antwan had on an ill-fitting suit and Bridget wore uncomfortable shoes and a pretty, if worn pink dress. Bridget's hair, always in a loose ponytail, was braided into tight cornrows. She told me they hurt. But those two shined bright that day. All the kids did. 

I have long since lost track of Antwan but his face stays with me along with his humor and feisty spirit. His shining black eyes look back at me through all these years. In my mind he will always be eleven. In my mind he will always be that fragile little boy - my friend and one of my greatest teachers.