So began the second stage of my life. But the foundations had been laid in small-town Minnesota in the thirties.
I was born on July 25, 1936 on a farm near Wadena. My parents were of second-generation German and French stock. They were relatively uneducated but were devout Catholics. Dad was a farmer and small businessman, with an auto-repair and farm machinery shop. Mother (Ma, as we kids called her, somewhat to her distress) was a strong woman who managed her flock of twelve often rambunctious children with love. Both parents gave a very strong example of family life, which would influence me greatly in later life.
Ma told me later that the day of my birth was very hot and that she knew something was wrong with my eyes. we were white inside, not black, like the other kids'. The doctor told her that I was blind. Later the diagnosis would be made of microophthalmmia, cause unknown. Nevertheless, the eyes were not disfigured.
My first memory is of a disturbing event which I later realized must have been the birth of a sibling. I was sleeping in a bed with other children in the front room of the farmhouse. It was winter. The heating plant was not the strongest, and putting several children together in a large, well-covered bed was the best way to keep them warm. Besides, the older ones could look after the younger ones. Our parents' bedroom was separated by a door that was usally left open. The youngest children were in small beds beside the parents' bed, where their mother could pick them up to clean and nurse them during the night. Later on, I would realize that she had set up a sort of assembly line to care for her 12 children. The youngest would be in a crib beside the bed, the next youngest would be in a small bed somewhere else in the room. The rest would be in other rooms. The older children were expected to amuse and look after the younger ones according to their age and abilities.
On this particular night I woke to the sounds of soft moans. I exclaimed "What's that?" One of the older children replied "Ma." I started to get out of bed to go to her, but at this moment Dad came into the room and said, "Jack, get back in bed!" Dad went to the telephone, but what he said was unintelligible. I was sleeping at the edge of the bed, probably because I was the youngest there. I obeyed only partially, getting back under the covers but leaving a foot out. I said to the girl beside me, probably Betty, the oldest child, "I want to go to ma!" but she replied, "Dad said to stay in bed." Soon my foot got too cold and I pulled it in. After a whild someone came into the house. The wait and mysterious sounds were agonizing. The other children slept. Finally, Ma called, with a note of ineffiable triumph in her voice: "Jackie, come see what I have!" I ran to her.
There the memory ends. As an adult I would piece together that the baby must have been my sister Julie, who later became my favorite. Evidently, labor had begun unexpectedly, because the children were usually sent to relatives when a birth was expected. The year must have been 1940 and I must have been three and a half.
One other series of events that year would leave vivid impressions. This was a visit to what must have been the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota and then to the school for the blind in Faribault. Both parents were with me. The physical examination left a lasting memory, because I was scared by the percussion and began to cry. Later, a rectal thermometer was inserted - my first experience of such a thing. I said to Ma, who was sitting beside me, "Ma, take it out!", but she replied "The doctor said to leave it in until he got back".
Then there is a memory of living in a room with a bathroom but no cooking facilities. I complained one night that we had only baloney sandwiches, not fried potatoes and other things. Dad said that we would have all those things when we got back home.
The visit to the school for the blind in Faribault must have been made afterward on this same trip. I would remember principally going through a lot of doors, some of which had glass. The visit ended with a tour of the campus. We passed under a crabapple tree and I asked Ma for one. She reached up and picked one. Biting into it, I noticed the sour taste and asked if it was ripe. "No," said Ma, "and a worm is sticking his head out." The apple was droped forthwith. Later on, as a student, I would become well acquainted with that particular tree.
Other memories, which cannot be dated, emerge from the mists of early childhood. One day the adults were excitedly talking about one of the farm dogs. A short time later the children were all herded into the house and Dad went out with his gun. The children were subdued, because Ma was so obviously scared. After a while there was a far-off report and a short time later Dad came back in. The children were then let out to play. It would seem that this incident must have involved a dog with rabies.
a more tender memory, which may date from the time after I started school, is of Ma breast-feeding the newest arrival. The children were all gathered around, talking quietly. I was curious, so Ma showed me how she held the baby and how she held her nipple so it could suck better. Scenes of breast-feeding seem to have occurred quite often. There are memories of Ma transfering the baby from one breast to another, explaining that the first one was empty. All are warm and soft.
Another happy memory, which in a way foreshadowed the future, is of the electrification of the farmhouse. It already had electricity of a sort, provided by batteries, a wind-charger, and a gasoline-driven generator. When the electric grid reached that location, the farm was completely rewired. I was intrigued and the electricians were very friendly. They explained what they were doing and saved the knockouts from junction boxes to give to me. One day I was crying over something and an electrician came in with a big handful of these little metal disks.
My younger brother Dick and I were so taken with the work of the electricians that we decided to install a "plugi-in" in the pantry. Ma heard the pounding on the wall and sent one of the older girls in to put a stop to it. But the spot where we had knocked off the plaster was visible for years.
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Webminister, me@godtouches.org.
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