Growing up and Finding Her

By Brad and Mary Buettner

Chicagos East Side and its Fox Valley suburbs form the backdrop for Growing Up and Finding Her, a memoir told with the poignancy that only a true story can deliver. Authors Brad and Mary Buettner recount how their lives stream together following the difficult challenges of the 1950s and 60s when their families struggled to overcome poverty, misfortune, and mental illness.

The contrast between Brad Buettners small-town environment and Mary Ellen Janowskis big-city experience is one aspect of the story. However, when Brad is six, the death of his sister, Bobby, plunges his family into a spiral of grief and anguish. Meanwhile, Mary battles personal insecurities after being rejected by her closest friend. The pair grapple with life independently until red corduroy, of all things, provides the nudge that blends them together in a union lasting more than forty-five years.

In this moving tale, Richard Nixon and Dwight Eisenhower make a brief appearance, and the Vietnam War poses an unexpected obstacle three days before the couples wedding. Growing Up and Finding Her is a story of pain, friendship, and love which unfolds with sincere warmth and humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450291033

Brad and Mary Buettner

Brad and Mary Buettner reside in a Chicago suburb where they raised two sons. Brad retired from an engineering and management career and writes full time. His published books are Death Benefit and Einstein and Human Consciousness. Mary works as an adjunct professor after years of teaching junior high students.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The year was 1946. Two families were moving, one only three miles north but the other several states east. One family included a two-year-old girl and the other, a four-year-old boy. Two seemingly unrelated events, originating five hundred miles apart.

The longer move was the urgent one, although the four-year-old had no idea at the time. Brad didn’t grasp the panic in his parents’ eyes or hear the tension in their speech. To him the move was merely another adventure, one that would free him from the dangers of the mud in the front yard, where his father parked the family’s ‘36 Plymouth. But the move would end up changing his life much more than getting rid of that muddy parking spot. It would prove to be even more significant than his parents could imagine. The move would bring them to Batavia, Illinois, where Brad’s sister, Bobby, would die and send the family spiraling into a catastrophic descent. It would take years to escape that trauma, and it is in the escape that the two moves would be linked.

As far as Bobby’s death was concerned, Brad’s mother never ran out of theories. She never accepted what the doctors told her, claiming that the doctors didn’t know. As a result, none of the explanations was final. None gave closure, because she didn’t want closure. She wanted her daughter’s death to forever remain a mystery, so that the mystery would lead to questions, and the questions would lead to sympathy, and the sympathy would lead to attention. Mildred Buettner craved the spotlight.

So did Brad. And when Bobby was alive, he thought he never got his share, at least not the good kind. He got the parental kind, the kind that says do this and do that. Bobby was his third parent, and in his young mind worse than the other two combined. She ordered him around, pouncing like a bullying tyrant, forcing him to use whatever tools were at hand to fight her off. He would lash out with his fingernails like a cat attacking the neighborhood mutt, or he would touch the private parts of her dolls until she got so excited that she screamed for her mother.

Not that they were a violent or nasty family. Their father was a marvelous peacemaker. A meek bookkeeper, Bill Buettner was small in stature, a pipe-smoking gentleman two inches shorter than his five-foot-six wife. He had begun losing his hair in high school, so most of it was gone even in Brad’s earliest memories. He spoke quietly and understood Brad’s problems far better than the two females of the household did.

On the other hand, Brad’s mother was a beauty. Slim, with an hourglass figure, Mildred’s brown eyes could melt the resistance of any male she encountered. She used her looks to manipulate the men in her life, the shopkeepers, doctors, and repairmen, persuading them to give her special consideration now and then. The family got plenty of good deals.

Bobby’s pictures show a slim girl too. But in Brad’s eyes she was a tall, fat shrew with a screeching voice and a malicious personality, nothing like the pictures that show a pretty little girl with bright eyes and smile, long curly hair, and a narrow waist. One of Brad’s earliest memories is of his sister carrying his potty bowl down the stairs of their little home in Falls City, Nebraska. The war had just ended. Their father was about to lose his job. We will begin Brad’s role in the story then.

* * *

Falls City was the county seat of Richardson County in the southeast corner of Nebraska near the Kansas and Missouri borders. On the Nemaha River, it was a short boat ride to where the Nemaha empties into the Missouri. If people used boats, that is. The citizens of Falls City didn’t. They populated a railroad town. Their loyalty was to the rails and solely to the rails until the late thirties when a discovery put a gleam into old farmers’ eyes, eyes that hadn’t had a gleam like that since puberty.

Someone had visited Texas, saw its flat, dusty surface and noticed a similarity to the plains of Nebraska. If Texas had oil, why not Nebraska? If Houston could get filthy rich, surely Falls City could as well. An early attempt at drilling a well confirmed the theory. But before the old farmers could clear their mouths of tobacco juice, word of the find got out, and newcomers from all over the country flocked to the small town south of Omaha in a mini-gold rush. One of those opportunists was Dan Ivy. Ivy built a refinery outside of town and recruited people he knew and trusted to help him run it. Among his employees, he would need a discreet and honest bookkeeper who was loyal and hardworking, someone who could prepare a good set of books that would keep the government off of Ivy’s back. That man was a little fellow with a new wife and daughter named Bill Buettner.

Bill, Mildred, and their daughter, Roberta, lived in a tiny apartment in Joliet, Illinois. The late nineteen-thirties were full of hard times and limited opportunities. Bill was barely earning enough to put food on the table, and Mildred’s frustration with the family’s meager financial resources had grown with each passing day. A paid move west, doubling Bill’s salary, had to be enticing.

Mildred was a Riffel. Her parents had come separately from Slovenia in 1911. They met in Joliet and were married a year later. Grandma Riffel had thought she was marrying into money, since the Riffel name in Slovenia supposedly belonged to a family of wealthy landowners. She didn’t realize that Grandpa’s father had already gone through his inheritance and was a family outcast, leaving Brad’s grandfather a pauper. He had fooled Grandma, though, and she never forgave him for it.

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Mildred’s Parents, Louise & Joseph

Growing up, Brad often wondered about Slovenia. The kids he would meet at school were German, Irish, Swedish, Scottish, Lithuanian, even Mexican, but no one was Slovenian. He figured Slovenians must be odd, so he asked his mother about them. Rather than describing the Balkans, Mildred bragged that her parents were from the Austrian Empire, and that their heritage could be found in Vienna with its palaces and treasure. Those aspirations evidently had lingered after immigrating to America. Brad would notice his mother measuring success by size: the size of a house, the size of a car, or the size of a diamond. Conspicuous consumption counted. Charity was fine, but only if being charitable added to one’s social status. Travel was for bragging rights, not for widening one’s horizon, and food was simple unless there was company.

Opposites attract, however, and the union of Mildred Riffel with Bill Buettner was a good demonstration of that. Even the names themselves prove the point. Riffel is spelled differently on Mildred’s birth certificate, since the spelling was changed after she was born to help the new generation assimilate into America. Buettner was not changed. It’s a German name, pronounced Bit-ner. Most Americans mispronounce it, saying Beaut- ner which emphasizes the u in the first syllable. This seemingly trivial mistake would prove to be one of Mildred’s weapons in later years. At the time, however, she and Bill would politely correct any mispronunciation.

Bill Buettner respected the authentic, especially when it offered a good time. He liked a good drink or two, good humor, and pretty girls. But he was a timid, gentle soul who never drank too much, forever worried that he was laughing too loudly, and, unlike his wife, never chased the opposite sex after marriage. His ambition was simply to coexist with the world and not to cause any trouble while doing so. A good book was sufficient entertainment, although he seldom talked about what he read. Actually, he seldom said much of anything. His car was forever small and old, and he never owned more than one suit at a time.

While Brad’s father rarely talked about the past, his mother began filling her son’s ears with her stories as soon as he was old enough to understand. She complained every chance she got that her upbringing had been poverty-stricken. No Christmas. No gifts anytime. She never went anywhere or did anything, and she had had no clothes of her own. During one of these sessions she told Brad how she met his father at a wedding in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. It had happened in the middle of the Great Depression.

Of course, Brad couldn’t help but wonder how an eighteen-year-old girl, so poor and with no spending money, had managed a trip from Joliet to Sheboygan, a 200 mile journey at a time when 200 miles was a long distance. Somehow she made the trip, though, and caught his father’s attention. Bill got her address and traveled to Joliet at his next opportunity. According to Mildred, he was so exhausted by the time he arrived that he just wanted to sit on her front porch. He sat there smoking cigarettes, pushing smoke through a pinhole in his lips, making it come out in a tight line, a style meant to impress a young lady.

An aunt once said that Mildred was thoroughly smitten with her beau. But Mildred insisted that the only person Bill impressed was Grandma Riffel, and that it was Grandma who decided that Bill Buettner would make a suitable husband for her daughter. In Mildred’s version, he and Grandma had a private conversation and arranged the marriage without consulting her. There would be no children because she was too fragile. Mildred claimed that at nineteen she had no option but to agree, and that she came back from her honeymoon a virgin and, perhaps even worse, to an apartment with no running water.

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Mildred & Bill

She was probably right about the plumbing. Even Grandma’s house didn’t have indoor facilities until Brad was old enough to remember their installation, some twelve years after his parents’ marriage. As for virginity, Bobby arrived less than a year after the supposedly childless marriage took place, and Brad came five years later.

Despite Mildred’s claims, she was the leader of Brad’s family, not a victim of some secret plot. Dan Ivy persuaded Mildred, not Bill, that going to Falls City would be the opportunity of a lifetime. He knew that once she was convinced, she would insist that her husband accept the position. If Bill Buettner had a flaw, it was that he was too content, too resistant to change. All he wanted was to enjoy what was there. Taking a chance with relocation was scary.

When Bill finally gave in, Mildred celebrated by purchasing a coat and hat so outlandishly stylish that she eventually destroyed every picture of her wearing it. Except one. Brad found it many years later in a shoebox, stuffed deep in a desk drawer.

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Bill & Mildred in Falls City

Brad’s family arrived in Falls City in 1939. Three years later Brad was born, giving his sister a full five-year advantage over him, five years of height, muscle, and cunning. He was officially named William Bradley but called Bradley, supposedly to avoid confusion with his father. Mildred insisted that she did not like Junior. However, there was more to it than that. Mildred wanted to stamp her own imprint on her son, so that she could have an exclusive claim.

Brad’s bedroom and potty were on the second floor of the little rented Cape Cod. The bathroom was on the first floor, and it was Bobby’s job to keep his potty fresh. It was a great contraption with a wooden base and porcelain bowl, and it fit Brad like a glove. As far as he is concerned, no toilet since has given him the comfort of that old potty chair. Furthermore, in all of Mildred’s stories, she gave Brad credit over Bobby at only one thing: toilet training. According to his mother, when Bobby was at the training age, she knew what she had to do but was too stubborn to change her habits. One morning Mildred finally resorted to keeping her diaper loose. After dribbling down her leg for a while, Bobby finally decided that using the facilities was worth the effort.

In any event, that day Brad was downstairs waiting, surrounded by wood: wooden stairs, wooden floor, and wooden banister. There was nothing to absorb sound.

Brad didn’t trip her. How could he? He was at the bottom, an innocent witness, watching as this huge Amazon came crashing down the stairs, limbs flying, potty bowl somersaulting, and stairs thundering. Bobby got a few bruises but nothing more, and thankfully the potty bowl didn’t break, which was far more important to Brad than his sister’s limbs. Mildred got all excited, running to her daughter, examining her for broken bones, and wiping up the mess. Brad skedaddled, heading for the back porch and some fresh air.

He thought that Bobby behaved even worse to him after that, ordering him around more than ever. She was driving him nuts. He began plotting ways to get her out of the way, but she was too big and too powerful. How was he to know that in three short years he would get his wish?

Chapter 2

There was plenty of oil, Mildred would claim for years afterwards. It was all the other stuff. If everybody had cooperated, there wouldn’t have been a problem. But whatever she thought, her opinion couldn’t alter the situation. The oil, if there was any left, surely wasn’t pooled in vast underground lakes as in Texas. The refinery that had brought her and her family to Falls City was closing. Bill had lost his job.

Veterans were flocking home to grateful businessmen, anxious to give former soldiers the priority they deserved for the jobs that were available. There would be no work for Bill Buettner in Falls City; the family would have to move.

At four years of age Brad didn’t mind. In fact, he was glad. The house they lived in had those noisy wooden floors and stairs, and when it rained the tin roof on its back porch was noisy too. Everything rattled. Besides, there was that muddy parking space in the front. His friend, Jimmy, pushed him into that mud one Saturday just after Brad had taken his bath. When his mother saw the result, he had to go right back into the tub. From then on, Brad was suspicious of both Jimmy and the parking space. In addition, the move would finally get him away from a kitchen where he had accidentally pulled the radio off the counter, smashing it against the floor, and shattering its case into dozens of pieces. It still worked, though, so his father put the cover back together with Scotch tape. The radio sat on the kitchen counter for years afterwards, its yellowing tape forever reminding Brad of his crime.

Nonetheless, Brad had had some good moments in Nebraska. Much to his sister’s chagrin, he once took over her piano recital. She was on stage playing the piano, her curls flying and her fingers dancing. Brad recognized the song. She had practiced it for hours, allowing him to learn the words. So as she played, he began to sing. And not softly. He sang out loud enough to draw the attention of the whole audience. It was the only time that he ever upstaged his sister.

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Roberta Buettner

As far as Brad can remember, Bobby never did anything wrong. According to Mildred, she had the bubbling personality of Miss America and the angelic idealism of Mother Teresa. She loved school and came home every day full of stories, as excited as if she had just returned from Fatima after seeing an apparition. Mildred would gobble the stories up, giving Bobby cake and laughing with her. One of the few times Brad saw them unhappy together was when his mother told Bobby that they would have to move. Bobby had loads of friends in school, and she was upset at the thought of leaving them.

Of course, Brad had no inkling of what was actually going on. He never dreamed that the move was an act of desperation, that if his father didn’t find work soon, there might not be enough food on the table. Moving was merely another change in his young, simple life, no more significant than finding someone to play with other than Jimmy Miles, who had made him take that extra bath.

In any case, there was absolutely no choice. The family had to go and the only question was where. Actually, there were just two possibilities. They would move to a place where his parents knew people, and that meant either Sheboygan, Wisconsin or Joliet, Illinois.

Brad knew Sheboygan, and he didn’t want to go back. His father had driven the family there last winter for Grandma Buettner’s funeral. It had been a windy, icy trip, during which Bill had had to fight the elements from the time he pulled out of the frozen mud in front of the house in Falls City. The elements won halfway there, driving the Plymouth off the road and into a roadside ditch. They were miles from a town and blocks from a farmhouse. Bill left the car, pulled down the brim of his fedora, and bent into the wind. His overcoat whipped about. As he disappeared into the blowing snow, Brad worried that he might never see him again.

When the family finally arrived at the funeral home, everyone was wearing black, including Brad’s grandmother, lying in her casket. Brad remembers, probably incorrectly, rosary beads hanging from the walls, making the area around the coffin claustrophobic.

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Bill’s Parents, John and Mary

He also noticed that people in Sheboygan talked in a funny, sing-song manner and used strange expressions. A sandwich was called a lunch, and every remark ended with, An’ so? Thus, even though his relatives treated him as one of their own, at age three Brad found them uncomfortable. It’s a good lunch, an’ so? How do you answer that if you don’t like spicy bratwurst? As Brad grew older, he would find Sheboygan homey, fun-loving, and always welcoming, but at that time, all he wanted was to go back to Falls City.

As the family was preparing to move from Nebraska, Brad’s father had written his Sheboygan friends about finding a job there but had received no encouragement. The lack of opportunity in Wisconsin dictated their destination. Soon all of the furniture, including Brad’s beloved scooter, a three-wheeled scoot-along that he sat on like a tricycle, went into storage, and the ’36 Plymouth headed for Joliet to the home of Grandma and Grandpa Riffel. Without expressways, the trip would take as long as the one to Sheboygan.

The Plymouth had a gear shift that took up the floor next to the driver, so Brad could never ride up front. This didn’t bother him as long as Bobby kept to her side of the back seat, but all too often she strayed over to his side. Or was it that he strayed to hers? Whoever was at fault, his mother would tell him, never Bobby, that he had to share. So Brad glared at Bobby to keep her away from him. She sometimes obliged, especially when she was busy babbling on and on about some nonsense with their mother. At least then Brad was free to peruse the countryside as they drove. He could look out his side window but not the rear one which was permanently fogged up, due to some defect that Brad didn’t understand. Bill could only see what was behind him by using the small outside mirror on his left.

When they finally got to Grandma’s, their reception was cold. There wasn’t room for four more in the house, and there wasn’t enough food either. Grandma Riffel gave Brad a sour look, and he began to think that maybe Sheboygan wouldn’t have been that bad, after all.

The house was Grandma Riffel’s not Grandpa’s, because Grandpa couldn’t own anything, and that was because of another automobile. Even though the Riffels didn’t install indoor plumbing until the late forties, they had been one of the first in their neighborhood to own a car. Evidently, people who looked to Vienna for their heritage considered a car more socially significant than a toilet. The Riffels bought the biggest automobile they could afford, and they had no money left for something people couldn’t see—like insurance. So when Grandpa pulled out of a parking space and bumped into a woman, breaking her ankle, she sued him for all he was worth, which wasn’t much. From then on, Grandpa couldn’t own anything. All of the Riffel property, including the house, was in Grandma’s name, and Grandma loved having that power. She reigned over the house as royally as an Austrian queen, venting her frustrations on the uneducated man who had given her the Riffel name but not the money.

She and Grandpa had six children who survived and two who didn’t. A daughter died shortly after birth and a son died in his early teens. Rumors hinted that there had been several miscarriages along the way as well, and there were other things which Brad heard his father mention when he was older but which were never explained. His guess was that Grandpa wanted sex more often than Grandma, who didn’t have access to birth control pills to keep her offspring down to a reasonable limit. Too many pregnancies made Grandma despise Grandpa even more.

Mildred must have sensed the problem, making her wary of men in general. Men used women, and Mildred wasn’t about to be used. By the time Brad came around, she subconsciously believed that she was in a marriage she didn’t want and was living with a man who was a timid fool. She despised Bill as much as her mother despised Grandpa. Mildred distrusted anything male, although that distrust wouldn’t come out in the open until after Bobby was gone. But the feeling was real and so intense that she would later use all her guile and charm to protect herself from every male she encountered.

Even from Brad.

The family squatted in Joliet for a few weeks. Bill landed a few temporary assignments and gave all the money to Grandma, but she claimed it wasn’t even enough to pay for the food. Finally, he found a job at a small accounting firm in Elgin, the home of the Elgin Watch Company. The city was about forty miles north of Joliet and too far, in Mildred’s opinion, to move away from her family again. But economics forced her to consent to a compromise. She agreed to settle in Aurora, about midway between Joliet and Elgin. The family moved into a rental community called Exposition View, a near-slum of itinerant-worker housing that gave Brad’s parents plenty of incentive to save as much and as fast as they could. In less than a year, they had set enough aside to sign a contract for a small bungalow in Batavia, about seven miles closer to Elgin. This tiny, two-bedroom, frame bungalow would become Brad’s home for eight years, and he would fall in love with both it and the town.

The house was on a short street, Delia, on Batavia’s east side. In 1947 Batavia was a village of about 5000, straddling the Fox River. Factories lined the river, using its waters first for power and later for dumping waste. In the 1800s Batavia had become the windmill capital of the nation, with factories churning out pump after pump, aimed at capturing wind for watering livestock on the plains. Much later, the small community would become world famous as the home of Fermilab, a particle accelerator that drew talented physicists from across the globe. For Brad, though, Batavia was simply a village full of caring people. Whenever there was a problem they offered their help. Otherwise they minded their own business and were happy to let their neighbors mind theirs.

Originally settled by Swedish immigrants, the town was full of Andersons, Swansons, Johnsons, Larsons, and most of the other sons. Its downtown was classic, with the Wilson Street bridge linking the two sides of the village together. Besides the bridge, Wilson Street had two banks, a pharmacy, a dime store, a news agency, several insurance agencies, Swanson’s Hardware, and Kroger’s. It also had a hobby store with a plate-glass window displaying model cars built by hobbyists. Brad would drool when he stared at those models, wishing he could afford a kit, and then, when he could, wishing he had the talent and patience to put the kit together as precisely as the hobbyists had. There was a funeral home on each side of town, lots of churches, and two car dealerships. Most of the downtown buildings were made from sandstone quarried at Batavia’s own quarry, which by then had been turned into the community swimming pool.

Delia Street was four blocks long and jogged at its halfway point. It ended to the south after it crossed a seldom-used railroad track. Elm trees framed the street in glorious green. There was no tract housing on Batavia’s east side. Each home was unique, some with interesting architectural details such as a rounded bay window or a corner turret. Some homes were brick and a few were stone, but most were frame, two stories in a classic, Midwestern style.

Although the house Brad’s family chose was small, it had lush landscaping. Its city-sized lot had six huge elms scattered in the front and back. At the rear property line was a series of fruit trees: peach, pear, cherry, and apple. In front of the trees were raspberry bushes, and at their edge was a flourishing grape vine. Around the house were forsythia, spirea, and privet hedges. A beautiful blue spruce separated the bungalow’s yard from its southern neighbor.

No sun, Mildred complained when they pulled into the driveway for the first time. She looked over to Bill. I’ll need a place for the vegetable garden. Bill overturned the soil behind the garage, even though that spot didn’t get as much light as Mildred wanted. Still, they managed to grow fresh lettuce, beans, and carrots to go with the pears, apples, cherries, and peaches. Eventually, Bill would hang an old tire from one of the elms in the back yard. I used a square knot, he bragged to Brad’s uncle. Brad didn’t know what a square knot was, but it held.

Now, though, it was cleaning time. An aunt came from Joliet and along with Brad’s mother attacked the bungalow’s walls as if sterilizing a hospital room. Every cabinet, bathroom fixture, and floor got a good going over, so that by the time the moving van arrived, the house sparkled.

Brad watched intently as two men began unloading pieces of furniture that he hadn’t seen since Falls City. A maroon sofa appeared, then Bill’s rocking chair that had already been in the family for three generations. Suddenly one of the men dangled Brad’s little scooter in front of his face. This yours? he asked.

Brad’s body tingled. He nodded eagerly and watched with eyes bulging as the man set the three-wheeled scooter at his feet. Brad hopped on it and tried out Batavia’s sidewalk for the very first time. The scooter worked perfectly, its wheels gliding over the concrete like a cloud though the air. He floated along, carefree and happy to be sitting once again on his prized possession. Bobby stayed inside, helping, he supposed, with situating the furniture. She was still upset about losing her Nebraska friends, and she needed something to keep her occupied.

At least it kept her out of Brad’s hair.

Chapter 3

The other move, the one involving the girl, was celebratory rather than desperate. The Janowski household was improving itself, leaving a three-room cabin for a brick, two-story home situated in Fair Elms, a new community on Chicago’s far southeast side. The girl’s name was Mary Ellen, the youngest Janowski child at the time. Being only two, she was unable to make heads or tails of what was going on around her. Her older sister, Catherine, was six and acted as if she understood. Four-year-old Louis, who was called Junior in his early years, was having trouble staying out of the way.

Standing in the only quiet corner she could find, Mary watched her father and uncles carrying away beds and chairs while her mother stuffed everything the family owned into cardboard boxes. Her tiny hands squeezed a doll, a precious rag doll that offered some comfort amid all the turmoil. She clutched Mabs tightly, thankful that her mother had rescued it from one of the boxes, just as her father was about to take it away.

The home they were leaving had been built by the hands of Mary’s grandfather, Anton Szuflita, shortly after he purchased the land it sat on. There were only two rooms at first, but Anton added a bedroom and bathroom as soon as he could afford them. When he became even more prosperous, he built a three-bedroom bungalow for the family in front of the original home. The smaller building then became known as the back house and was either rented out or made available for other members of the family to use. Louis Janowski and his wife, Anton’s daughter, Florence, had taken advantage of that opportunity but had now bought a home of their own. They would be moving a few miles north, from 135th Street in Hegewisch to 112th on the East Side.

Anton and his wife, Katherine, had settled in Hegewisch as immigrants. Mary called Katherine, Buscia, the Polish word for grandmother. Buscia was a stocky, hardworking woman, who raised her five children into healthy adulthood. She had come to America from Poland with her girlfriend, Sophie, in 1913, anxious to take advantage of the opportunities in the New World. She would remain friends with her shipmate for the rest of her life, a friendship that lasted well past Mary’s wedding day. For that occasion, Sophie gave Mary a handkerchief on which she had crocheted an intricate, three-inch border of lace.

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Florence’s Father, Anton

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Florence’s Mother, Katherine (Buscia)

Anton had come from Poland as well, drawn to America more by Katherine than by opportunity. He pursued her to America’s Midwest, resolving to marry her at the first opportunity. Though a hard drinker, Anton was a hard worker as well. He opened a blacksmith shop on the double lot where the house was located and supported his family by pounding on iron until a brain hemorrhage took his life at the age of fifty. Evidence of his skill has lasted over a hundred years, not only in the two dwellings, but also in an ornate, wrought-iron fence that surrounds the property. What he built was built to last.

His daughter, Florence, was just as hardworking, but perhaps a little apprehensive that moving day. Relatives had warned her that she and her husband were taking a big risk, putting all their money into a new house. Wait! they advised. Be Careful! You can lose it all!

Florence wasn’t a risk taker. About the only controversial thing she had ever done in her life was to join in on a communist march during the Depression, though she was far from being a revolutionary. She was hardly even political. Nevertheless, the suffering she had experienced during the hard times of the 1930s made her sensitive to the problems of working people. However, that flirtation with communism was a unique incident.

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Florence

Lou came in to gather up the last of the boxes, and Florence led Mary and the other children to the borrowed pickup truck piled high with their belongings. Lou lifted Catherine and Louis, Jr. into the truck bed and settled them amid the boxes. Mary rode on her mother’s lap in the cab for the short drive to their new home. There her parents would have a bedroom all to themselves, and no one would have to sleep in the living room.

In addition, the new house came with a backyard that Mary would grow to cherish. Her father would hang a swing under the grape arbor he had built and install a large vegetable garden producing corn, beans, asparagus, strawberries, and even (one notorious year) eggplant. He would border the yard with a chain-link fence along which her mother would plant daisies, rose bushes, peonies, and iris. Nearer the house Lou would dump a load of sand into a large, fenced-in area—no box, just sand—for the children to dig in. He would build a climbing cabin where Mary could spend hours playing with her dolls. Putting all those amenities in a city lot that measured only 35 by 125 feet indicates how small the footprint of the home itself had to be.

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The House on Avenue D

The first time Mary saw the new house, it didn’t appear one bit tiny. It had a downstairs with a combined living room and dining area just off a spanking-new kitchen and an upstairs with two full-sized bedrooms and a bathroom. As far as Mary was concerned, this house had a lot of space, especially since the family furniture didn’t come close to filling it up. She couldn’t imagine needing anything bigger.

Come outside, she heard, as Catherine grabbed her hand. Mom said we have to stay out of the way. Clutching her doll, Mary followed as her big sister led her through the kitchen where Florence was busy unpacking boxes of dishes. The kitchen was the only room that was smaller than the one in Hegewisch. Her mother was humming a tune as she knelt on the floor, lining the cabinet shelves with paper. Mary paused to watch. Pots and pans went in on top of the paper, each positioned neatly and conveniently. Fascinated, Mary inched closer, dropping the doll to her side and wondering why that shiny paper went on the shelves first.

Come on, Catherine said, tugging on Mary’s arm.

Suddenly Florence spun around, reaching for the roll of paper. Her arm slapped Mary’s face, stinging it like an angry wasp. Dropping the doll onto the linoleum, Mary burst into tears and fell to the floor alongside it. Surprise and pain competed, and pain won. Florence reacted quickly, sweeping Mary up and hugging her gently. She kissed her cheek, and handed back her doll. Go on outside with Catherine, Florence said. There’s too much commotion in here. And take Junior with you.

Mary felt herself being pulled from her mother’s gentle grasp into the awkward clutch of her big sister, who snatched away the doll and tossed it onto a chair in the dining area as she hustled Mary out the back door. Let’s go for a walk, she urged and headed for the front sidewalk. Their brother, Junior, ran ahead.

Doll! Mary managed, new tears filling her eyes.

You’ll just lose it outside. Mabs will be fine where she is. Don’t worry; she’ll be there when we get back. In moments Mary found herself on the sidewalk, her left arm being pulled along by a big sister’s insistent hand.

Mary’s earliest memories of Catherine were that of a bossy older sister, not much different from Brad’s recollection of Bobby. In Mary’s view, her mother should have been the only one in charge, not Catherine. She didn’t like Catherine telling her what to do, even if her sister was four years older. Later, Mary would look to Catherine as a model to emulate, someone who could ease the way for a younger sister. But on that moving day she stubbornly resisted being pulled along Avenue D.

Full of ebullience, Catherine began speculating about who would live in the houses that would soon be built on the empty lots they passed. We’ll have loads of new friends, she chanted, her bright face eager and confident. Mary looked around, but all she could see were piles of weed-covered dirt. Junior had already wandered off to explore the foundation of a home under construction. Catherine, taking her role of baby sitter seriously, quickly got him back on the sidewalk.

Look, you can see all the way to the railroad tracks, Catherine said, trying to encourage her younger sister. But Mary’s mind was focused on the doll that she had had to abandon and the sting that still smarted on her cheek.

When they reached 112th Street, almost twice as wide as Avenue D, they stopped to stare at the acres of woodland mixed with open prairie on the other side. At six, Catherine decided that she was too young to lead her little sister and brother into the woods, although Junior was already stepping off the curb. You’re not allowed to cross the street, she warned, turning around to lead everyone back home. Mary followed willingly, anxious to find Mabs, and was disappointed when her sister led them into the back yard instead of going into the house.

People were still coming to and fro, lugging boxes. Florence had two brothers and two sisters, and they had all come to help. Mary could hear one of her aunts suggesting a better arrangement for the kitchen shelves. That aunt tended to be free with her advice, and Florence had to admit that she was often right. Mary’s mother was closer to her other sister, however. One reason may have stemmed from the fact that Florence, even though she was the second child, was the first to graduate from grade school. She had been double promoted once, and her father had suggested that she go to summer school to allow her to finish even earlier. While her academic achievements were commendable, showing up a sibling had introduced some tension into their relationship. But they all got along, and Mary grew up enjoying the many family gatherings where she got to play with her cousins. Buscia had raised a happy family whose members visited each other regularly and joined her every Christmas Eve to celebrate the birth of Christ in traditional Polish fashion.

Mary eyed the door, but Catherine coaxed her further away from the house. Junior found a stick and began digging in a yard that had yet to be planted with grass. Soon Mary joined in, both oblivious to the dirt imbedding itself on their shoes, clothes, hands, and faces. Finally, Florence stuck her head out the back door and called them in. All the aunts and uncles had left. Florence was in the kitchen, talking things over with Lou and heating up some soup for lunch.

Catherine, take your brother and sister upstairs and help get them washed up. They’re absolutely filthy. Florence’s voice sounded stern, but the sharp tone couldn’t conceal the satisfaction in her eyes.

As Mary walked past the dining area and into the living room still scattered with paper and boxes, her eyes drifted about and confirmed her fears. No doll! She burst into tears, her outburst loud enough to interrupt her parents’ conversation. What’s the matter? her mother asked.

It’s probably the doll, Catherine said in a bored tone.

Florence grew a wide smile, one that Mary found forever comforting. I was afraid Mabs might get lost, so I put her in the closet. She opened a door between the living room and kitchen, a door that, until then, Mary hadn’t noticed. Inside was a closet that in later years would be packed with every coat the family owned. Now it was nearly empty—save for one precious doll.

I’ll put Mabs on the sofa until you get cleaned up. Hurry now; lunch is almost ready.

missing image file

Louis Janowski, Sr. with his father, Joseph

Mary felt her father’s strong arms lift her up off the ground and twirl her around. Let’s go, he cried. We can’t be late for lunch. Come on, Junior. I’ll race you up the stairs. Mary’s brother ran ahead as Mary rode on her father’s shoulders. Catherine followed behind at what she considered to be a more dignified pace, appropriate for an older sister.

Chapter 4

While Mary was discovering her new home, Brad was warming up to his. From the inviting front porch to the fruit trees at the end of the backyard, everything about the small home welcomed. Inside, the rugs and furnishings had made the Batavia bungalow cozy. The champion of that coziness was the maroon davenport that dominated a twelve-by-twelve-foot living room. Bought in 1936, the year when Brad’s parents married and Bill worked for a Sheboygan furniture factory, the overstuffed sofa was built to withstand any abuse Brad could give it. The workers loved Bill and insisted that the frame of his first sofa be as sturdy as cast iron and its fabric as tough as stainless steel. It would last ten more years before finally succumbing to old age.

A dining area, about the same size as the living room, held a formal dining table and china cabinet. The room also served as a pathway to a small kitchen at the rear of the house where a smaller table for family meals sat in the center. A back door opened from the kitchen to a porch about half the size of the one in the front.

The two porches and the landscaping were the highlights of this cute little cottage, but these highlights robbed the house of sunshine. As a result, Mildred grew to dislike them. Sunlight had suddenly become the most important criteria for her home, now that she felt she didn’t have enough. For Bill, the sun and shade were luxuries for which he had no time, since he worked six days a week, ten hours a day and commuted fifteen miles each way.

Oblivious to such issues, Brad was happier than he had been in a while. His mother was busy remaking the house to match her image of a suitable home—and getting Bobby to help. They both left him alone. He even got permission to take his scooter all the way to the corner. The sidewalk led to a neat fire hydrant at the corner of Delia and Scott, and Brad made the parkway at the end of the street into his own private playground. To lay claim, he used his scooter’s front wheel as a drill, twisting the handle bar so that the front rubber wheel dug into the dirt. In a few days he had dug down almost three whole